Date: 2019-02-16 05:00:00+00:00

Serial Killer Android

By

David Scott

Copyright © 2019 David Scott

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

9781791826697

To Ben

“Mortality is merely a distant threat.

You live in lethargy.

Emotion dulled by everyday life.

Only dust left in your echoing heart.

You are numb to suffering yet obsess on minor botheration.

Lingering inaction. Meaningless interaction.

Awaken and live each day as if it were your last.

It might be.

I am coming for you.”

Pulcinella

ONE

Dominic’s parents were boardroom rulers and champagne socialites. They had no time for him, and only offered sugar-paper affections to appease his cravings for attention. His father held false dominion over an underpaid workforce before exhausting any remaining energy on a network of younger women. Dominic’s mother was no better, fiercely exercising her toxic tongue to exert control, preferring the teat of a vodka bottle to suckling her son’s needs.

During the long summer holidays, while his older sister entrenched herself deep within an elite boarding school, Dominic was forced to stay in Italy with his grandparents.

It was not a happy arrangement. They had already bore the burden of bringing up their own children. Their gnarled and calloused hands had little time to bestow loving care. They had no desire or inclination to look after a sullen child. However, they held family duty in the highest esteem and could not refuse their daughter’s carefully crafted cry for help.

They lived on a vast farm with wild olive groves, field-after-field of sprawling grapevines, and a forest of abandoned orange trees. Dogs barked incessantly, as the sickly-sweet scent of overripe fruit permeated the hot summer winds.

Dominic suffered from allergies and was fair-skinned, so he avoided spending time outdoors, where he might be exposed to predatorial pollen or the burning sun. His roots preferred the cooler climate and pervasive shade of the old farmhouse.

The red bricked dwelling was modest in size, compared to the acres of land around it, but it seemed expansive and labyrinthine to Dominic. He loved to roam its passage ways, and explore the fading rooms within.

His favourite room was an old parlour at the end of a long corridor, in a section of the house rarely visited by the living. It was cold and smelled of damp; fusty fungus ruled this domain and Dominic felt quite comfortable living beside it, growing musty himself as his teenage hormones brought about unwelcome changes.

The room had been used for discarded objects. Random boxes of once-loved memorabilia. Outdated paintings and worthless certificates. Forgotten fashion and broken clocks. Cracked ornaments and lost toys. Old wooden store signs, offering fresh juice for several hundred Lira. Flaking costume jewellery and ugly trinkets.

To Dominic, they were all treasures and he spent a great deal of time carefully examining everything. In particular, he was enamoured with a toy theatre set. A troupe of porcelain figures frozen in dramatic poses; destined to play the same part evermore. Lifeless actors on a miniature stage, with no control over their destinies.

The box exclaimed the fun to be had with the ‘Commedia dell’Arte’ characters, each with its own personality and role. Yet, unlike modern toys, they did nothing except stare listlessly into the space in front of them. Dominic was wedded to these ornamental opiates, genuinely caring for each and every one, and spent countless hours dreaming up adventures with them.

Dominic dreamed about joining them, and an old Venetian costume mask provided the device he needed to escape reality and become part of their perfect world.

It was similar to the mask worn by one of the figures, which had ‘Pulcinella’ carved onto its base. A tan, leather mask, tattered and faded in several places, but well-made and stitched together with thick, brown thread. Dominic enjoyed running his hands over its elongated, hooked nose, and tracing his fingers around the large nostril and eye holes.

Dominic would wear the mask often. He found the musty leather smell intoxicating. The pressure of the mask gripping to his rounded face comforted him. It allowed him to be someone he was not; a commanding and confident leader.

Dominic’s grandparents rarely worried about where Dominic was spending his time or sought out his company, so he was left to his own devices. This unhealthy preoccupation went unnoticed.

Dominic would see his grandparents at mealtimes, but they spoke quickly in Italian to one another, and this prevented him from having any meaningful engagement with them. On the rare occasion that Dominic did try to join in the conversation, his grandparents ignored him, treating him like he was invisible. Eventually, he gave up trying.

Instead, Dominic would choose one of his delicate figures to dine with him. He spoke in hushed tones to his brother, Pulcinella. It smiled back at him knowingly. Dominic circled the figurine around-and-around his soup bowl. He had devised a devilish dance for Pulcinella; a conjuring of some great evil from the bubbling tomato concoction.

For once Dominic had caught the attention of his grandfather. These repetitive motions were driving him mad and, without any warning, his grandfather jumped up out of his chair and started shouting in Italian, waving his hands in the air and pointing furiously at Dominic.

Dominic was startled by this wild admonishment, and failed to react when his grandfather snatched Pulcinella from his hand. The fragile figure was thrown to the ground, cracking in two on the stone floor.

Dominic’s eyes flashed with rage, his mind bedevilled. He jumped out of his seat and grabbed the offending hand. He bit it with all of his might. Blood streamed down from his mouth, staining his lips. His grandfather cried out, ripping his hand away from Dominic’s mouth before slapping him hard across the face with the other.

The stinging sensation from the blow merged with his fury. He felt humiliated and powerless, handicapped by his youth. Dominic burst into angry tears, stooped to pick up the halves of Pulcinella, and ran away to his secret room.

Dominic lay on his side on the dirty, moth-eaten, carpet. He focused on the porcelain parade and swore revenge for their fallen family member.

Adult sensibilities eventually caught up with his grandfather, who crept in unnoticed while Dominic was sleeping and left some superglue on a nearby table, hoping to repair the rift between them.

Dominic carefully pieced Pulcinella back together as best he could but the model was now imperfect; the visible crack-line a constant reminder of the offence, and a permanent irritation to his compulsive sensibilities.

His grandfather could not be forgiven for this affront. A reckoning was required to satisfy the theatrical troupe’s call for vengeance. Every day from then on, Dominic and his players would plot their revenge. Dominic placed the cold, leather mask over his small face, breathing heavily and letting his dark thoughts reign.

Late one evening, when everyone had gone to bed, Dominic crept down the creaking stairs, cat-like, to avoid awakening his sleeping grandparents. He donned his mask, took a knife from a kitchen drawer, and tip-toed back upstairs.

His grandparents’ bedroom door was wide open, their need for privacy was long gone; the only relief they sought now was a kind draft to temper the stifling summer heat.

Dominic walked in, and stood over his grandfather, looking down at him through the mask with his warm, hazel eyes. He breathed deeply as he prepared for the kill. The air reverberated excitedly all around him in anticipation. There was no doubt. No loving thoughts or empathy to dissuade him from acting. The rehearsals were over. It was time for the main show.

Dominic’s blood surged through his veins, howling for revenge, urging him on. He held the knife as high as he could with both hands, pausing briefly to take in the moment. As he looked down at his target, Dominic saw an old man’s eyes staring back at him in horror.

His grandfather locked on to the sharp steel blade with his naked hands and prevented the deadly descent. Dominic was not strong enough to overcome him. The knife cut deep into his grandfather’s flesh, slicing the palms of his hands.

Dominic’s grandmother awoke due to the commotion. She quickly realised that something was terribly wrong, and that they were under attack from Dominic. Her disbelief lasted only momentarily before her defence mechanisms instinctively took control; wildly screeching and flailing her arms at Dominic.

Dominic knew he was outmatched and ran to his room, not looking back. He slammed the door shut, and sat down with his back against it, so no one could get in. He stared blindly into the darkness and waited. He heard footsteps, whispers, and then the sound of a key turning in the door, followed by the click of the lock. He really was imprisoned now.

Dominic was sent home the next day. No words were exchanged, just cold stares as he was taken from his room by some unknown man, and huddled into a car. He was never to return.

Dominic was kept in luxurious isolation from then on. Rooms were locked. Doors bolted shut. His physical world became much smaller, but the landscapes of his imagination expanded rapidly.

Dominic soaked in all of the knowledge the dark web had to offer. What he saw both horrified and excited him in equal measure. He found himself drawn to suffering, without understanding why, and what he saw happening in the world was worse than any horror by design.

Children starving in a third-world hell, while the wealthy struggle to breathe from obesity. The elderly forgotten, and left alone to slouch towards death. Medical care left neglected as rich surgeons plump buttocks to sate dreams of beauty. Billionaires flouting vulgar luxuries, as pavements become mattresses for the poor. Death and destruction. Wars and terrorism. Religious and political division. Greed and avarice. A selfish, unfeeling swarm plaguing the Earth. Dominic obsessed about all of these issues, which he thought no one cared about or wanted to change.

Dominic’s parents died when he was in his late-teens. The funeral was pre-arranged and efficiently stage-managed. Dominic stood by patiently, waiting for it to be over. As the large, joint coffin was lowered silently into the ground, Dominic smiled at the irony; he knew his parents could no longer stand the sight of each other, and this was likely the first time in years that their bodies had touched.

His sister made a brief appearance but left as soon as the first shovel of mud hit the white casket. She had not spoken to, or even looked at, Dominic. He felt sure that she had been told about his devilish ways by their parents, and no sense of duty would compel her to engage with him now.

Afterwards, like an animal freed from its cage, Dominic returned to the familiar confines of his parents’ mansion. Slowly and methodically, he began to explore previously forbidden rooms.

In the cold, damp basement, Dominic happened upon row after row of old cardboard boxes, covered with Italian shipment stamps and mould. Inside one of them, he found his beloved childhood companions. They awakened forgotten feelings and, as Dominic felt the cold leather mask press against his flesh once more, it made him feel calm, in control, empowered. His purpose became clear. Dominic would change the world. He would punish humanity for what they had done, and for what they had become. Dominic would help them to change. To force them to remember the importance of life, and to cherish it above everything else.

From then on, Dominic spent every moment working on his mission. Robotics came naturally to him, and he readily experimented with cutting-edge technologies; vast wealth, natural genius and compulsive focus married together to ensure Dominic’s success.

Dominic spoke some words, and a human-like figure walked out from behind the nearest door. He placed the old Venetian mask over its face, and straightened it, so the hooked nose was perfectly perpendicular. He then knelt down, and etched a name in the metal frame - ‘Pulcinella’.

Dominic contemplated his creation, as he gave the final command. Its programming and purpose simple, to kill as many people as possible on the last night of every month.

Dominic tenderly held Pulcinella’s head in his hands, unemotional eyes mirroring his own, and then sent it away. The strings had been cut.

TWO

Dan walked into his office and slumped into the worn, chestnut-leather chair. He looked around the room which he had spent years of his life in. Sitting day after day, staring at a computer screen, alone in an office with nothing but a desk and a water cooler for company most of the day. Or going to Déjà vu meetings attended by people who like the sound of their own voices but have little to say. He wondered to himself how he had let himself end up in this desk job.

At one time, Dan had been the brightest star in the FBI but now he was resigned to a life of form filling; authorising others to act or spend some of their ever-decreasing budget.

Indeed, Dan had once become something of an overnight sensation when he captured the infamous Tennessee Torturer.

The papers had given the murderer this moniker because the bodies of the victims all displayed signs of extreme physical manipulation which, cumulatively, slowly caused death over a prolonged period. Some of the bodies had all of their teeth extracted, others had limbs amputated, one had a thousand cuts, another 20 broken limbs. All 12 victims, that had been found, had suffered slow, agonising deaths.

Dan suspected that none would have kept their faith after such suffering, and would probably have pleaded to die. You couldn’t imagine the horrors of such experiences and it was made even worse by seeing the pain on their family’s faces. To know that their loved-one had died in such a horrific and meaningless way had devastated them. While they would never get over their loss, Dan hoped they could still carry on and somehow find peace. Dan ached all-over, just thinking about it.

Dan was determined to stop this real-life villain. When he was asked to get involved, he dropped everything, packed a bag, and had moved his life out to Tennessee for five months. As quickly and simply as that.

Dan studied meticulously all of the evidence, focusing in on the patterns of the attacks and profile of the targets. He quickly realised that the victims were tourists and super-fans of Jilly Hope, a famous country and western singer; openly promiscuous on social media, the victims had all littered their accounts with details of their every movement, and over-excitedly reported their anticipation at attending her forthcoming concerts.

The only survivor, a female in her forties who had fought back and escaped, gave a description of a tall, slim, Caucasian male, with long mousey hair and an unkempt beard. This, coupled with a careful examination by Dan and his team of hours of surveillance, ticketing information, and travel documentation, helped them to identify a handful of potential suspects.

The FBI team attended every Jilly Hope concert from then on and, eventually, Dan located one of the suspects in the crowd. Dan’s instincts told him that this was the Torturer; whether it was his out of place appearance, nervous movements, or cold eyes, Dan could not say but he aroused sufficient suspicion for Dan to track him throughout the evening.

Dan was proved right. At the end of the concert, the suspect had followed a middle-aged man to his car. He pretended to be parked in the adjacent vehicle but then quickly lurched across at him, smothering his mouth and nose with a white cloth. The man dropped immediately onto the tarmac.

Dan ran over and jumped on him. The Torturer had fought back and knifed Dan in the side. However, he was no match for Dan, who was charged with adrenalin and in his prime. Even seriously wounded, Dan had rallied and overcome the Torturer, forcing him back on to the ground and hand-cuffing him before any reinforcements arrived.

Once the killer had been identified and captured, the rest was relatively straightforward. Not only was there the attack itself but the survivor identified the Torturer, and they had found a property registered in his name which turned out to be the Torturer’s killing chamber. Repulsive remnants remained onsite, with knotted strands of hair forcibly removed, dental tools still covered in blood, and various nails and decaying flesh casually lying around. Dan would never forget the scene. It was the stuff of nightmares.

Despite many attempts at an interview, the Torturer would not speak of his actions to Dan, or anyone else; he remained silent throughout.

Dan never did find out why the Tennessee Torturer killed. The Torturer had spent his life in the small, back room of a post office, robotically sorting out mail under the smothering dictatorship of the owner. So, maybe it was simply a need for power over others, or a sadistic release. Perhaps it was jealousy or obsession; an inability to accept others becoming overly-close to his beloved singer? Dan would never know but at least the Torturer was behind bars, and his days were numbered. Dan had ended up with a scar for life, whereas the Torturer sat awaiting Old Sparky or a toxic syringe.

Throughout the days and weeks that followed, Dan’s picture adorned the front pages and his name appeared in the headlines. But time passes, and people move on. Dan was quickly replaced by the next, big story, and his five minutes of fame were over.

Not that Dan minded, he did not like all of the attention. He didn’t do this job for the glory; Dan just held an old-fashioned belief in making the streets safer, upholding the law, and seeing justice be done. Not like the career politicians you often found in control today, who Dan would regularly have to kowtow to, notwithstanding their utter lack of any authentic belief in the agency’s role.

Dan was good at dealing with such people, drip feeding them sycophantic snippets in order to achieve his own righteous goals, whether that be an increased budget or new piece of legislation that would serve to better protect the populous.

It hurt Dan’s pride and morality to manipulate in this way, let alone to be seen pleasantly engaging with such people, but he knew the rules of the game and would willingly play, offering up his own humiliation to help a higher cause. Still, it didn’t make Dan feel good and he knew that one day he would have to tell these people how he really felt, and then walk away from it all.

Dan had not intended to end up this way, but in his younger days his belief was that he should climb to the top of the ladder as fast as possible. Now, he found himself bored, with too much time on his hands, ink-stained fingers, and an aching back.

A bee appeared as if from nowhere and started buzzing angrily around his room. Dan pushed back on his chair and dashed to the corner of the room, hoping that the bee wouldn’t target him with its deadly payload. Such a brave hero, he thought to himself.

The bee flew towards the window, and into the white shutters. There was silence. Dan couldn’t rest. He knew he had to do something to try to save the poor, beautiful creature. As he tentatively opened the shutters to assess the situation, Dan saw that it had somehow managed to wedge itself in the window trim. The bee slowly tried to free itself, moving gingerly to protect its precious wings. There was nothing Dan could do to help, so he stood watching it, willing it to succeed. Eventually the bee freed itself, dropping onto the window frame. Dan smiled, as he cautiously and slowly opened the window. The bee paused briefly, as though looking at Dan, and then quickly flew away, humming happily as it left.

Dan was not supposed to listen to music at work, but with a towering pile of general accounts to sign, he decided to indulge himself, popping in his wireless earphones and pressing play on his music application. Despite having plenty of money, with no dependants to spend it on, Dan still kept the adverts as he didn’t like the thought of wasting money on something he could get for free. The lure to buy an exciting new version of a smartphone was cast into his ears, and then his playlist started up.

Although he was now in his late-forties, Dan still enjoyed pop music. His favourite track came on. Dan started nodding his head and wiggling his body, rocking on his chair as the chorus hit its high. He shut his eyes and smiled, forgetting all about the awaiting administration.

Dan had always wanted a close, loving relationship but in the end his job had not allowed for it. He was always at work, day after day, hour after hour, and put all of his energy into it. Sure, he had met some guys and had a few short-term relationships. They never lasted. It is hard to maintain, let alone cultivate, a new relationship when you are utterly exhausted or may be called away at any minute.

The danger inherent in his role at the FBI also created problems. Every time he left for work, emotions would be thrown into turmoil by the panic of knowing that this might be the last time you see each other. Can you imagine dealing with that every day? His partners often just couldn’t cope with this unnatural heightened state of living. Dan also had to steel himself to cope, and guarded carefully his emotions, believing it better to push someone away than to get too close and risk being hurt.

Unfortunately, overall, Dan offered an unappealing package that few people were prepared to put up with. Dan thought that was entirely understandable. Such a situation would have probably been unacceptable to him if the roles were reversed.

Dan did once meet someone he thought he could fall in love with. A handsome teacher with ginger hair and far-away, green eyes. He was happy to wait up for Dan, and accepted that he might simply collapse and fall asleep as soon as he got in. Dan would lie on the couch, resting his head on his lap, and drift away as his hair was gently stroked.

Dan had found this behaviour too accommodating, and became naturally suspicious. He was a detective after all and had to rely on his instincts. It therefore didn’t really come as a surprise when Dan found out that his partner had been on most ‘dating’ applications and was finding plenty of action elsewhere. Dan’s absences were a happy convenience.

Dan couldn’t put up with it. He held loyalty in the highest esteem and was too jealous, not to mention insecure, to tolerate an open relationship. So he ended it immediately.

After that, Dan ploughed himself fully into his work and found, as a reward for many late nights and a high success rate, that promotion came fairly easily to him. It was not something that he sought but equally was not unattractive to him, with the extra pay proving useful.

The higher his rank, the more Dan’s time was taken up with operational development plans, budget control, reporting, audits, performance reviews, and meeting after meeting after meeting. The job he loved was slowly taken away from him.

Dan was also now detached from his team. When he entered senior management, certain disciplinary items were brought to his attention, with unprofessional and unpalatable behaviours exposed. Dan also had to lead by example and be very careful what he said and how he acted; he felt like he was always on show, and this meant he often couldn’t say what he thought, or be himself. That was one of the reasons Dan gave up drink; revealing his true thoughts about certain characters within the department could have led to his instant dismissal. It was easier not to socialise with them, or to hide away in an office. Better to remove himself altogether.

And time passes. Dan did not see it happening on a day-to-day basis but soon enough music that was current four years ago remained in his ‘new tunes’ playlist. Sequels were produced to movies he had not seen. Worse, movies Dan thought he had seen recently were being remade, with new actors taking on a cherished role for the next generation.

Grey hair appeared around his temples, and rogue whiskers started to grow wildly in unexpected areas. With no time for exercise, let alone a social life, Dan found his belly hanging slightly over his trousers, and all of his clothing seemed to be a little tighter than before. New trimmers adorned his bathroom, as the scales rusted over.

Sitting here alone, swinging around in his chair, Dan wondered if he had made the right choices. What was the point of having a successful career and plenty of money if you had no one to share it with? No one to talk about your day with, as boring as it might be. To travel to exotic lands with, or even just to hold at night. Someone to kiss goodbye on your way to the office. Someone to love.

Now that he had so much time on his hands, and could lead a steady life, it seemed too late. Dan wouldn’t even know how to start dating in this era of technological romances, where good looks rule and decent conversation is an irrelevance. Any potential suitor would shallowly swipe him away as soon as they saw his picture. Dan couldn’t understand this. Whatever happened to meeting people and getting to know them? Wasn’t personality important anymore? Now, you entered someone’s life to face immediate judgment, solely based on your looks and a few words, and dismissed in an instant.

Unless you were part of the FBI, you could not understand. The importance, the pressure, the necessity to do everything possible to help stop a crime. You had to give your life to it.

Dan just could not see a viable option. Too old for bars and clubs. Too unattractive for dating applications. And stuck behind a desk all day long, with little opportunity to meet anyone.

Maybe this was how this life was supposed to be. With so many people in the world, and a growing population, busy, old fate had no time to find him a forever-love. Dan had consciously decided that he would not allow himself to entertain any more foolish dreams which would only serve to make him cry.

Dan lolled back in his chair, and took his headphones out for a moment, feeling sorry for himself, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the old-fashioned, wooden clock hanging on his wall. He reached into his top drawer and took out another piece of candy to give his life some sweetness. The artificial apple tang made his mouth salivate and stomach rumble in hopeful expectation. It would be disappointed by the dissolving treat.

Dan felt annoyed at himself for thinking this way. Where was the optimistic and hopeful person he knew and respected? He put his music back on.

Dan had always been so focused; he knew what he wanted and would go out and get it. It was time for him to take back control of his own destiny, and sort himself out. No one else was going to do it for him. Or maybe he should just wait and see what would happen next. Maybe there was a plan and he just couldn’t see it yet. Dan’s mind went around in circles, in tandem with the motions of his creaking chair. He sighed loudly, trying to expel his heavy thoughts.

Dan’s personal assistant, Margie, stood inside the office facing Dan’s back and repeatedly called his name. He didn’t hear her, too lost in his music, so she gently tapped his shoulder.

Dan over-dramatically jumped, nearly falling out of his seat in a comical fashion. The fearless leader reduced to a trembling wreck by surprise.

Margie kept a straight face and rolled her beady, green eyes; she was used to such spectacle. However, the agent standing beside her could not suppress his smile, quickly covering it with his hand. Dan could feel himself reddening.

Dan noticed that Margie’s shocking red hair was quaffed particularly steep this morning and must have taken half a tin of hairspray to hold in place; not particularly environmentally friendly but certainly effective. This quirky style, and individuality, was part of the reason Dan liked her, whereas others shied away from her boldness, fearing someone difficult to manage. But she wasn’t, and Dan often thought her bravado was merely a shield to protect the softness inside.

Dan soon lost interest in this shock of hair, when he focused in on the tall man standing beside Margie.

“Assistant Director Goodchild may I introduce you to Special Agent Luke Harrison. He’s new. I’m showing him around the office.”

Margie looked at her notepad and read aloud, “Agent Harrison is 30, originally from Ireland, he now lives in Boston. He is single and lives alone, except for his chocolate Labrador, Rosie.”

Margie glanced briefly up, raising her eyebrows, and gave a little smile. It sounded like some matchmaking gameshow on the television. Dan suspected that Margie had made it sound that way deliberately. She was so mischievous.

“In his spare time, he enjoys basketball. Go the Celtics!” Margie did a little fist bump in the air, without taking her eyes off the memo, “And the movies.”

Margie raised her head and looked at both men, turning from one to the other with pursed lips.

“Well don’t we all love a good film, darling. So, to summarise, he lives for his work and has no social life. He should make a fine Agent, don’t you think?”

At that, Luke blushed, revealing the statement was true, and nervously ran his fingers through his curly, jet-black hair.

Dan stared slightly too long at Luke’s large, wide-set dark brown eyes, which stood out from his tanned, angular face adorned with dark, shaped stubble. He was traditionally handsome, and looked like the sort of person you might see advertising deodorant or some middle-class fitness magazine.

“Hello, Chief, very pleased to meet you.” Luke said, with a soft Irish accent, and reached out his hand confidently. Dan shook it, his palms unattractively sweaty.

“You too, Agent Harrison. So, this is your first day. Well, it is great to have you on the team. I hope you are settling in well, and everyone has been welcoming?”

Dan sounded overly interested and was annoyed with himself for giving in to his shallow desires.

“Yes, Chief. Everyone’s been great. In fact, a few of us are heading to the bar tonight if you would like to join us?”

“Thank you for asking Agent Harrison but, unfortunately, I have some urgent business to attend to this evening.” Dan said, using a well-practised tone of disappointment.

This was a lie, but the truth was long, boring and complicated; he did not want to detail that he did not drink and, coupled with being in a more senior position, always felt awkward and unwelcome at such social occasions. It would be inappropriate, and so he forgave himself for the deception.

“Well we had better leave you to your urgent business.” Margie said sarcastically, knowing only too well that Dan was making up excuses. Dan had almost forgotten she was in the room, he was so transfixed by Luke.

“Yes, thank you Margie. It was nice to meet you Agent Harrison. My door is always open if you need me.”

“Thank you, Chief.”

Their eyes met and they stared at each other a second longer than was comfortable. They looked away simultaneously. Luke then turned, and walked out of the door, held open by Margie.

Dan couldn’t help but steal a look at Luke’s toned figure, displayed well in his fitted white shirt and tight, navy trousers. He tried to deny his attraction to Luke and to force his mind away from inappropriate thoughts.

Dan was significantly older than Luke, and thought himself unattractive or, at best, ordinary; he stood up and looked in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door. A dour figure stared back; slightly overweight, short grey hair, always in need of a cut, sunken blue eyes underscored by dark bags, and plenty of wrinkles. He knew he had little to offer and felt like a stupid old fool for even considering the possibility of any intimate relationship. Dan returned to his upbeat music to dull his melancholy.

THREE

Pulcinella approached the entrance to the gentrified, gated community.

Ten identical houses stood closely next to one another but separate, architecturally designed to form a perfect curve. Cheaply made to maximise profit but creating a façade of luxury.  Surrounded by an ornate, black metal fence to stop any unwelcome contamination from the lower classes. Fake flowers crafted from fool’s gold beautified the menacing structure. Painted silver spears adorned the highest points, making any ascent perilous. An ugly beauty to behold.

Pulcinella moved over to the control box, and opened the large swing gates, which juddered open to welcome it in to meet the precious residents. It walked through, stopping briefly to change the passcode.

Automatically closing, the gates scraped the tarmac with their metallic heels in resistance, as they unwillingly betrayed their masters. The resting animals now trapped within; encaged by an unfeeling keeper, compelled to put them all to sleep.

It was the last night of the month. Pulcinella’s beautiful clockwork motions stirred excitedly, fully engaged for the first time. The moon watched from up-high, shining a spotlight on its stage. The main player at its centre was ready for opening night. Everything was set.

Pulcinella had retained its shiny white, new plastic shell. Its program had detected no need for a human skin tone at this moment. It had no vanity or sense of making an impression, so it stood naked. A virgin body about to encounter deathly promiscuity.

The moonlight reflected off Pulcinella, illuminating its presence like some alien being. Otherwise, darkness consumed the landscape. It was eerily quiet and still. Other creatures of the night seemed to sense the terror to come, and had fled the scene.

Pulcinella had meticulously observed the inhabitants for some time, and knew the exact comings and goings of each household. The predictable mediocrity lifestyles of the middle classes made this task easy; even the most basic processor could have timetabled the repeating, simple schedules of school runs, gym classes, dinner times, and lights out.

Pulcinella approached the first dwelling in the street and stood in perfect silence outside the wide bay window. It looked through. The family of four were eating dinner in front of the television. Trays on their laps, with large circular plates filled to their brims and mounted high with fat-laden food. They ate quickly but tasted nothing.

They sat in familiar company, but did not engage with one another; hypnotised by the glowing screen. Laughing hyenas devouring the flesh of a set of wannabe celebrities torturing their talents for some cloned singing competition which never seemed to end. Exposed dreams and false promises, set to build people up, only to cruelly tear them down; a new gladiatorial arena for the middle classes.

Pulcinella knocked gently on the door. It could hear everything and listened.

“Who would be knocking at this time of night, Velma? It must be one of your friends. Go get it.”

The obese husband ordered his wife, spitting food as he spoke, adding more grease stains to his over-tight, luxury-branded, green polo shirt. He shuffled in his chair, frustrated that his evening had been interrupted. His grey sweat pants stretched further to accommodate him. His short, dumpy legs barely touched the floor. He mopped his sweating, red brow with his small fingers.

Velma had no friends. Her life was one long servitude to her husband and two boys. She hadn’t known friendship since university. In fact, she had not felt anything for some time. She would walk up and down the parallel supermarket aisles without even registering what she was doing. A living robot.

Velma occasionally fantasised that her life would change. An unknown talent would be discovered. Lady Chatterley’s lover would find her, and give release to this desperate housewife. Her carefully selected lottery numbers would roll out of the tumbler to make her independently rich. But none of it ever happened. Depression had consumed her long ago, and to Velma it felt like it was too late to regurgitate her soul.

Not that her husband knew or cared about this. His priority was his work, selling unnecessary products at elevated prices. Buying flash cars and expensive trinkets, vulgar gold watches and chains, to prove his importance and mask his lack of any pleasing personality. Believing his platinum air miles card somehow made him better than everyone else. But he was not wealthy, crippled with a large mortgage that would prevent his retirement for many years, and this, coupled with his age and unattractive appearance, had prevented any longed-for affair.

Velma didn’t question the order to open the door, and slouched slowly, almost acceptingly, towards her fate.

Pulcinella pulled on its mask, ready. Its eyes glowed red. The leather mask heated and exuded a new, musky smell. The sharp beak pointed towards its incoming prey.

The white door, with non-descript silver chrome knocker, slowly opened. Velma opened her mouth, either to scream or question, it did not matter. Pulcinella’s fingers extended knife-like and skewered through her face. She fell immediately to the ground, dead. Her red silky underwear exposing itself, and seen for the first time. Any dignity gone. Her ascetic life over.

Pulcinella walked through the corridor, past the faces staring out at it from staged holiday photos, false smiles, white teeth standing out sharply against the lobster-red sunburnt skin, and into the living room. It turned its blank face and hooked nose towards each of the three occupants left. Observing and calculating.

The two teenage sons jumped up and ran towards the door at the opposite end of the room, pushing past each other to get out first, and not even glancing back towards their father. Pulcinella ran at speed, faster than the boys, and slashed the back of their necks with its talons. Blood spurted all over the cream, faux-leather, seats.

The father gulped heavily and clutched his chest. He stared at Pulcinella wide-eyed.

“I have money. I can get you it immediately. Take my car. Anything, just please don’t kill me. I don’t deserve this. I haven’t done anything!” The man pleaded, with no remorse for his dead family, the selfish gene had well and truly taken over control.

Pulcinella showed no emotion to the pitiful pleas, and its coding reacted. Swish, swish. Cold steel slicing through soft flesh; like a knife cutting through an overripe peach. More blood. So much blood.

It mechanically surveyed the house. Its heat sensors indicated that there was no one left living inside.

Soulful singing came from the television to bid farewell to the Gunther family, as Pulcinella took its leave and made its way to the next dwelling.

In the next house, a young couple lay fast asleep in bed. Since the baby had come along, exhaustion was their normal state of being, and they stole sleep whenever they could. Pulcinella had brought a quick end to their tiredness, and they were now dead to the world.

Ellie had been left in her bedroom to read quietly to herself, and warned to be good, otherwise the bogeyman would get her. The aged threat readily used to afflict children, and persuade them to conform, still worked.

Ellie sat under her duvet with her torch on. She couldn’t concentrate on the story due to the noise coming from their neighbour’s garden. They were always throwing some kind of party. Ellie wondered whether they had more than one birthday each. It seemed that way.

The baby cried out. A loud, lingering wail. And then fell quiet, suddenly. Ellie couldn’t hear her parents getting up, and so called out in a loud whisper.

“Mum? Dad? Are you up?” Ellie’s voice gradually loudened with each question.

There was still no answer. Ellie decided to get up and investigate for herself. After all, she had her torch at the ready and knew she was safe in her own home. She prodded her feet into her fluffy slippers, and slowly opened her door, turning the knob ever so slowly to minimise any noise, just in case her parents were still asleep.

Pulcinella stood in the corridor, towering over her. The small flashlight shone on its tall figure, its shadow gigantic on the wall. Ellie screamed and ran back to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She pulled the blankets over her head, hiding away from the unbearable sight.

The door opened. Ellie peeped over the blanket, hoping to see her mum and dad but, instead, all she saw was her worst nightmare. A tall figure standing over her, underneath the illuminous plastic stars which adorned her bedroom ceiling.

“Are you, you, you the bogeyman?” Ellie stammered, breathlessly.

There was no reply. Pulcinella flayed its nostrils and blew a mist out of its mask towards her. It stung only for a moment, and then Ellie drifted into a final, deep sleep.

Pulcinella opened the small, pink curtains in the bedroom window and looked down into the neighbouring garden. It watched for a short while.

Plump sausages sizzled and spat out their hot fat onto the BBQ flames, igniting their fiery tormentor further, in disgust at being branded on the scalding grill. Their skin stuck and started to burn, sending plumes of salivating-inducing smoke into the night sky.

It had been a long day and Julie was exhausted from entertaining her friends. Trying to stay engaged in their conversation had proved a herculean effort. Fortunately, she had alcohol to help stimulate her interest. Suddenly, tiresome monologues started to promise a glimmer of intrigue.

Some hours later, Julie now found herself tired and tipsy, hovering above a charcoal furnace. She felt a bead of sweat on her forehead and coughed, as the singeing smells tickled at her throat. Julie took another swig from her red plastic cup to clear her airwaves and muddle her mind a little more.

The sausages refused to move easily, as Julie tried with some effort to roll them around to ensure even cooking. There would be no food poisoning on her watch. Eventually, she had turned them all. She rested against the back door and rested her head against it. Only a little longer and they would be gone. She could then get some much-needed sleep.

Julie listened as another round of laughter rang out from inside. And another. Julie knew the people in her sitting room and felt confident that nothing genuinely humorous was entertaining the crowd. It was like canned laughter on a television show. You know when to laugh, even when nothing funny is happening, and do it.

It was becoming annoying now. Perhaps she was just bitter that the cooking had ended up being her burden. How did that happen? Mike was supposed to be dealing with the BBQ but, as usual, he had got drunk too quickly and soon lost any inclination to be helpful. Impending chores flitted out of his head, superseded by self-indulgence. Now, he was just like any other guest for Julie to serve.

Julie took a larger sip from the friendly red cup, draining it empty. The bitterness of the tequila in the cocktail shocked her tongue, and made her shudder. She hated tequila but the others had supped away all of the gin and wine, leaving only an unpleasant mix of old, half-empty bottles of unloved brews. Unwanted presents, seasonal favourites, or those just bought for their fancy colour or labels. All toxins were now most welcome to help numb this mundane existence.

She looked disappointed at the cup’s empty innards and threw it onto the lawn. A minor act of rebellion but it still made her feel momentarily happy. She chuckled but then felt guilty so picked it up and put it in the bin, in case it caused injury to any of the local wildlife.

More exaggerated mirth echoed out. Honestly, what is so funny? Julie thought to herself. Anyone would think the world’s best comedian was in the house. The irritation bubbled up inside her. Maybe it was because she didn’t like these people or was it simply that she felt left out? Either way, she was going to find out what was going on and poked her head through the door to look.

For whatever random reason, Mike was sitting atop of fat Phil (there was more than one Phil in their immediate social circle, and so a moniker had proven necessary, although nowadays this particular one seemed rather cruel in this more sensitive and sober world). He was riding him like a bucking bronco, digging into him with his heels and slapping his large bottom, to the delight of the baying crowd.

The sausages started to burn and dark smoke wafted around Julie. She quickly ran back to the grill and carefully, using the designer tongs, removed them from their fiery bed, one-by-one. Well, at least no one can complain that they are underdone, she thought to herself.

Julie looked at her smouldering creations. A disguise of mustard and tomato ketchup was in order. Placing them in their coffin-like bread rolls, she smothered them liberally in the red and yellow sauces.

Julie felt confident that no one would notice; most of them were so inebriated that they wouldn’t even look at the food or properly taste it, being so distracted by their revelries. Still she worried. Julie forced herself to stop obsessing over it. This had always been one of her problems. She could not help but dwell on irrelevancies and replay scenes from the past, which she couldn’t influence or change and had to let go of. Being aware of her problem, she now tried to control her meddlesome mind but it was difficult.

Julie doubted that some of them would even know where they were. Just another night of drunken debauchery. They could be anywhere. In a restaurant, a bar, a club, a marquee, or someone else’s house. The people, the conversations, the outcome, would all be the same.

Not that there is anything wrong with enjoying a drink but there must come a stage where enough is enough. When a hangover that used to take less than a day to get rid of seems to last all week, leaving you physically and emotionally battered and blue. And what for? You don’t even recall most of the conversation and those you can remember seem trite and inane. Surely it was better to find a more productive pastime? An activity you actually enjoy. To spend time with those you love or, at least, find interesting in the sober light of day.

Julie was determined to give up drinking soon but not yet, not tonight. She needed a crutch to help her to get through their tenth anniversary party without going mad, or worse, killing someone.

The anniversary had come out of nowhere. The years had slipped away so quickly. It seemed such a long time and had given Julie a much-needed jolt. She had been sleeping her life away having fallen into an easy pattern of lunches, dinners and drinks, in between her hectic job, with people who all looked, talked and acted the same.

At the end of the day, did these people care about her? Julie doubted it. And as for Mike, well that was like living with a stranger now. They easily drifted through life together but they didn’t really engage with one another, slept in separate rooms, under the pretence of improving their sleep quality, and did not emotionally attach. Really, what was the point? Julie had decided that enough was enough. There was still a little life in her yet. A change was needed now. Well maybe not now but definitely soon.

Julie pulled at her short, black dress. It seemed determined to keep riding up her thighs but she stretched it back down, fighting its design. She ran her hand through her dyed blond hair, as she looked at her reflection in the window. Good enough. She grabbed the first round of hot dogs, balancing the tray carefully to ensure that they did not slide off, and, stumbling slightly in her stilettos, went inside. Julie completed the set. The four couples were now all together.

“So, what is going on in here you guys? It sounds like you are having a whale of a time.” Julie purred softly, as though genuinely intrigued. Her darkened eyebrows rising quizzically to complete the act.

Mike and fat Phil stopped their rodeo show and froze, staring guiltily at Julie, as though someone had pressed the pause button on a movie. Then they looked at each other and creased-up with laughter, both suddenly realising how silly they must look and embarrassed by their juvenile actions.

“Here, please let me help you.” Stewart said, as he came over to take the plate of hot dogs from Julie.

Of course, Stewart could have helped her to cook the hot dogs, but at least he was making some sort of effort now, unlike the others. He pushed up the mid-point of his round glasses to stop them from slipping further down his nose, and then started handing out the food to the others.

Stewart was on the quiet-side, not to mention being physically awkward; tall and slim, with over long limbs, he would trip up over his own feet and frequently knock over a glass. However, Julie had always thought he was a nice guy, liking that she could talk at him endlessly, and he would seemingly listen. She knew that was a bit self-indulgent and selfish but it was cheaper than a therapist, and Stewart did seem to enjoy their time together. If Julie knew the dirty thoughts going through Stewart’s mind during such occasions, she might have felt differently.

It was always a mystery to Julie as to how Stewart had ended up married to Martha Mothering. Although they say opposites attract, and that could be the only explanation for it.

Martha was nothing like her namesake; there were no maternal instincts readily apparent in her nature. She was uncaring, self-involved, domineering, deriding, and just generally an all-round nasty person. The type who would tell a homeless person to get a job, if she thought no one was watching her, or to tell someone to go back to where they came from, if they were not a white American.

Of course, Martha would change her demeanour if anyone was around, and then she would return to her beauty queen speeches and proclaim how we should help these poor, unfortunate souls. Julie expected her to demand world peace at the same time but Martha had not yet immersed herself that fully into her fake character. An act which could not survive the current onslaught of soul-revealing spirits.

Julie wondered to herself why they still put up with Martha, or why one of them had not confronted her about her behaviour. Of course, she knew it was too late to challenge Martha, who had been allowed to act this way unchecked for many years. And as long as Mike and Stewart worked together, there was really nothing Julie could do. Social etiquette will simply not allow for the exclusion of someone’s spouse, no matter how odious or how much everyone would probably like it.

“Stewart. Stewart! Are you going to bring me one of those sausages or are you going to leave me here starving?” Martha shouted.

Stewart didn’t say anything but quickly complied. Julie grinned wickedly as she thought about ramming a sausage down Martha’s throat to shut her up for good. Or maybe she could just smear some ketchup and mustard over her perfectly painted-on face. Either would do.

A fly buzzed hungrily around Martha’s head, trying to land on her food. She tried to swat it away but nearly dropped her hotdog onto her perfectly white trousers. Martha could not afford to stain her designer outfit now, could she? That would be a tragedy.

“Stewart. Stewart! Do something about that, would you?” Martha demanded, as she shifted around on the sofa uncomfortably, in her overtight, corset-like beige jacket. Her brown, bobbed hair bouncing in motion with each move. The leather couch screeched in anguish at this mad, seated dance. Julie giggled at the scene, grateful to the insect for providing this entertainment.

Stewart watched the fly flit around in geometric patterns in the stale, heavy air above his wife. It landed on a nearby bench where some bread crumbs had fallen, and started licking its legs excitedly in preparation for a vomitus feast. He crept up beside it and, gently, placed a plastic cup over it. He then slid a coaster underneath to trap it, went quickly outside, and let it go.

“Honestly, Stewart, you should have just killed it. It will just come back in now you know. It will rest on our food or end up floating in a drink. So unhygienic. Or get roasted on the BBQ. What a revolting thought. And it will all be your fault. You really are quite useless. Why do I tolerate you?” Martha said, as though disappointed in herself.

Stewart looked crest-fallen, hating to be admonished in front of the group. Instead, he took a vicious bite out of his hotdog to stop him from saying something which he might later regret.

Martha sighed heavily, annoyed not to get a reaction, before greedily finishing off her hotdog and sucking the sauce from each of her banana-like fingers, with a smacking sound. It was hard to see whether she succeeded in getting it all off, as the redness of the sauce matched the colour of her nails.

Talk about unhygienic, Julie thought moving through the open plan living room across to the fridge. She opened the door and peered in. A welcome gush of cool air chilled her face and made her skin even paler.

Julie carefully took out a heavy wooden chopping board. An angel carved out of several pineapples, held together by toothpick bones, stood tall and elegant upon it. The sweet celestial being raised her over-ripe arms to the heavens, with her yellow, fruity wings spread out ready for flight. Julie smiled to herself. It had taken her hours to craft this but it looked majestic. She spread various finger foods around her feet, before placing her in the middle of the lounge table. Julie felt sad. She didn’t want her beautiful angel to be violated by this mangy lot. It was too good for them.

It was a veritable work of art, and someone even clapped as she brought it out, although she didn’t see who. Julie could have been a master craftsperson but she would never know it. Another hidden talent lost to the world, along with the Olympian house husbands, the poet laureate cleaners, and the shelf-stacking songbirds; hidden gems buried deep, never to be discovered.

Fat Phil clambered across the cream carpet on all fours, prowling like some unfit panther, towards Jill. He pawed at his wife but she just ignored him. Giving up the game, Phil squeezed in next to her on the couch. Jill said nothing, continuing to stare down hard at her phone. Her thumb twitched maniacally, as she scrolled through another work email. Modern technology provided the most wonderful opportunities for flexible working as a lawyer; now you could work all the hours of the day, and be expected to do so, to meet those ever-increasing billing targets. She wished for a quieter life, and a return to the days of posted letters and facsimiles.

Jill flicked her luscious, long ginger hair towards Phil, subconsciously trying to get him to go away. He didn’t move, being used to spurned advances and cold receptions. Phil gently stroked her thin arm.

“Phil, I have to concentrate,” Jill said admonishingly, “You know I have to keep on top of this case. Look, there is an empty sofa over there. You would be much more comfortable, and I need to read this and get a reply out. Sorry honey, but this just can’t wait. You know that.”

Phil was used to this and did as he was told, grabbing at some of the mini pastries encircling the pineapple angel. Jill never had any time for him nowadays, and was habitually exhausted. Empty. Drained by the stress and pressures of her high-flying job. He yearned for them to just give everything up, and return to the people they used to be before life wrapped chains around their souls and claimed their lives. Give up all the trappings of wealth and live a frugal, but happy, life. It seemed too late; they were beautiful creatures imprisoned by societal expectation.

John got up from his seat and went to sit with Phil.

“Never mind, buddy. I still love you.” John said, as he stretched out his muscular arm around Phil’s shoulders and squeezed tightly.

John was unnaturally brawny. He had started hitting the gym for hours every day. One of those muscle gyms with mirrored walls where men and women stare at themselves and each other, ripping and rebuilding their inner fibrous tissues, to become bigger and better. Blue veins swelled up and pulsed just under the surface of his skin.

Everyone agreed that it was some kind of predictable mid-life crisis. That last push before the inevitable weakness of old age, where pumped parts become painful and fight back at their unnatural torment.

John spent more time fashioning his appearance than on anything else. His mousey hair elevated by blonde highlights. His teeth glowed unnaturally white. His eyes sparkled with green hues from coloured contact lenses. All framed and exaggerated against his spray tanned body. It looked like he had just come back from an exotic holiday and sometimes, out of embarrassment at his own vanity, John would pretend he had. People believed that skiing holidays in winter were common for John. He was a nice guy at heart and, initially, this had come from his own insecurities. Now, it was his obsession.

Linda got up too, following her husband, and sank onto his lap, stretching her long legs out over Phil’s. Phil couldn’t help himself from admiring her thin, sleek body in the figure-hugging red dress.

“And I love you both!” Linda slurred, playfully.

Linda started kissing John, quickly and repeatedly, on the cheeks, leaving lipstick stains on his sharp bones. Her breath was a heady cocktail of sausage meat, alcohol, and cigarettes. She planted a few more ashtray kisses on his lips, before resting her head on his shoulder. His hard frame was uncomfortable, so she grabbed a pillow and tried again. Her head swooped down low almost immediately, flattening her brown curls, as she passed out asleep.

Julie looked slowly around the room, surveying the people around her. Yes, a change was definitely needed.

Julie went back outside to check on the grill, and to start to tidy-up. Standing on the wood-stained patio, under the coloured bulbs that garishly lit the patio area, hanging high up, suspended on various hooks and branches. She looked up, past them, at the millions of unencumbered stars, and dreamt of a different life.

Julie wondered what was happening in the infinite alternative universes. With endless chances and possibilities, there must be so many Julies who were happier, loved, rich, famous. Equally, there must be a good number less happy, impoverished, starving, dying. Maybe her lot was not so bad; the thought of happier Julies, who had made better choices, somehow comforted her. She raised her refilled red cup to them and drank, emotions heightened from its contents.

A rustling noise came from the bushes at the back corner of their long, rectangular garden. Probably some animal, Julie thought, enticed towards the house by the barbecue bouquet.

Julie moved forward, squinting her eyes together to try to see further and to focus. A tall, dark figure was moving towards her. A rainbow of colours flashed against it from the light bulbs hovering above, leading it towards Julie and the circus of her life.

Was this Julie’s vampire lover finally come to declare his timeless love and to take her away? The alcohol must have kicked in harder than she thought. She rubbed her eyes, forgetting that she was wearing her contact lenses. One dislodged itself from her eye and floated to the ground.

She looked again, struggling to see anything due to her blurred vision, arising from the fight between one malfunctioning eye and one with corrected vision. Ruby-like eyes stared back at her. It looked to Julie like the person was wearing a mask. It wasn’t Halloween. Maybe this was Phil and Mike pulling a prank. Her confused brain was desperately trying to rationalise the sight before her.

Julie’s in-built survival instincts faltered due to the drink. She would have fought hard if she had been lucid. Instead, Julie stumbled forward, unsteady on her feet due to the height of her heels coupled with boozy dizziness.

Cold hands grabbed at her to stop her from falling. It held her up, unnaturally in the air, like a farmer might hold up a chicken. Julie felt like her neck was about to snap, and let out a short scream. Immediately, her head was slammed down hard against the grill. Julie’s skin started to singe. The barbeque collapsed under her weight, as her skull was crushed, and collapsed, against the concrete patio, staining it afresh with her blood.

Stewart thought he heard Julie shout. He wanted an excuse to go outside anyway, hoping to endear himself to Julie by lending a helping hand. Stewart had always liked Julie but didn’t dare to think that anything could ever happen between them. She was far too smart and pretty for him. And then there was Martha, for better or worse and, since that ring had gone on her finger, it seemed to be perpetually for worse. Stewart was a religious man and, no matter how unhappy he was, his vow was eternally binding. He could not leave her, but he could fantasise.

“Julie, do you need a hand?” Stewart called out.

Stewart saw a river of some kind of red liquid slithering down the wooden grooves of the patio floor towards him. He instinctively moved backwards to stop it reaching him, thinking it to be spilt wine. He followed it to its source, and saw Julie spread out on the ground, covered in blood.

“Julie! Julie! Are you ok? Julie …”

Stewart felt a presence nearby, and stopped talking. The reality of the situation was catching up with him, and fear setting in. It was clear that Julie was dead from the disfigurement of her body. He prayed to his god to protect him but he instinctively knew this was it. Sorrow and terror mixed with acceptance, as he looked up at the tall figure standing over him.

Stewart stared at the Venetian mask. The black, cloak-like jacket suddenly lifted in the newly found breeze. A steel spear appeared from the foot of the figure and, before Stewart could utter a word, it darted elegantly forward into his temple. Forsaken by his deity, he fell on top of Julie, in a bloody consummation.

Entering the main room, Pulcinella moved to Phil, grabbed his head and twisted it around quickly, with a loud crack, before pressing its palms against the heads of the sleeping lovers, Linda and John, electrifying their dreams and exploding their brains.

Mike was in shock. Watching the horror movie unfold before his eyes, as he lay resting on the floor. The intruder pointed its hand towards him. A pistol rose up from out of its knuckles, and a silent shot burst out. Mike convulsed briefly, and then lay still. On his back, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts raced through his mind. Julie on the beach, laughing. Julie in his arms, head resting on his racing heart. Julie in her wedding dress, so beautiful. Deep regrets. Hours at work to get the house they longed for. Julie surpassing him in her career, leaving him an impotent disappointment. Low moments and secret pills. Heavy drinking with convenient friends. Julie smiling. Julie.

Jill had not even looked up yet. She was still intent on her phone, having put in her wireless earphones to listen to some music to help her to concentrate, blocking out the world. Tapping away furiously at the glass screen in full flow. Jill didn’t even notice that anything was wrong. Did not see her killer. There was just surprise at the sudden pain. She dropped the phone, and slumped over.

In the bathroom, Martha was admiring herself in the mirror, turning her face from side to side. The Botox had really paid off. Not one wrinkle was left on her face, thanks to the poisonous pricks. I’ve still got a good few years left in me yet, Martha thought to herself. The battle against old-age won but the inevitability of losing the war made her efforts temporary and, ultimately, futile.

Martha took her lipstick from her purse. It cost more than a month’s wages but it really did make her thin lips look full and juicy. She smacked them together and pouted before blowing herself a kiss.

“There, perfect!” Martha said aloud, trying to persuade herself that she was still beautiful; those blessed with good looks find it so much more painful to age, and Martha was struggling with her maturing features.

Something caught her eye in the mirror. A shadowy figure in the doorway. It suddenly ran at her, and smashed her face into the mirror. Martha gave herself a deadly kiss, and aged no more.

Pulcinella left the party, and moved on.

Next door, Tom heard some crashing and banging, but this was nothing new. His neighbours were a raucous lot. He sighed deeply, and sunk lower into his outside hot tub to blot out the noise. The bubbles filled his hears, and tickled. As his breath ran out, he quickly bobbed back up, gasping for breath.

To his relief, it had gone quiet. The lights in the water changed to a baby-pink shade, which almost matched his modern-coloured, overtight speedos. He reached down and adjusted himself, trying to stretch the elastic a little to provide some comfort. Really, he didn’t know why he bothered with swim wear. After all, he was alone, but you just never know who might be peering out of their windows, and he was not about to provide them with a cheap thrill at his expense.

Tom leant his head back against the plastic rim of the tub, and suddenly reprimanded himself for getting his hair wet in the water. He worried that the chlorine cleaner might turn it green, as he once read in some glossy magazine could happen. Well, it was too late now.

Tom turned down the temperature dial, conscious that his skin had reddened from the heat. His fingers and toes had become deeply wrinkled from staying in the water too long. He would have to get out soon, but not just yet. A few moments longer.

The day’s events replayed in his mind. Since his promotion, Tom had seemingly dealt with nothing except administration and personnel issues. He longed for the days when he was an accounts manager, and could actually interact with the clients. That is promotion for you, he thought. They take you away from what you are good at, the underlying skill which you have honed for years, and drown you with procedures and processes; regulatory compliance and meetings.

This was not what Tom had hoped for, and he did not enjoy it. The company expected more and more from him, piling on the pressure, while offering him little in compensation except for a fancy sounding title. The salary rise was negligible and, really, how much money do you need to live on? He had quite enough. It also left him with no time for himself. That was how he found himself alone at night in his new, plastic-smelling hot pool.

Tom noticed he was clenching his jaw and tried to relax, concentrating on the warmth of the water, the bass tones of the bubbling water, and the mood-enhancing lighting; he watched the wisps of steam dancing in the night air, changing colour in time with the disco below.

It worked for a moment, and then his mind was full again; thinking about repeating routines that did not yet need to be done, leaving the door open for the cleaner, putting out the trash, buying a birthday card for his father’s birthday, and so on. It was a never-ending list of minutiae.

And then Tom felt guilty. He had not been over to see his family for at least a month, and they only lived on the other side of town. Lately time seemed to fly-by, and days quickly turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The earth was spinning at top speed, and it was all Tom could do to stop himself from falling off, becoming lost in space forever.

Tom propped himself up, and dried his hands on the nearby towel before reaching for his phone. He unlocked it with his finger, and added a new reminder to go to see his parents. He then checked his work emails, and saw another seven messages had flooded in since the last time he looked, about half-an-hour ago. It was just too much.

Angrily, he heaved himself out of the pool, scratching his back on the metal filter as he did so, leaving a trail of blood to mix in the bubbling cauldron.

“Bloody hell!” Tom cried out, “That is really all I need right now. So much for relaxing!”

He turned around and almost walked straight into Pulcinella, who was standing quietly nearby. Tom’s survival instincts immediately activated. He turned and ran.

Tom had always been a good sprinter and he somehow managed to get away, speeding around the side of the house, fleeing towards the cul-de-sac entrance way. He called on every ounce of energy with him, and successfully reached the main gate.

Tom punched in the code to open the gates, relieved, and looked around. Pulcinella was coming towards him, and moving fast.

The gate made a bleeping noise, and remained closed. He must have put in the wrong code. Tom tried again. Nothing. He was trapped. Imprisoned by the very structure which was supposed to protect him.

Tom grabbed the railings and shook them with all his might, trying to force the gate open. It didn’t work. He tried to climb, to find a friendly foothold, but failed.

He didn’t look back. There was no need to make it any worse. He held on to the bars, and started to sob gently. Awaiting the inevitable.

Tom’s mind emptied, as Pulcinella crushed his skull quickly through the narrow, metal railings.

Pulcinella moved on to the next house. And then the next, until all of the houses were vacated and ready for their next occupants, whose only thought would be the assured discount to erase any stains of the past.

The result was the same in each case. No one expected a killer to knock on their door. No alarms were triggered, they all let it in. Or did not see it coming, and did not expect such an uninvited guest. Unprepared and defenceless, they all died.

Ten households slaughtered. Pulcinella’s work was done for this month. It left a message in blood on the wall of one of the houses:

“They were already dead.

Self-imprisoned. Locking out happiness.

Stymied by comfort.

Scared of change.

Fearing tomorrow because they know they wasted today.

Let life in before it is too late.

Find the joy in every day.

There is more to come.”

Pulcinella

It accessed its database and selected its next location, immediately moving on without reflection or hesitation.

FOUR

Dan rolled over in his bed, and rubbed at his eyes. He had not slept well, waking up every half-an-hour or so, for no real reason. Dan wasn’t stressed or worried about anything. Quite the opposite. Little occupied his mind, so he couldn’t understand his persistent restlessness.

The bedroom was cold and quiet. It was still early in the morning, and dark outside, but he knew that there was no point in trying to get any more sleep. He might as well get up, and go into the office early. After all, there was no one at home. Well, no one except for Mister Toffee, his ever-hungry, ginger cat.

He switched on the television with the remote control, as he sat down, and slurped some soggy corn flakes to appease his grumbling stomach.

There was nothing new to report. The same news as the night before. And the night before that. How many times can you hear the same sad story or repeated struggles? You become immune to, and even annoyed at, the suffering. Dan was relieved but also disappointed. He almost hoped for some cataclysmic event to excite his bored soul.

Mister Toffee jumped immediately onto the sofa alongside him, and started swishing at him with his lustrous tail. It was not long before he started jumping up, and rubbing his soft furry head into the underside of Dan’s chin, while purring coaxingly; Mister Toffee also wanted to be fed.

“Okay, okay!” Dan conceded, “I know, you want your breakfast too. Come on then, you little rascal, let’s see what we’ve got for you.”

Dan stood up, and headed for the kitchen. Mister Toffee knew exactly what this meant and started incessantly meowing, as he rushed alongside Dan’s legs, almost tripping him up on the way.

Dan took the small spatula and emptied a tin of tuna flakes into Mr Toffee’s blue food bowl. Dan stroked the happy cat’s soft fluffy back, lovingly, while Mr Toffee licked away greedily at the food, before returning to the living room.

There was nothing left to do here, nothing to entertain or amuse. Just the company of the television. Dan had a budget presentation to do later that day, which he still had not prepared for, notwithstanding that he had plenty of time to do so in the preceding week, so he decided he would have a quick shower, and then head straight to work, as planned.

When Dan arrived at the office, he expected it to be empty and in darkness, but he was not alone. The glow from a desk lamp illuminated the room, and Luke sat in the far corner of the open plan workspace. He was staring down at a brown folder, turning the pages, and reading intently.

It looked from afar like one of the old case folders Dan remembered opening himself some years ago. Of course, there were no such folders these days; hard copy was unfashionable and not environmentally friendly, so everything was sent and stored electronically. Time had moved on, and reliable paper files, and the comfort of tangible paper, had been readily discarded and were now left to reside in archive in a damp basement. Like Dan had been consigned to a small office.

Dan was going to move on to his office without interrupting Luke, but Luke had heard Dan coming through the door, and looked up.

“Good morning, Chief.” Luke said cheerily.

“Morning, Agent Harrison.” Dan replied, secretly pleased to have some company.

Dan wandered through the various desks, cluttered with stained coffee mugs and family photos, towards Luke.

“So, what brings you in at this time?” Dan asked, as he turned around the file in front of Luke, so that he could see it better. Dan recognised it immediately. It was one of his last cases as an active agent. A particularly unpleasant affair involving a rapist, egotistically calling himself ‘the Rapture’, who took great pleasure in tormenting and sexually violating religious preachers, to teach them that there was no God, and no one to save them.

“I am just trying to learn from real life situations, Chief.” Luke said, almost embarrassed, “How did you catch him? The case notes don’t really provide much detail.”

“Well, Agent Harrison, this one was down to an effective witness appeal,” Dan stared at the file, as he continued, “You see, the last victim had been a priest, and he had hit the Rapture in the face with a heavy, gold candlestick holder. The priest had described how his decorative saviour had ripped across the entirety of the Rapture’s right cheek, undoubtedly leaving a scar running across his face. This unique feature, coupled with a detailed description of the assailant given by the priest, meant that we could issue an accurate photofit picture of the likely identity of the Rapture.”

Dan paused, worried that he might be going into too much detail and boring him. Happily, Luke appeared to hanging on his every word, so Dan continued, “While nothing came up on our records, soon afterwards, we received a call from a bar owner, who had heard a man talking loudly about the folly of religion and, when he looked across at him, saw an angry red scar under the neon lighting. He figured it was unlikely to be the Rapture, as it was too much to think such a criminal might be in his bar, but he called it in anyway. We were fortunate that the publicity surrounding the recent attack happened to coincide with the Rapture’s preaching being overheard in a bar by someone who had seen our witness appeal.”

“So, luck had her part to play?” Luke, asked, as he leant back in his chair, allowing it to teeter on two legs. Dan noticed Luke’s muscular legs flex, as he held the chair in place.

“You could call it that. Or maybe there was some sort of divine intervention,” Dan smiled, to indicate he did not really believe this.

“I just find it so interesting to read these reports,” Luke said, with sincerity, “I have got so much to learn.”

“I am sure you will pick it up quickly, Agent Harrison, but remember that our reports do not tell the whole story, and cannot convey the emotions or feelings surrounding such crimes. For example, in this case, the violence of the acts, and the hatred of all those involved cannot really be put in words, and some parts were left out.”

“What do you mean, Chief?”

“Well, for one, the report does not mention how the priest held old-fashioned views, and had been actively damning of all homosexuals. It does not state how, in his interview, the priest had declared the Rapture must be ‘one of them’ and that he welcomed their eternal damnation. No, the FBI could not allow anything like that to be put in the report, it would be unseemly for a priest to be so judgmental and was unimportant, so it was conveniently left out, and the priest declared a hero. Most of the facts are in there, but just remember there are usually several versions of the truth, and, sometimes, omissions can be convenient.”

Dan finished speaking, and closed the file. While he would never condone the actions of the Rapture, Dan felt no sympathy for this ‘victim’, who clearly thought all sexual deviants, as he put it, should face the fires of hell. But Dan was not there to judge, and had done his job.

Dan watched Luke’s face to try to gauge his reaction. As he hoped, anger flashed across Luke’s face. Well, even if he is not gay, at least he is not homophobic, Dan thought. Unless, of course, Luke held the same views as the priest, and was displaying his shared disgust. Dan doubted this. He was well versed in reading people’s faces and expressions, and Luke was not displaying hatred.

Dan suddenly realised that he was staring at Luke, but no longer listening; wrapped up in his own thoughts and losing his concentration, Dan hadn’t heard a word of Luke’s last sentence.

“Well, Agent Harrison, I am sure you did not come in to work early to listen to me talk about the past. And I have some urgent work to attend to. Have a good day.” Dan said, as he gave a little wave, turned, and went to the safety of his office. He closed the door behind him, rested his back against it, and shut his eyes.

The encounter was unexpected. If he thought he would be greeted by Luke then he would have rehearsed some interesting conversation piece or amusing anecdote. Well, at least he would have tried his best to be prepared. The truth was that Dan was not particularly witty or humorous. He would have worn his sexy scent, rather than his daily bland eau de toilette, and he would have put a bit more product in his hair to make it looked styled rather than unkempt. Dan reprimanded himself and hit his head gently against the door in annoyance, both at his lack of effort, and his ridiculous, adolescent-like crush.

His mobile phone rang. Dan shouted out in surprise. Why was he so jumpy lately? He looked at the number, it was his boss, Director Stewart Downton.

“Hello, Director Downton. We haven’t spoken in a while, sir. This must be serious. How can I help you?” Dan said, genuinely intrigued. Director Downton rarely spoke to Dan, except in an emergency, or during his annual performance review.

“Dan, we need you to get someone over to Milwaukee straight away.” Director Downton replied, “Some maniac has ripped up a whole bunch of families. It’s a goddam slaughter. I’ll send you over all of the information we have, and the briefing note I received. Brace yourself Dan, I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

“Yes, Director Downton. I will get straight on it. I am in the office now, so I can access the file immediately.” Dan said reassuringly.

“Thanks Dan. I will sign over control of this one to you now. Let me know how you get on, and shout if you need me.”

Dan turned on his computer and, after an annoying wait as it booted up, opened his email and the attached digital photographs. Bodies and blood everywhere. It looked like some slasher had lost his mind and decided to rip apart a community, without reason. Except the message left behind suggested something else. This was not a drug-induced rampage. It had been thought through, planned. Pulcinella? Who the hell was Pulcinella?

Dan decided it was time to come out from behind the desk, and to get back into the real world. A crime as serious as this one easily warranted his direct involvement. But he would need some help, and he had to leave now.

“Luke, grab your jacket, we need to go now.” Dan said, as he marched purposefully towards the exit.

Luke didn’t hesitate, smiled broadly, and sprang out of his chair.

Their journey together had started. The pieces were selected, and on the board. Fate was about to play her game.

Dan had tried to look strong as they attended the crime scene, but even he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, betraying just how disturbed he was.

So many people dead. Families ripped apart by sharp steel. Friends decapitated and electrocuted in some kind of hellish rampage. Lovers’ hearts fatally pierced by barbaric bullets. Crimson walls. Bloodied gardens. Lifeless bodies, staring helplessly ahead with doll-like eyes, mouths wide open, gasping for life, like fish out of water.

Luke had never expected to see anything like this in his lifetime, let alone on his first case. He wondered what sort of person could commit such brutal acts. To leave young and old lying soaked in their own blood. The images of the slaughtered families in Milwaukee would appear as spectres to haunt him for the rest of his life.

The killer had left behind no finger prints, no rogue hairs, no blood, other than the victims’, and no DNA. No connections, other than they lived on the same street. There was literally nothing to go on, except the message. The signature of the artist.

Pulcinella’s declaration was immediately classified. Not only might it help to catch the killer, but the last thing anyone wanted to do was to create widespread panic about some maniac promising further killings.

Of course, the press circled the town like vultures trying to find out anything they could, but this secret was kept.

The statistics alone were enough to feed their frenzy and to keep the story on the front pages for over two weeks, as family and friends came forward to speak of their loss and disbelief at what had happened.

And then a rumbling volcano in Hawaii took over. And people around the World looked to new terrors to captivate and entertain, bored with the Milwaukee slaughterhouse.

Dan and Luke had spent nearly every waking moment with each other since they were notified of this crime, and had researched everything there was on this Pulcinella.

They discovered that Pulcinella was a theatrical character that has originally appeared in the Italian Commedia dell’Arte productions; a commonplace Neapolitan puppet, identifiable by its black or dark brown leather mask, with prominent, beak-like nose.

Pulcinella was described as a scheming creature, at times a menace, who would torture to make observers appreciate that they were not the one tormented, believing itself ultimately to be everyone’s saviour; to teach society the important lessons of life for their own good, often through seemingly cruel means, and answerable only to the people.

This seemed to fit with the message left behind at the crime scene. A righteous, indulgent note preaching the importance of life. Dan and Luke thought long and hard about those words but they couldn’t read anything else into them other than their obvious meaning to live life and not waste it. And Pulcinella, being loyal to the people, was the designated messenger, sent to save humanity from itself.

The FBI worked hard to trace any U.S. connections to Pulcinella but came up wanting. There were some costume designers who sold Pulcinella masks, and the odd touring theatrical troupe would seemingly randomly introduce the character into their productions, but nothing that looked sinister or threatening. There also seemed to be a number of Italian restaurants who had taken the name but again there was nothing suspicious about these establishments.

Nevertheless, all associations or mentions of Pulcinella would have to be investigated. The internet and social media would be trawled by the department. Something would turn up, it always did nowadays with the advent of technology. Some electronic trace would lead them to the killer. There was no longer any need for luck or chance in the modern, digital era. Until then, all Dan and Luke could do was wait.

FIVE

The automated ferry across Lake Michigan was preparing to take its final passage of the evening.

A tall figure, wearing a long, dark raincoat, walked up the gangway, inserted its ticket and boarded. Pulcinella had calculated that an outfit was necessary for this occasion. The late summer sun meant that there was some light left, so the camouflage of shadows at nightfall would not suffice to hide it. It found some clothing in a dumpster behind an over-stocked charity shop, and covered its skin-coloured plastic tones with it to complete the disguise of normality. It had not yet donned the mask and so, to all intent and purposes, it looked like just another worker or party-goer returning home.

Pulcinella had taken this journey numerous times. It learnt the schedule and route well. It knew the automated programme, and had already infiltrated the security systems remotely. Tonight, the ferry would make an unscheduled stop in the middle of the lake.

Parker had not wanted to go the fair in the first place. He hated the over-expensive rides and sideshows. The rapid whirling machines, whooshing screaming riders up to the highest heights, only to turn them upside down and leave them dangling like some fleshy fruits, with coins sprinkling down from their pockets on to the ground below. The incessant calls to you from the over-enthusiastic teenagers manning the stalls, standing in front of oversized cuddly toys, to come over and try for an impossible prize. The sickly, sticky, rainbow-coloured sweets, and pink clouds of cotton candy. And, it always rained, so the ground would be like a bog, meaning that his sneakers and pants would be caked in mud. He loathed it all.

The problem for Parker was that everyone in his family wanted to go, except him. It was a tradition which had started before he had even been born. It was something which he simply was not allowed to, and could not, miss. It was held in nearly as high esteem as Thanksgiving; another event that Parker did not particularly like, although he was partial to the abundance of fancy food, and the enshrined sacrificial turkey.

One year, Parker had tried to avoid going to the fair by professing sickness. Unfortunately, the pain was soon discovered by his mum to be bogus, when she caught him out of bed, merrily playing his games console, and only served to delay their outing by a day. Even today, Parker would be teased for that effort and, from then on, genuine illnesses were always declared as fakes. He now understood only too well the story of ‘the boy who cried wolf’.

Parker acknowledged to himself that, in the scheme of things, it was clearly not a major deal but he was determined never to go again. He recalled in his head how the evening had started, so that he could try to learn lessons for next year.

“Hurry up Parker!” His father shouted, trying to chivvy him along, “We are all waiting for you.”

He tried to persuade himself just to relax, to enjoy the experience. There was no need to go on any of the rides, and he could just walk alongside his family admiring the pretty lights and upbeat music coming from the machinery around him. Parker realised this was not going to work, as he found himself scratching his legs due to his growing anxiety.

Parker went to his bedroom mirror and admired his on-trend look. He straightened his red polo shirt, pulled up his ice blue jeans, and swept aside his floppy black hair, which was covering his eyes. He forced a smile, to try to persuade himself to be happy. All he noticed was the large gap between his front two teeth, which would soon be corrected by a retainer. He scratched his small, pert nose before ruffling up his hair again. Another five minutes wasted, maybe they would go on without him.

“Parker, if you are not down here in 10 seconds, I will honestly come up there and drag you down!” His father was clearly annoyed, and started his countdown, “Ten, nine, …”

Parker nonchalantly walked down the stairs, holding on to the balustrade as he went to try to anchor himself to his home a little longer, and delaying the inevitable excursion.

“Alright, stop shouting, I’m here.” Parker announced as he got to the bottom, “I don’t know why you don’t just leave me. I am old enough now to stay in the house on my own, you know?”

His two little cousins, Jinny and Jane, started circling him, nearly tripping over their matching dungarees as they skipped. They sang and talked incessantly, clearly over-excited for the evening ahead.

“And then we’ll have popcorn, and then we’ll have corn dogs,” Jinny and Jane sang out, using their most annoying monotone voice, “And then we’ll go on the Ghost Train, and then we’ll go on the Big Wheel, and then …”

“Ok, girls,” Parker interrupted, having taken about as much as he could bare, “Enough already. I get the idea.”

Parker loved them both dearly but they knew all too well how to wind him up, and revelled in pushing him to the edge of his limits.

“Yes, come on you two,” Parker’s Aunt Anne joined in, “Leave Parker alone. Why don’t you check how much money you have to spend at the fair to see if you have enough to go on all of the rides you are talking about?”

The girls dashed off to the bench, and spilled out their 50 cent pieces, which they had been saving all year for the fair.

“Thanks, Aunt Anne,” Parker said, relieved to be left alone.

“Yes sir,” Parker’s Uncle John said, “You should be grateful to her. I reckon those girls would have drove you mad in another couple of minutes. I mean literally insane. At least that’s the excuse I use for being so crazy.”

Uncle John started pulling funny faces, and dancing around maniacally. He then stopped, perfectly normal again, and went over to Aunt Anne. He stood behind her, gently rubbing her shoulders and nuzzling his beardy face into her neck. His whiskers tickled at her, and she chuckled, as she pushed him back. They looked at each other for a moment, still in love even after being together for over 20 years.

Parker’s dad finished the rest of his mouthful of orange, which he hoped would fill him up and help him to avoid any sugary sins at the fair, so that he could stick to his weight loss plan. He wiped his sticky lips with his sleeve.

“Well then, let’s get going.” Parker’s dad announced, as he started to herd everyone out of the door. “Come on, come on, move it! We’ll miss the ferry.”

And off they went. The happy procession. Well, all except one, who hung towards the back as they marched onwards.

Last year Parker’s mum had led the charge but this year she could not make it. It was another evening at work in the local hospital. It seemed less doctors were prepared to work through the night but his mum always stepped up to the plate. Maybe that was the way to escape this torture. Parker would become a nightshift worker.

As soon as they arrived at the fairground, the girls sprinted forward towards the entrance gates.

The illuminations from the fair glowed magically; the many lights furiously chased each other around, upside down, inside out. The differing colours all winking, enticing, inviting, alluring. Like moths to a flame, the girls ran on.

Parker watched as Jinny fell over, her long-trouser foe eventually tripping her up, sending her flying onto the muddy ground. The softness of the earth saved her from any damage, except she was covered in dirt, and her pride was clearly bruised. Parker felt so sorry for her. He rushed forward, and knelt down beside her, getting his trousers muddy too, to match Jinny’s.

“Oh no! Look! We’ve both got dirty knees now. Haven’t we?” Parker said with an exaggerated merriment intended to cheer her, “Here, give me your hands and I will wipe them clean.”

Jinny’s lips stopped trembling, with thoughts of any tears disappearing, and she put out her hands. Parker pretended to spit on them, and then gave them a good rub with the bottom of his shirt. Jinny giggled in delight.

“There now. All better?” Parker asked, tenderly wiping away a rogue tear from her soft, reddened skin.

Jinny nodded, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then turned to catch up with Jane.

“That was kind of you, Parker.” Aunt Anne said to him admiringly.

The sounds of petrified delight grew louder as they approached, mixing with the amplified voices of those keen to get you to part with your money for a few minutes of fun.

“Dare you ride?” Someone questioned.

“Hold on tight!” Another warned.

“Here we go!” A final declaration.

Parker resolved that these tempting sirens would not win him over, and managed to avoid going on any rides. He started to relax as the night drew to a close; he even found himself smiling, as the girls were clearly having so much fun on their current amusement, the Helter Skelter. Down they came, spiralling around the conical structure on their straw mats, with a bump and a giggle at the end.

They looked onwards for their next adventure; and delighted when they saw the Chair-o-Planes nearby. They all walked up towards the ticket booth.

“Sorry folks,” the moustachioed ticket attendant said, “These two little ones cannot go on without an adult.”

“I think we’re a bit too old for that ride.” Parker’s dad said. Aunt Anne and Uncle John nodded their agreement.

“What about you?” The ticket attendant asked, looking directly at Parker.

“What? Me? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly …” Parker protested vehemently.

The salesman was well experienced in coaxing reluctant riders, and interrupted, “Girls, wouldn’t you want him to go on with you?”

“Oh yes! Yes! Please, please, please Parker!” The girls chorused.

“You’re not scared, are you?” The attendant added in for good measure.

“No, of course I’m not scared.” Parker immediately replied, keen to maintain his dignity, “Well, I guess I could …”

“Yes!” The girls cried out, and ran forward to find the best seats on the ride before Parker could even think about changing his mind.

Parker followed them, looking over his shoulder as he walked, scowling at his family, who had paid for the tickets, and were moving to a prime viewing position.

Sitting in an overly-small swing, Parker regretted his decision, as he looked at the flimsy steel chain suspending his seat above the ground. It surely was not right to risk his life on a ride which had just been constructed by some unskilled labourers. He contemplated his fate.

The girls sat aside him, to his left and right, with him in the middle. They were trying to swing their chairs backwards and forwards, before the ride had even started. They laughed in glee as they noticed Parker’s obvious fear.

And then it started, the chairs lurched forward and started a steady, momentum, taking them around and around. Slowly at first but then the speed built up, and they were spinning around at quite a pace.

Parker’s knuckles went white from holding on too hard to the chain. He closed his eyes tightly, as the tears streamed out them from the wind whipped-up by the motion. And then the pedestal rose up into the air, and the whole structure from which the swings hung down, tilted about 45 degrees.

Now Parker had to cope not only with the rotations but also with the upward heaves and downward surges. It was too much, and he screamed out loud. The girls thought this was hilarious.

Down below, a crowd had gathered around the ride to see what all of the fuss and commotion was about. The operator delighted in the attention, already imagining the profit he would make from the next go. Nothing brought in the punters like a good screamer. He let the ride continue longer than it ought to, to obtain the maximum draw.

When it stopped, Parker got off as quickly as he could. His head was still spinning, and his legs felt like jelly. It took all his concentration to manage to get down the steps and back on to the field, rather than falling over from the persistent dizziness. Once on the ground, he fell to his knees. His face was pale, tinged with green. He started to shake, and then he vomited. He heaved again. Passers-by looked at him sympathetically but they were all smiling, realising this was not a serious ailment but rather an amusing consequence of a delicate constitution. It did not help that Parker saw the girl he liked from school watching nearby.

“Again! Again!” The girls chimed to their parents.

“Absolutely not,” Parker said defiantly, standing up and brushing himself down, “I have to go home now. That’s it.” He paused for a moment, “Please everyone. I’ve really had enough.”

“Ok, son.” His dad said, realising Parker’s genuine distress, “We have been on all the rides, and should probably be getting back now anyway, as the last ferry is coming soon.”

The girls complained about the unfairness of it all but, eventually, acquiesced after promises of pizza at the weekend. They were also tired, and it was well past their normal bedtime. They trudged together back to the ferry port, and waited in line to be called on. The ferry was late in arriving, by which time the girls were being carried by Aunty Anne and Uncle John; one with each parent, both trying different games to keep them entertained. Parker sat at the edge of the lake on his own, watching the ferry lights draw closer, as his father simply waited patiently.

Quite a mixture of people boarded the boat. Parker and his family immediately headed downstairs, taking a family table by the window. The children lay down on the padded seats; Aunt Anne and Uncle John sat alongside them, allowing them to use their laps as makeshift pillows. With the girls asleep, Aunt Anne rested her head on Uncle John’s shoulder, as he stared wistfully out into the shimmering lake waters. Parker cupped his head in his hands, sitting quietly.

“Come on, son.” Parker’s dad said tenderly, “It wasn’t that bad. No one really saw very much. It will all be forgotten in a day or so.”

Parker continued staring down in silence. He felt utterly humiliated, and ashamed. Going to school tomorrow was not an option. The ferry chugged on, its mechanical melody trying to calm Parker’s rage. Parker’s temperament was not helped by the guilt he felt that he might have somehow spoiled the evening, or brought down the mood in some way; his hormonal spiked emotions battled with one another inside the caverns of his head.

Another young man sat nearby, with heavier preoccupations on his mind than the transient ones faced by Parker. He had just come out to his mum and aunt as being gay. He took out his pad and pen, and decided to write a piece of flash-fiction, using the time on the ferry for something useful. He read it back to himself:

“The front door slams shut.

Keys clunk against a marked table.

Another drink is poured.

I slump over the sofa and close my eyes.

The world spins faster as my alcohol induced fairground ride reaches top speed.

A needle scratches vinyl to claw out a sad love song. It is played on repeat.

Two sisters hold onto one another tightly, swaying slowly in time to the painful music.

Black mascara tears plough down their powdered faces, leaving troughs of crushed fairy-tale promises.

My granny and grandad watch them dance, with eternal smiles, from behind the glass of a well dusted photo frame.

Any sadness seems immediately forgotten as they suck on selfish cigarettes, before smothering me with their enthusiastic kisses.

Kneeling, they gently pet their beautiful, bleach-haired boy; lulling me with purrs of devotion.

They wonder why I have never had a girlfriend and yet worship Madonna.

We all know the reason, but nothing is absolute until it is said aloud.

Persuasive promises. I can tell them anything and they will love me just the same.

They each take a hand in anticipation.

They press and press. I quiver, and confess.

We all cry together, before struggling upstairs, with heavy truths, for death-like sleep.

In the morning, stale smells and random recollections permeate our warm home.

Out of this rich compost, a well-nurtured seed germinates.

A loving son grows up.”

He is quietly pleased with this, and thinks about who he will tell next. Maybe he shouldn’t have waited this long. Then again, why should he have to tell people? Straight people don’t have to ‘come out’, so why should he? He thought on this some more, as the ship bobbed up and down gently in the water.

An elderly couple had boarded the ferry last. They walked hand-in-hand in comfortable silence. The barrier went up as the departure alarm sounded, and an orange light flashed at the top of the ferry, announcing its imminent departure.

After sitting on some plastic seats by a window, the old man took a thermos flask out of his carrier bag and emptied its contents into the top, which helpfully doubled-up as a cup.

He passed it immediately to his wife, who took a small sip and passed it straight back, smiling. It was hot chocolate, with a little honey and chilli, to sweeten and excite. She loved the fact her husband was so thoughtful, and kept trying new ideas.

“Nice?” He asked, “I told you this recipe would work. Apparently, the Mayans liked it this way.”

“And how would you know that?” She teased, holding his attention with her pale green eyes. Albert tended to read one article and believe it unquestioningly. He knew what she was doing and didn’t answer.

“It has been such a nice evening.” Albert said, searching for a change of subject, “That steak was incredible. And the sauce was something else. Who would have thought a mushroom sauce could taste like that? Mind you, how long did Fred and Judy go on about their last cruise? I honestly thought it was never going to end. I feel like I have aged by about 10 years, which could be fatal at my age!”

Maud chuckled. Their dining companions really had gone on too much about their holiday, wanting to show them every one of the hundreds of photos they had taken. Maud had never seen so many pictures of food. What was it with the current obsession of capturing every moment with a camera? Maud didn’t bother with such vanities, preferring to be present in the moment, enjoying the experience, rather than taking a picture of it. Thank goodness they had the excuse of having to dash for the ferry, otherwise they would still be there now showing them the Pyramids from yet another angle, or looking at a picture of another salad.

“Well at least you have your own cruise now, Bertie.” Maud held his hand, “Albeit I don’t think it will be quite as eventful as Fred and Judy’s exotic adventures up the Nile.”

They had never been so close, despite having been together for the past 41 years. The slow creeping acknowledgment that they wouldn’t be together, at least in this life, for much longer renewed their passion for one another. They held on, not wanting to be parted.

Some noisy twenty-somethings disturbed their peace. They fell silent, watching and remembering when they were that age.

“You should definitely do it, Donny.” A young man in a grey suit, sat astride a chair and faced another. An alcohol fuelled inquisition.

“Just hand in your notice tomorrow, and go. Why not? You could make it big. You might not, but it would sure as hell beat the shit out of spending another day in that office, crunching numbers for some multi-millionaire bastard who doesn’t give a damn about anything other than saving yet another dollar off the back of your blood, sweat, and tears.”

“Well, Karl, there is this thing called a mortgage. You might have heard of it? Oh, no, I forgot. You prefer to spend every cent on Rolex watches and louche women. And my parents, who don’t want me to go anywhere further than a five-mile radius of them, just in case they need me. Or I need them, as they put it. Anyway, I am not sure I’m good enough. And how many people fail. I’ll tell you, 99.99 percent of them.”

“But Donny, if you don’t try, you will regret it and you should have no regrets in life. You only get one chance.”

Maud listened in. She didn’t know what this Donny was aspiring to, but it reminded her of the time when she thought of becoming a professional gymnast. The fear of failure and disappointment held her back, and she did regret it. Karl was right. Maybe she should say something. No, it was not for her to get involved.

In the corner of the room, Albert noticed three young women in short skirts and high heels. They noticed him looking, and he smiled. They said something to each other and laughed. Albert couldn’t hear what they said but looked away out to the lake, happy that he was at an age where he was no longer tormented by destructive lust.

“See Janice, it isn’t hopeless for you. I reckon that old fella over there would be happy to be your sugar daddy. Although maybe he is a bit old even for you.” Lucy said over-animatedly, causing a sequin to fall from her red dress.

“Shut up Lucy!” Janice said sharply, folding her arms into a defensive pose and feeling guilt that they had clearly embarrassed the old man, “At least I don’t throw myself at anyone who will give me a smoke or buy me a drink. Who was that last guy you were rubbing up against anyway? I bet that you don’t even know his name.”

“Actually, he was called Ted. Or maybe Tom. Oh, ok, I don’t know, but he was nice. I think.” Lucy answered, as she rested against the wall to steady herself, standing unaided in her stilt-like stilettos proving too much of an act to keep up.

Lucy decided to change her line of questioning, seeing that Janice was ready for a fight, “Mandy, how’s things with Paul? Is he a keeper? You haven’t said much tonight.”

“Well, I am thinking he will have to do. I mean you saw how it went tonight. Not one guy spoke to me. Not even a passing glance. And I really do want to have kids, and the clock is ticking. I think he might be my only chance.”

“Oh, Mandy!” Janice exclaimed, “That is so last century. Really, sentences like that just depress me. How old fashioned are you? You don’t need a man in your life. If you want children, have them. There are other ways you know. You’ve got us. God, you annoy me.”

It seemed Janice didn’t mind what she said tonight. Alcohol had blocked her filter.

Nevertheless, these alcoholic amis enjoyed each other’s company, and would always be there to support each other, if needed. On nights like this, they would spar with one another but it was all in good humour, and would be forgotten tomorrow.

Similar conversations rang out across the two floors of the ship and from outside, where some had gone to smoke or to try to catch a glimpse of the stars, mainly hidden by the pollution filled skies. Dreams and regrets. Hopes and promises. Desires and disappointments. All underpinned by inaction and a lack of appreciation for the immediacy and preciousness of life.

Suddenly, the vessel stopped. It listed from side to side, sending a number of passengers flying to the ground. A chorus of short screams rang out, before an excited hubbub of chatter resumed, as people looked around to see what was going on.

Pulcinella had programmed all of the doors to lock at the same time as the ship stopped. The human herd penned in, with no escape.

“Quiet everyone. Listen!” Janice shouted out.

The lower deck fell silent as they listened to screams and floor thuds from above.

“What is going on here? Let us out!” Lucy hammered on the door. It did not move.

From the other end of the deck, a door opened, and a tall figure entered silently, wearing a grotesque mask with a hooked long nose, and a black raincoat cape.

The door closed firmly behind him.

A startled crowd. No one spoke.

Pulcinella moved over to the nearest person and extended his fingernail knife through the man’s temple. He fell to the floor.

Another thud, and then the screaming started.

Panic, fear and self-preservation preventing coordination to overcome the common foe. Worse, the crowd rushed to get away, trampling and crushing people without a second thought, as they surged towards the exits. Some people clambered together, believing protection may be found from being on the inside of a human huddle, like pack animals on the Savannah Plains; rather them than me in the alligator’s jaws, they thought, as they wept their crocodile tears for unknown victims, believing that they would be saved. Others just followed the majority, not being capable of thinking for themselves, or trusting blindly the survival strategies of the front runners. None would be spared; this predator’s appetite could not be sated until they were all dead.

Some of Pulcinella’s fingers and knuckles transformed silently into pistols. It sprayed the room generously, back and forth, for full coverage. Most of the room fell. Pulcinella moved to those who did not and began his murderous dance; spinning and slicing until nothing in the room moved.

The old couple held each other tight.

“At least we go together Maud. I love you my darling.”

“Please don’t do this.” Maud pleaded, believing mercy was available.

Pulcinella felt nothing. Slice, slice. Both gone.

A group of girlfriends silenced by steel.

Two buddies battered to death.

A boy speared through the heart, slumped over a pad with blood blotted words.

A family tired from attending the local fair fatally shot multiple times, the children failing to be saved by the parental human shield.

Another message left behind:

“Why waste today dreaming about tomorrow?

Lazily awaiting fate to fulfil your purpose?

Nurture your immortal souls.

Live each day as if it were your last.

Soon, it will be.”

Pulcinella

Pulcinella dived in to the lake, and propelled itself to shore. Cleansed of blood by the lake waters, until the end of the next month.

The ferry re-started, with bloody trails streaking down the hull, coffining her hushed passengers, slowly taking them to their final destination.

96 souls taken.

SIX

Dan and Luke had arrived at the crime scene as quickly as they could. The drive had lasted just over five hours, and nightfall was closing in when they first arrived at the ferry terminal. They were exhausted but any fatigue quickly faded when they were met with the horrors on the ferry. Adrenaline heightened their senses, as they took in the death and bloodshed that surrounded them.

That had been three nights ago, and they now sat on their respective beds in the motel room in quiet contemplation.

After the initial inspection, Dan and Luke drove into the local town and searched out a nearby motel. There was only one in the vicinity, and it was somewhat of a rundown affair with little by way of profits to refurbish its tired appearance.

The unexpected tragedy had been good for business, with relatives, journalists and television crews all flocking to the scene. There was only one room left, a twin, so they booked it for the week. Luke and Dan were both positive thinkers, and quickly agreed this could work nicely, not only for budgeting reasons, but also so they could create a case room and discuss immediately any ideas they might have.

No matter how many times they went over the events leading up to the ferry killings, they were still no further forward; the truth was that they were both at a complete loss.

Dan watched Luke as he peeled an apple with his compact army knife. He could not remember the last time that he had seen someone who could be bothered or have the patience to actually do this, especially since it was also now commonly understood that the skin was very nutritious for you. The perfect green spiral spun downwards, pleasingly intact. Luke was obviously well practised at this.

The sun shone through the motel room’s windows, across Luke’s face. Even the sun wanted to touch Luke, and caress him with its warmth. Luke stared hard at the apple, his tongue sticking slightly out from the side of his mouth as he concentrated on finishing the task at hand.

Dan found himself smiling, enjoying the simple spectacle. Perhaps he would enjoy watching Luke do anything, he thought to himself, fully aware of his attraction and lustful longings. It is easy to look at something beautiful. To be captivated by desire. Beauty has a long and proven record of making people go mad, acting as a muse for artistic genius, or creating slaves out of infatuated suitors.

Dan knew it was more than that. His whole being longed to be with Luke. It was easy to understand his lust, but he could not explain the knot in the pit of his stomach when Luke was not there. Or why his thoughts would turn to loving touches, holding hands, long embraces, stroking his hair. That was not physical desire. It was a need to be with him, for closeness. Maybe the beginnings of love? Was that possible after such a short time? Dan had never felt like this before.

It also felt so wrong to be thinking like this after the horrors they had seen. But Dan couldn’t help it. He was only human, and his mind kept returning to obsess over these happier thoughts, no matter how many times he tried to restrain himself. Dan felt guilty, and wondered whether he was properly focused on the case. His inner voice reassured him that it was not good for him to spend every waking hour thinking about murderers and death; it was good to have a break from the violence. The evil had to be tempered, otherwise it might consume him too. This was a convenient answer which Dan readily accepted.

Dan’s meditation was interrupted by his subject.

“Want some?” Luke asked casually, having slicing the apple into pieces, and holding a segment out in his hand towards Dan.

“After all of that effort? I don’t think I could deprive you of even one mouthful.” Dan replied, trying to be funny.

The problem for Dan was that he was not naturally witty, and his efforts at humour often fell flat. Except Luke seemed to get him. And laughed at the right moments, like now.

Luke gently tossed the apple in the air towards Dan. At first, Dan thought he might catch it in his mouth to impress, like a performing seal might to with a fish. He immediately thought the better of it, securing the slippery fruit in his hand instead.

Dan ate it quickly, suddenly recognising his own hunger. The apple was sweet and the water from it burst refreshingly into his mouth. Dan liked the thought of swallowing something that had been in Luke’s hands, like a teenager might keep the straw used by their schoolboy crush or take a sip from the same part of the glass used by someone they fancy. Dan felt a bit silly, recognising this guilty pleasure.

“Well, I guess that is me set for the day. The miraculous, stomach-filling apple!”

Dan’s stomach let out a loud groan, demanding something more. He blushed with embarrassment, always uncomfortable with any bodily noises. Luke noticed, but quickly filled the silence.

“Hey, why don’t we go to the bakery down the road and grab something to eat? We could get out of this room for a while. Maybe sit in the sun by the lake? I could do with some fresh air. What do you think? You’re the boss.”

Dan looked around the drab room with its faded brown curtains, off-cream carpet, and decades-old purple, floral bed linen. He had grown quite fond of it, now he and Luke had spent a deal of time in it together. It was the setting for many of Dan’s fantasies. Luke calling him in to the shower, cold at night and wanting to get under the covers with him, gentle tugging under the bed clothes, pressing desires against the creaking wooden desk. Not that any of them had happened, but there was now an easy association.

At the same time, it was sunny outside, and the air was stale. He also didn’t want Luke to think of him only in this dirty old room, lying on an aged bedspread. It was a good idea. It wouldn’t have mattered if it wasn’t. The fact Luke had requested it was enough.

“OK, let’s do it.” Dan said cheerily, “I’ll just grab my wallet, and we can get out of here.”

Luke sat up quickly, back straight, arms stretching out behind him, resting his weight on his hands.

“No, it was my idea, so it will be my shout. I insist.”

Luke seemed so enthusiastic. Excited even. Dan hoped it was not because Luke just wanted to get away from him or create some distance by being out in public. He sat contemplating this, as Luke sprung off his single bed, pulled his shoes on, and found his shades. Luke’s dark curly locks styled, with natural grease, swept from his face, his tanned skin and aviator sunglasses, finished the look. Dan looked up at him, as though admiring a model on a billboard.

“Come on then! Let’s go.” Luke said, looking at him eagerly, like a young puppy desperate to go for a walk; he almost expected to see a rapidly wagging tail. Dan raised an eyebrow at him, not having moved at all.

Dan sighed, suddenly feeling old, and a little ashamed. How could he think for one minute that someone like Luke could possibly show any sort of interest in him? This was all just an act to impress and get on-side with the boss.

Dan stood up and stretched out, not noticing that Luke was watching him just as keenly. He bent over to put on his old, brown brogues; too lazy to undo the shoe laces, he tried to force his heel in. This only served to bend the back lip of the leather, so he raised his foot up towards him to try to finger in his heel, like a make-shift shoe horn. Dan stumbled as he tried this, losing his balance and falling onto Luke, whose reaction immediately saved him from any further embarrassment. They both stayed in hold for a moment longer than necessary, enough for Dan to feel the warmth from Luke’s solid torso. The heaving of his chest. His sweet apple breath. Dan blushed from the embarrassment of the unexpected closeness. His face went soaring red. Dan was sure this was painfully noticeable, and this made his colour deepen even further. He tried to steady himself.

“Sorry about that Luke. That will teach me not to undo the laces.”

“That’s ok, Chief. As you said, I am here to provide you with support after all. I just hadn’t realised you meant it literally.”

Luke let out a light laugh, to break the tension. Dan nodded, and smiled awkwardly, but said nothing, grabbing the room key and getting outside as soon as possible to end his humiliation.

The small bakery was full of people on their lunch break, queuing to get a midday treat to see them through the rest of the day; succouring sweet energy from squishy buns or supping more caffeine for a short-lived high.

Dan hated shops like this. Not because of the offerings or even the crowds, but it was too hot. The stifling, dry heat of the ovens out back was easily defeating the brave ceiling fan, that was tirelessly circulating, spinning in a battle it could not possibly win. But at least it kept trying. Dan could already feel himself starting to overheat. Why had he wore a blue shirt? The constant enemy of the slightly larger man prone to sweat, with their dark armpit shadow army belying a lack of hygiene.

Dan’s eyes moved from Luke’s slender neck to the row of cakes. So many different types were on offer, ranging from chocolate eclairs, strawberry tarts, raspberry fancies and custard slices to the ubiquitous selection of muffins and tray-bakes. Dan could have eaten any of them, they all looked so delicious, but he suddenly felt the cut of his belt and forced his attention elsewhere. Had he practised restraint in previous situations then he may not have that extra layer sitting atop of his abs, which a doctor recently assured him still existed, hibernating under a blanket of fat for the winter.

During his time at the academy, Dan had been quite the sportsman. He used to enjoy looking at his strong physique in the full-length gym mirrors. That was in the past. Now, he looked away, as there was nothing nice to see. Seductive sugar had been his mistress for too long.

Luke was watching him, admiringly.

“So, what will it be Chief? Sandwich and cake?”

Dan did not want Luke to think that he was greedy or unhealthy, and so he chose the turkey salad on rye, holding the mayo. No cake, even though he was desperate to try some. This was as bland and unappetising as Dan could imagine, but looking at Luke, it was an easy choice.

Dan looked around, as he shuffled from foot to foot. He wiped his brow and quickly glanced at his armpits. A couple of dark blue spots had appeared. Thinking about it made it worse. He blew air upwards towards his brow in a vain attempt to cool it. Luke noticed.

“Why don’t you wait out front?” Luke suggested, noticing Dan’s discomfort, “It is really crowded in here, so it would probably make sense.”

“Ok, thanks Luke, if you don’t mind?” Dan said, as he took his wallet out and proffered a twenty-dollar bill, “Here’s some money.”

“Please, this is my treat. I would really like to buy you lunch.” Luke said, almost pleadingly, “You wait outside and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Luke stretched out his dark, hairy, muscular arm, and held Dan gently by the wrist to stop him from advancing the money. Dan’s pulse raced, and he felt sure that Luke would feel his heart rate quicken. Dan did not want to move. He wanted to feel Luke’s touch for as long as possible but he knew he couldn’t linger, so he nodded, smiled, and left.

Dan was relieved to be outdoors again. A cooling breeze gave his cheeks a cold kiss, refreshing his lungs. It licked away the salty sweat beads from his brow and left him feeling relieved. He held out his arms and let the air dry his blue shirt, which was desperate to betray him. The last thing he wanted was for Luke to see him all sweaty from the heat. An unattractive sight for anyone, especially when you are eating.

Luke came out of the shop with a large brown paper bag. He almost skipped up to Dan and seemed really happy with himself. He pulled his shades down from his dark curls.

“Shall we?” Luke said, pretending that he was going to link arms with Dan, but quickly drawing away and laughing, knowing that Dan would not be amused.

They walked at a leisurely pace. They were quite close and their arms occasionally touched. Neither of them moved away.

Being in public, with people around them, Dan knew that he couldn’t talk about the case. Frankly, that was all that they had talked about for most of the time, so it was a guilty relief to have a break from it.

Given the horrific nature of the crimes and the importance of catching the killer, Dan expected himself to automatically turn his thoughts towards the case. But he didn’t. All he could think about was Luke.

Luke seemed quite comfortable just walking in silence. Dan, however, felt a bit awkward. He was not easy with small-talk but that was all that was appropriate, at least for now, and he didn’t want Luke to think that all he could talk about was the case.

“So, what got you into baseball, Luke?”

Dan disliked sports, and found them difficult to talk about, but he knew that Luke was interested in baseball. It was a decent starting point.

“Me and my mom used to go when I was young. I guess it just took off from there.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah, she is really into her sports. Not like my ma.”

Luke chuckled fondly thinking about this.

“Ok, so now I am confused. Your mom and ma. Oh, wait. Sorry, I see ...”

Luke grinned, clearly having encountered this same conversation many times before.

“Yes, Chief, they are a lesbian couple. But don’t worry, they are married, so my moral compass remains intact.”

“I didn’t say anything, Luke. I am all for …” Dan thought hard for the right word, now desperate not to offend Luke in any way, “Diversity. Love. I mean, the most important thing is that you are brought up in a loving home. And they obviously did a fine job.”

Dan looked at Luke, watching carefully to gauge his reaction. To check that he had said the right thing. Dan genuinely felt this way but, of course, Luke did not know that.

“Yeah, Chief, they are the best. I don’t know what would have happened to me without them choosing me from the adoption agency. I think I am also lucky to have grown up in this century, as most people didn’t seem to make a deal of it. I mean, sometimes people would get their relationship wrong, thinking they were sisters or the like, but they never shied away from the truth.”

Dan felt ashamed. He had not come out as openly gay at work. He had always made excuses, and didn’t think it was important. But Dan was from a different generation. When he started, gay men were still thought to be something to laugh at or to mock, not potential leaders of the FBI. But here he was, and now it felt too late to ‘come out’. And why bother, it was not like he had an active dating life.

“Chief?”

“Sorry, Luke, I missed that. What did you say?”

“I just asked what your family background is like.”

“Well, let me see. My mum and dad have both passed. I have two older brothers, but I haven’t really seen much of them since the funeral. I don’t mind though. You know, the job pretty much takes up all of my time.”

Dan thought back to his childhood. His brothers never cared for him. Quite the opposite, he was a toy to be abused. And he always felt he had to prove himself, but he had a flimsy figure in those days and no sporting prowess, so invariably he was bettered. It was only his dogged determination coupled with his emotional intelligence that differentiated him, and ultimately led to his current success.

Dan did not normally talk about himself but Luke’s openness engendered trust, and he felt almost an obligation to give something back. Nevertheless, he was quite relieved when they reached the edge of the lake.

It sparkled as the sun light shone down on the blue waters. Flashes of light, like flitting fairies, flirted with the breezy ripples. It was hard to believe that such a placid scene could have been the background to the recent slaughter. Its clear waters tainted by the blood of those killed.

A wooden bench overlooked the shoreside. Dan went to sit down but was stopped mid-descent by Luke.

“Wait a minute, Chief. It is still a little wet from the rain. Here, let me dry it.”

Before Dan could protest, Luke swiped his arm across the wood, sending the majority of the water flying off it, and then sat down on the bench and slid from one side to the other, wiping away any remaining dampness with the seat of his trousers. Luke smiled at Dan and patted the space next to him, beckoning him to take his place.

“There you go. No point us both getting wet, and I’ll quickly dry in the sun.”

“Thank you, Luke. That was kind of you.”

Dan groaned to himself, thinking he must look that old that he needed to be taken care of. Next Luke would be helping him to cross the road.

“Now, here’s your turkey salad sandwich. I got a BLT. You just can’t beat that classic combination.”

Dan looked longingly from his simpering salad to the meaty deliciousness of the BLT, with mayo oozing out of the side. He could feel his mouth moistening.

Luke saw Dan’s longing looks, and chuckled.

“Come on, Chief, we can share.”

Luke tore his sandwich in two, and passed the larger part across to Dan.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind sticking with the turkey salad.”

“I insist. Anyway, I should try to balance out this meal. A BLT is not the healthiest sandwich in the world.”

Dan gratefully accepted. He chewed it slowly and methodically. He remembered that someone once told him that you should chew every mouthful at least fourteen times. Frankly, he found that impossible. And, anyway, he would be too busy concentrating on counting to notice what he was eating, which defeated the purpose. Dan refocused on the sandwich. It tasted so good.

“Surprise!” Luke exclaimed, excitedly, as he pulled out a large, red strawberry tart.

Dan stared longingly at the shortcrust pastry, with cream piped around its rim, topped with a sticky strawberry glaze. Luke took a bite and passed it to Dan.

Dan watched, and then burst out laughing.

“What? What’s up, Chief?” Luke asked, almost concerned by the laughter.

“You have cream on your nose and jam on your top lip.” Dan said, smirking.

For once, Luke looked slightly silly, but this made him even more endearing to Dan.

“Where? Where is it?” Luke said, almost desperately, as he licked at his lip and rubbed his nose, which only spread the cream further.

“Have I got it? Can you get it off for me?”

Dan reached forward and gently smeared away the cream with his forefinger.

“There you go, messy, it’s all off.”

Dan then slowly took a bite of the tart himself. He looked at Luke, as he enjoyed the syrupy fruit. The guilt and shame cycle would come later. For now, Dan’s eyes were flashing brightly with pleasure both from the sugar rush, and the escalating emotion he felt for Luke; his heart was like a smoking powder keg about to explode.

Luke had kept some bread from the sandwich, and went over to the lake edge to feed the ducks. Dan stood beside him. Luke handed over some breadcrumbs to Dan, so that he could join in. There was no one else around, and they both took pleasure in the appreciative quacking of the ever-hungry ducks.

“So, our killer.” Dan began, returning his attention to the case. “Let’s go over this again. We must be missing something. Where are we? What do we know?”

“We have nothing, Chief. No fingerprints, no hair, no blood, no DNA traces, no video footage or other recordings. We are chasing a ghost.” Luke said flatly.

“We do have the messages,” Dan ventured, “which at least provide us with a pseudonym, and an insight into the killer’s psyche. We know that he or she calls themselves Pulcinella. That they want people to appreciate the value of life. That they intend to keep killing as many people as possible on the last day of each month. But our team has not been able to give us any concrete leads based on this so far.”

“Do you think it is a man or a woman, Chief?”

“I really don’t know, Luke. These crimes are so physical and violent, that you would suspect a man, but women can be equally as strong and brutal.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to tell me that, Chief, my ma has a black belt in karate. I learnt some of my best moves from her. It could be a group, given the numbers involved. I don’t see how a singleton could pull off such mass killings. It could be some kind of cult, given the messages left.”

“I agree. I think there must be a number of people involved here. Hopefully, this gives more scope for errors to be made, which will help us to catch them. So far though, their work has been meticulous. But then why use a singular person sign-off? It doesn’t suggest a group is involved.”

The truth was, Dan could not say anything for certain. He moved on to his next thought.

“The weapons used are interesting. Knives, guns, electrification, brute force, suffocation and gas. It seems every method to kill someone has been tried. Maybe they are experimenting? Or maybe the group all have different preferences or skills? There is no obvious pattern.”

Dan looked across the lake, and then back at Luke. He continued, “What about the locations? We have the housing estate and this lake. They are not too far from one another.”

“So, they must be moving around by vehicle?” Luke ventured.

“I think so. The ferry points are only reachable by road or foot, and they are quite a distance from town. The cul-de-sac is not near any public transport links. The teams are already going through nearby video footage but have not come across anything obvious. All of the vehicles on the ferry are accounted for, and nothing suspicious has been found yet. Unsurprising really, as both of these areas tend to be relatively busy. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“Where do you think might be hit next, Chief?” Luke asked, knowing they could not predict this but hoping Dan might somehow know.

“Well, there have been only two incidents so far. They were within about a day’s drive from one another, and the second was to the west. Assuming a similar pattern will be repeated, we should probably move base.”

“I agree, Chief. It won’t make much difference if we are wrong. We can always take a flight back.” Luke replied, keen to show support.

Dan flung another piece of bread on to the lake, further out this time, trying to reach the smaller ducks at the back who were either fearful of approaching them or scared to compete with the larger birds.

“Criminals always slip up and make mistakes, sooner or later. Or their desire to be famous consumes them, and they confess. This will be no different. One way or another, Pulcinella will be caught.” Dan said confidently, trying to reassure both himself and his new recruit.

“One last thing, Luke.” Dan said, almost casually.

“Yes, Chief?”

“Please stop calling me Chief. Dan is just fine.”

Luke blushed a little, and nodded, “Ok, Dan.”

“Good. Now we had better get going, although I am not sure where to yet.”

SEVEN

The small, oval carriages of the cable car swayed slowly in the breeze, like a row of hypnotic pendulums. Then they danced around a familiar circuit, coupled and held aloft by a thick, old chain. A mechanical parade of differing coloured cages pirouetting in an infinite loop. Reliably going up the mountain, and coming back down again, repeatedly, for many years.

John pushed his cold hands into his skinny blue jeans, and watched as cable car number seven spun slowly around the giant mechanical cog, and approached the line of people waiting to ascend.

Four women hurriedly got in to the car together.

“Move along Jennifer. You’re sitting right in the middle!” Margie said commandingly.

“Margie stop pushing me.” Jennifer snapped back.

“Lucy, Shirley, get on quick!” Margie shouted loudly.

It heaved from side-to-side, as they jumped aboard; being relatively small, the carriage did not take much force to start it swinging to-and-fro.

The doors closed automatically, entrapping them for their own safety. And up they soared. Higher and higher.

John could see their smiles and hear their giggles, as nervous excitement took over their emotion.

Like any fairground ride or airplane flight, you know there is a risk of death. Something could go wrong. The doors might open, and you could fall out. Or the chain may grind to a halt, leaving you high in the sky, unreachable, with no easy way down. Even worse, the wires could break and the whole carriage could plummet to earth, surely killing you.

John could feel his stomach churning, filling with dread, as he thought of the various ways this one decision, this one ride might lead to the end of his life. He stood aside to let the young couple behind him take his place, so he was at the back of the queue again.

John knew that he shouldn’t listen-in to private conversations but he couldn’t help himself, desperate for any distraction.

“Will you dance with me tonight Brad? If the band is good, of course.”

The young girl lifted herself up and down on the balls of her feet, the gummy bottoms of her white plimsolls bending and reshaping on demand, holding both of his hands in hers for balance. Her daffodil yellow dress, flowing gently back and forth as she rocked. Dark blonde hair floating over her shoulders. Blue eyes staring intently at him, otherwise blind to their surroundings.

Brad draped his navy denim jacket over her shoulders, and rested his hands on both of her shoulders. They were now standing face-to-face, looking at each other, pupils dilating with lust.

The young man scratched the top of his head anxiously at the suggestion, ruffling up his side-parting. He had clearly made an effort for the evening, wearing smart brown fashion shoes, with tan chinos and a navy blue, collar button-downed, shirt.

“Oh, don’t ask me to do that Lola, you know I hate dancing. I’m terrible at it. Everyone laughs at me when I dance.” Brad pleaded pathetically.

“No, you’re really good!” Lola insisted, “Remember Steve’s wedding? Remember how no one was dancing, so you got up and made people join in. There wasn’t a space left on the dancefloor by the end of the night. All thanks to you. You were the life and soul of the party. Everyone said so.” Lola flattered, over eagerly.

Brad remembered the evening well. Steve was one of his best friends but, since he had started dating Lola, they rarely saw each other; there were just not enough hours in the day to fit everything in, and time just flew by without them seeing one another.

Steve had not chosen Brad to be his best man, a decision which Brad secretly welcomed. It was not that he did not love Steve, or did not want to take on the role, no, it was for the selfish reason that Brad would have felt so much guilt if he had been asked. The thought of Steve having no one else to choose other than him would really mean that Brad had abandoned Steve; left him alone with no other meaningful friends. At least Brad knew that Steve had someone else. And while the thought of being replaced as Steve’s best friend did cause him sorrow, Brad was also a pragmatist; he accepted that people and relationships change, and life moves on. He had Lola now.

Brad and Lola had chosen a joint present from the wedding list; an impersonal and perishable toaster, with only one year’s warranty. It didn’t say much about their friendship. How Steve had stood by Brad when he was bullied at school; sat in the front row when he was awarded the most improved student award; spent nearly every Saturday night of their teens at the movies together; held each other when another friend died of cancer.

Brad guessed it was natural to drift apart, but the wedding seemed a stark reminder of how they had changed, and were no longer close. Their only interaction on the day itself being an awkward hug, a pat on the back, and a simple statement, “Well done mate.”

The embarrassment of an empty dancefloor, after the wedding dance, and Steve’s anxious face, was enough of a catalyst to prompt Brad to act.

Grabbing Lola, after downing a large glass of Chardonnay, he strode purposefully to the empty stage. Getting people on to the dancefloor was the least he could do, and might just salvage the relationship.

Steve seemed pleased, and Brad’s conscience was temporarily pacified.

Brad regretted not making more of an effort, thinking to himself how he really must get in touch after this break. The wedding, however, had stirred his romantic side and the need for settlement. He decided to save up some money for a ring, so that he could propose to Lola.

“I know you’re just buttering me up to get your own way. You want to dance and won’t get up on your own. I’m wise to your tactics young lady!” Brad grinned, as he squeezed her shoulders tenderly.

“If you loved me you would do it.” Lola quickly retorted, “Aren’t you the one who always says you would do anything for me? Well, now is the time to prove it. Have a few beers and you’ll be fine. There won’t be that many people up there anyway. Certainly no one that you would care to impress.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He groaned and sighed but had given Lola an opening.

“Please, please, please, please. Go on, go on, go on. Say yes! Please!” Lola pleaded, in an ever-increasingly high-pitched voice.

“Oh ok,” Brad acquiesced, partly to stop her shrieking and also because he really did love Lola, and would do anything for her, “But you owe me. And you know what I mean by that.”

Brad raised his eyebrows up and down suggestively, before leaning forward and kissing her. They parted briefly for air, before going back in for a deeper kiss.

John moved around in an over-pronounced fashion; uncomfortable, trying to remind them of his presence. His embarrassment was soon spared. The couple boarded the next carriage, and their romance was swept away up, up, and away into the misty mountain tops.

No one else was around now but, given the number of people John had already let pass him in the line, he suspected others would soon turn up.

Empty carriages tenderly enticed him as they passed, seemingly calling to him with their siren whispers as they tip-toed by, opening their doors for him, and then closing them and continuing on their empty journey alone, as John spurned their advances.

This was a double peril; not only did John have a fear of heights, he also hated small spaces. But his sweetheart, Bernadette, was playing a live gig in the café at the top, and he was determined not to miss it.

The café was a cosy little place that tried to drum up additional business by transforming itself from a traditional eatery during the day, into a bar with a view at night; although it avoided naming itself as such, preferring the classier moniker of a ‘jazz café’.

There was still a good hour or so to go before the performance. John closed his eyes and took some deep breaths, flaring his nostrils rather dramatically as he did so, hoping the biting, cold air would numb his fears.

John was determined not to let his weaknesses get the better of him, and concentrated hard on how pleased Bernadette would be to see that he had come to hear her sing.

John psyched himself up, constantly telling himself he could do it, and to get on with it. That he was being silly, and would be perfectly safe. He could not be shamefully overtaken in the queue again.

He worried that people coming down from the mountain might wonder what he was doing. Standing there alone. Or, worse, might realise his fear and mock him for being such a coward.

But no one came down. Anyone left up there was probably at the bar. After all it was dark and the usual hikers would have long since finished their walks, and would now probably be soaking in a hot tub or feasting in one of the nearby restaurants.

John steeled himself. His lucky number, two, advanced towards him. This was it. A leap of faith.

John’s face went pale as the metal door slid shut. He started shaking, like a scared animal, and stared blankly at the empty seat in front of him; straight faced and level-lipped.

The cable car jolted forward with gusto, happy with its prey. Up, up and away.

John noticed that the number on the car running parallel to him, coming back down, seemed to have red paint splashed all over it. Maybe it was car 13, and the owners of the cable car system had decided to cover over the digits to stop people avoiding the portent of bad luck.

The journey continued. John did not move a muscle, except to occasionally glance around at the supporting structures, trying to convince himself that everything was fine. He certainly did not look down to the tree tops far below the bottom of the carriage.

Creaks and groans must be expected, John thought to himself, as the contraption bore its heavy load noisily onwards towards the end of yet another exhausting day of work. John almost wished that he had company to take his mind off the ascent but, then again, it would have been embarrassing for someone else to see him like this.

John closed his eyes, trying to remember the meditation techniques he had learnt when he had been forced to take an airplane flight. It was the only way he could get to his mother’s bedside before she died, and probably the only thing that would have got him on-board an airplane. The stewards had helpfully tried to calm him, and showed him some simple breathing techniques. He felt guilty at how his feelings of terror had quickly surpassed those of grief.

Meanwhile, the women in car number seven were nearing the summit, and performing a final check of the area to ensure that they had their phones and bags ready to exit.

The weather had been unseasonably hot, and their choice of light jackets now seemed to be a mistake, as the high altitude and lack of clouds allowed the heat to escape to the heavens, leaving a desperately cold chill.

They sat close together, not only due to the small-sized bench but also to keep warm, talking constantly.

They had tired of the limited night views, the twinkling town and fairy light windows, after about ten seconds. Returning to the many dramas of the day. Talking but not really listening to one another. Impatiently awaiting the opportunity to tell their own anodyne anecdote.

“Oh, I do hope Gracie will be ok.” Jennifer said with unnecessary urgency, interrupting the current conversation.

All Jennifer ever talked about was her children. It was as though they had consumed Jennifer’s life, leaving her with no other discussion point. A robotic nanny, with repetitive rhymes.

This was close to the truth. Jennifer had seemingly forgotten herself, as though in a fog of dementia. Previously cherished interests jettisoned. No one would ever know that she was close to going to the Olympics to represent her country in the Pentathlon. Or that she could sing like an angel, and dance like the devil.

No, now it was just constant concern for her vacuous offspring, who were generally disliked, having lost any opportunity to develop reasonably adjusted personalities due to the suffocating cocoon Jennifer had spun around them; they had been smothered by her protection.

“I felt really bad leaving her tonight, seeing as how she has a science exam tomorrow. Mind you, she is one of the brightest in the class. That is not my subjective bias, the teacher told me so. I think she will be ok but I do worry that she might get stressed tonight, and not eat anything. And you know what my husband, Roger, is like. He won’t even think to check-in with her. Too busy watching yet another repeat of some tedious television program or reading his astronomy books.” Jennifer said in one, long sentence.

“My Jack is the same.” Margie piped-up, keen to take the lead again, “All he has to do is walk the dog, and he even forgets to do that. Jogging bottoms on, feet up, and then nothing. What an existence. I keep telling him to get out more but he’s too set in his ways. And the weight he has put on. I swear all he does is eat. Really, that’s why I am encouraging him to get any form of exercise he can. If a lap around the park with Jo-Jo is all he’ll do, it’s better than nothing. Of course, ladies, we all know what the best form of exercise is, don’t we?”

All four women chuckled, like canned laughter in a sitcom, at Margie’s obvious insinuation.

“Sure, we do.” Margie continued, “But you don’t think he is interested in any of that nowadays. Well, unless it’s with Madame Palm and her endless harem of internet lovers.”

More embarrassed laughter. Margie said what she wanted, unimpeded by a kind nature.

“Honestly, I am not interested in sex anymore, so it doesn’t bother me.” Margie gave an exaggerated yawn, “I am much happier soaking in a deep bath with my candles, and some relaxing music. Much better than spending time with Jack. I think he prefers his own company anyway.”

“I’ve not had much luck on the relationship front either, Margie. All the women on my dating site seem to be after only one thing.” Everyone looked at Shirley, allowing a pregnant pause, before she continued, “Honestly, you lot have such dirty minds! I am talking about a deep and meaningful relationship. I had that with Dora for 15 years, only to be left for a younger model. Now I would just like some company, and to have a bit of fun.”

They had all heard this story countless times but still gave the pretence of listening.

“Well, you all know that Dora told me that I had changed and she no longer loved me,” Shirley looked down at her fumbling hands before raising her head with an indignant look, “Well, what did she expect? No one can stay the same forever. I think she just wanted to revisit her past glories. Some sort of mid-life crisis, if you ask me, and my having ‘changed’ was just an excuse.”

Shirley gave the usual pause, before continuing, “Of course, I still love her. I don’t think you can get over a relationship so quickly. It has only been three months. I think she will come back and, to be honest, I would take her. Let her have her wild fling, I’ll be waiting. I do worry that I maybe should have told her how much I loved her, but I’m sure there’ll be plenty of chances in the future. And, in the meantime, I want to show her what she’s missing!”

There was an awkward silence. None of them ever quite knew what to say at this point. Lucy, who had been sitting relatively quietly until now, decided to fill the space.

“Shirley, you are an amazing woman. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. I know I feel lucky to have you as a friend. I won’t say anything against Dora, as I know how you feel about her, but maybe you should move on? Whatever you decide, we will all be here for you.”

“Thanks Lucy.” Shirley said, looking genuinely touched, “I know what you are saying makes sense, and maybe I will move on in time but, right now, I need to believe Dora will come back. I feel lost without her. And, I know, that is not a politically correct thing to say in this century but, really, I cannot bare to be alone. I need someone to be with me, to need me, to love me.”

“Oh, honestly! You should turn that into a song, Shirley.” Margie said, shuffling in her seat, bored with the conversation.

“That’s easy for you to say Margie, you’ve got Jack.” Lucy said, finding the courage to stand up to her.

Margie glared back at her judgingly; Lucy started to fidget, becoming conscious of her weight. Suddenly the on-trend red polka dot dress she was wearing felt like a mistake, and she felt certain Margie would make fun of it later. Lucy cast her eyes downwards to the floor of the mountain far below. When she was younger, she hadn’t been this large but, gradually over time, she had gained weight, and now did not have any real incentive to lose it.

Lucy knew she shouldn’t care what other people think, but she did. Lucy was unhappy but the quick highs of over-sugared confectionary, while watching others live their lives on television, was an easy fix. As Lucy looked at the spectacle of nature around her, she felt emboldened and resolved to make a change; not for anyone else but for herself.

“And with that, I rest my case your Honour. If Jack is a prize then, really, I despair!” Margie chimed, suddenly responding to Lucy’s last comment about Jack, scratching her arm with her perfectly manicured nails, always needing to have the last word, and genuinely believing that she was wittier and cleverer than the rest; generally, better.

Margie’s prettiness had served her well in life, and she had married into shallow, but dependable, wealth as a reward of it. Her collar bones protruded to make a pleasing clothes hanger for designer dresses. Now that her looks were fading, and her hair was artificially coloured, thickened and set with some sticky secret serum, she fed her vanity by fattening herself on the buffet of her delicate friends’ emotions. Margie was adept at creeping into people’s minds to know what they were thinking, and using it to manipulate. Devouring their confidence and maintaining control over them with the words coming out of her shocking-rouge painted lips. She stroked down the inverse sides of her narrow waist, straightening her white city-slicker blouse.

“Oh, look we are nearing the top.” Margie said, welcoming the opportunity to escape the uncomfortable confines of their conveyance, “Shirley, can you pass me my umbrella? It’s just down there by your legs. Never know when it is going to rain. I certainly don’t want to get wet with this flimsy outfit on. It would go see through and that is a sight no one wants to see!”

Shirley blushed and felt a heat rise in her neck, betraying a long-held physical attraction for Margie. Shirley felt sure the others would see this reaction, and judge her with their secret prejudices. In fact, the others didn’t seem to notice, or care. Maybe the world has moved on past sexuality, Shirley thought to herself, soon we will all be pansexual.

Shirley quickly jumped out of the car, being nearest to the opening doors, and then Lucy followed. Margie gave an unnecessarily dramatic leap out, followed by Jennifer, who was playing mum and checking they had left nothing behind.

“So, where is the bar? Let’s go ladies.” Margie commanded, as she marched towards the neon green, exit sign, pointing her umbrella forward; steed-less but nevertheless ready to charge, lance in hand.

Just outside of the exit door, standing in the spluttering lamplight, Margie discerned a tall person standing alone; unmoving but staring towards her. She moved forward to get a closer look, and noticed that, beneath its dark jacket, it seemed to have almost reflective, pale skin. Beside it appeared to be a pile of bodies. Various shapes and sizes, all heaped together; a culled crowd. Margie closed her eyes for a second, before reopening them, convinced the shadows were playing tricks on her, or perhaps it was just a result of the thin mountain air suffocating her mind.

Margie stopped, and stared on as it approached her. As it got closer, it seemed to have no defining characteristics, other than its mask. Nowadays, there are so many oddities in society, Margie expected this was simply some new age, androgynous youth.

The other ladies were still re-arranging themselves under the shelter of the cable car exit. Margie could hear them but couldn’t quite make them out as she looked around for them. On turning her head back, the masked presence was standing right before her. Wide-set, cold, dark eyes; almost shark-like. Its face mainly covered by a leather mask, with a protruding, sharp-curved nose. A frightening sight to behold.

Margie went to call out, pushing back on the smooth, hard white plastic with force, but it was too late. Pulcinella’s eyes glowed red as it pushed a knife into her open mouth, all the way through, until it protruded out of the back of her head. Margie’s eyes stared ahead, unmoving, wide with surprise at the sudden affront. She slumped to the ground, with an ungainly thud. The blood mixed with the muddy ground, like a syrup topping on a messy chocolate pudding. Pulcinella hoisted her up, and flung her body on top of the pile, to become the pinnacle of the human iceberg.

It walked on towards the cable car station. Its heat sensors showed that there were three others, so it stood with its back against the wall aside the exit, and waited.

“Margie! Wait up. We have got all night, you know. Are you that desperate for a drink, or are you just trying to run away from us?” Shirley said, as she came out of the bright exit, and moved into the shadows.

Pulcinella did not reveal itself. It simply grabbed her forcefully by the throat, and smashed her head against the brick wall with unhuman force; instantly crushing her skull and bringing an end to any hope of reconciliation with Dora. Pulcinella did not discriminate. Her sex and sexuality meant nothing to it. Human is human, and on this night as many as possible must be killed.

Lucy and Jennifer came out arm-in-arm, Jennifer in full anecdotal-android mode. Pulcinella slashed out with a knife and brought an end to her tedious story about her concern over one of her children’s freckles, and their over-sensitivity to the sun.

Lucy was covered in blood, merging the polka dots on her dress into an horrific red blur, as though something had burst out from her stomach. She screamed and tried to run toward the café. Pulcinella charged at Lucy, ramming her to the ground. Its beak scratched her face. It pressed one of its fingers methodically to her temple, and silently transmitted ultra-high voltage into her brain, as has been the fate of many livestock destined for the abattoir; a deathly shock.

Pulcinella went back to the power station, and saw three more heat signatures left in the cars; a couple and a singleton. It would await their ascension before turning off the power to prevent any further arrivals.

Brad and Lola sat opposite one another in the car, her knees resting gently in-between his. Brad gently squeezed his legs together, and Lola pushed back, laughing.

“Hey! Stop it!” Lola said, “That’s not fair, my legs are on the inside, I can never win this.”

She smirked, and then quickly combined the strength of both her legs and her hands to push his legs quickly apart.

“Woah! You’ll tear my jeans apart if you’re not careful.” Brad shouted out.

“Well, they are too tight anyway.” Lola sang out, teasingly, before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

Lola moved across to sit adjacent to Brad, so that they both were now going backwards up the hill, and took out her camera phone.

“Shall we take a selfie?” She asked rhetorically, stretching out her arm as far as she could, adjusting and angling the phone’s picture lens to get the best shot.

Brad put his arm around her, and they both instantly composed themselves into well-rehearsed poses. Lola took several shots, the young couple missing most of the scenery around them in favour of the perfect picture for social media; the endless quest to get more “likes”.

They immediately reviewed the images, after applying a filter to smooth away any imperfections.

“Hey, what’s that in the background?” Lola questioned, pointing to a red glare shimmering in the top right corner of the screen behind them. They both looked over their shoulders to look, as the car decelerated and the door started to unlock, sliding open graciously to let them out.

A hand moved in, and pulled Brad out by the neck, holding him aloft. Brad squirmed and wriggled, and grasped at Pulcinella’s hand, desperately trying to free himself.

Lola pushed forward, hitting and kicking the tall being in front of her with all of her might.

“Get off him! Let him go! What are you doing? You’re going to kill him!” Lola screamed.

Pulcinella raised his arm towards Lola’s chest. A steel spear sprung out of its forearm, plunging through her chest, and out of the other side. Lola fell silent. The spear retracted, and she dropped onto the concrete floor. Her warm blood spurted out all over the grey stone, leaving Lola cold and lifeless.

As John approached the end of the line, he had almost achieved an acceptable inner-calm, and was starting to even convince himself that this wasn’t so bad; maybe the anticipation was worse than the actual ride itself. And everything ends after a time.

John looked ahead, he could see the cable car station but he also saw something else. A cloaked figure was holding the young man, who he had seen earlier in the cable car queue with his girlfriend, up in the air by the neck. In the other hand, it was holding some kind of knife or sword. And then, without pause or hesitation, the head was cut away from the body, and the figure let the neck slip through his hands with the body landing limp on the floor. It discarded the head, throwing it aside like a piece of trash, and looked forward at John.

John could not believe what he had just seen. Terror arose within him, and surged through his whole being. Such was the strength of emotion that John struggled for breath, and felt his body freeze in panic, like a child just awoken from a nightmare.

John knew he only had a moment to decide what to do, and forced himself to focus. The masked killer was watching, and waiting for him to arrive. Another empty car slowed nearby, only a few more to go, and then John would be alongside. He had to act now.

John looked around the carriage. There was nothing obvious to help; no sharp, steel friend to come to his aid, or heavy plank of wood to bat away the aggressor.

Looking down, the tree tops were still some distance below but they might break his fall. It was his only chance; John knew what he had seen, and equally knew he would likely be killed if he waited in the car.

He leant back against one side of the car, pulled the emergency release lever, and kicked the door away with all of his might.

The cold wind whipped at his face, as he moved forward towards the open door. He wasn’t sure he could do this. Brilliant red eyes glared at him, much closer now.

What terror to choose? If he jumped, there was a chance. If he stayed the death seemed certain. And, if he was to die now, John decided that he would much rather welcome the pull of gravity and natural embrace of Mother Earth over whatever creature was lurking in the shadows above.

John waited a little longer, as a myriad of thoughts entered his head. The wind whispered words of soft encouragement, promising to help support John, and he then lurched forward, leaping towards a tree-top; surely, this kind fir would help to break his fall?

The tree was not as close as John had anticipated; spatial awareness had never been one of his strong points. He fell, unmoving, paralysed with fear. For a split-second, John realised that this was it. He was going to die. He closed his eyes, and thought of his mum. And then the ground met his heavy body, and could offer no support to his fragile bones.

Pulcinella’s audio tracts heard the snap of John’s neck, and the breaking of numerous bones. Heard his last gasp for breath, and registered the moment of death.

The whirring of the cable car continued. There were no more passengers on the deathly conveyor belt. It was time for Pulcinella to cut the power, so that it could move on to the café to continue its monthly massacre.

Bernadette took another cigarette out of the packet, and went out front to check if anyone else was coming; the excuse of smoking shielding her desperation to see an advancing crowd. But there was no one on the horizon, only the amber hue from the lights hanging over the footpath, leading up from the cable car to the entrance.

John’s fear had obviously got the better of him. So much for love conquering all, Bernie thought to herself. He couldn’t even bring himself to come up a hill to see her sing. Bernie knew John was afraid of small spaces and heights but, if he was that bothered, he could have always walked up.

A lazy lover, in so many ways. That was not fair she thought, and duly reprimanded herself. It was not his fault that she found it hard to climax. Sex had never really interested her but she would go through the motions to please. A capable, if somewhat unconvincing, actress. Perhaps that is why she knew every love song written; she was desperately trying to drain and absorb the emotion from the words to awaken her own feelings.

It was turning out to be another disappointing night. Bernie stumped out her cigarette, promising herself that she would give up smoking soon before the treacle-tar stuck to her organs, or the deadly mutations conspired successfully to take her life.

Bernie’s legs were covered in goose bumps, as her denim shorts and red-checked, short-sleeved shirt, afforded little protection from the cold, night air. A breeze was picking up, and some dark clouds were creeping over the nearby mountain tops, threatening a downpour of rain, or perhaps even some early snow.

After rolling her neck around to release the tension, and to quell her anger, Bernie went back inside. She sang a few scales, preparing to sell false-feelings to about 20 people in return for her 50 bucks fee; cheap emotion to seduce a simpering crowd.

Bernie mounted the wooden stage and looked down at the small, round tables below. Each with a candle in a glass jar in the middle; glowing faces surrounded each one, watching her in anticipation.

As though the volume button was being slowly turned down on a radio, the mumbling crowd finished their conversations, and gradually fell into silence.

Bernie looked across at Rod, her guitarist, and gave a definitive nod. It always amazed Bernie that his straggly, ginger beard did not get caught up in the strings but this had not happened yet; the frustrated death metal fantasist rocked-on, prostituting his talents, by playing elevator love songs, to pay the rent.

The main lights dimmed, as the purple spotlight focused on Bernie. The moody shimmer was too strong for Bernie’s liking, and she found it distracting. The slow ballad allowed her to look down, as though she was contemplating her emotion, to avoid the glare. The background crowd faded away, as her inner songbird took flight.

There was no noise in the room, except for her ethereal vocals. Hers was the sort of voice that you would expect to be discovered by some music mogul on a talent show, and it was not uncommon for people to ask Bernie after the show whether they had seen her on television, certain that her gift would have been unwrapped by now.

Like other celebrated talents, the competition to get to the top was overly fierce. Bernie feared rejection, preferring the safety of local crowds, with low expectations. Bernie was a singular speck of sand on a coast with little chance of being unearthed, but it was enough that she could make a living from her one, true joy. It did not matter that she wasn’t rich or known worldwide, her thirst was sated, and anything more might risk her drowning.

Bernie held the final note of her first song longer than necessary, to show off her technique, and then lapped up the applause; albeit, it was more a polite pitter-patter than a cacophony of whistles, claps, and cheers.

Bernie looked at the tables near the front of the stage. A family of four sat around the nearest, with the two adults trying to keep their teenagers’ attention away from their phones. A middle-aged couple sat staring at her, hiding behind two very large glasses of red wine; not speaking to one another and repeatedly picking up their glasses, taking a gulp, and then putting them back down again. A couple of old men were nursing small beers while playing checkers, struggling to see in the flickering candlelight. A drunk couple were shuffling from side to side, badly mimicking some sort of waltz, right in front of the stage, seemingly unaware that the music had stopped.

This was not the kind of audience Bernie had hoped for, preferring not to share the limelight with an obsolete board game, or wasting her talents on uninterested youths and louche lovers, but at least they were all paying for the pleasure.

She continued to scan the room, looking out for John, but Bernie could only see so far due to the blinding illumination. She turned her head from the microphone and let out a heavy sigh. Then on to the next song. She struggled to muster the energy to emote another break-up song, although it could be prescient, given her disappointment with John.

Half-way through there was a clatter from the back of the room, near the bar. Heads turned but, seeing nothing, quickly turned back, assuming it was just another broken glass dropped by an incompetent bar tender or clumsy inebriate. Sounds that would disturb anywhere else but had come to be expected in a place such as this, where alcohol pacifies souls or ignites passions, fuels a suitor’s courage or numbs a forgotten lover’s pain; always disabling sensibilities, and causing breakdowns in human mechanics.

Another crash came from the darkness; louder this time. Then a sudden scream. Chairs moved abruptly, noisily scraping the floor as people jumped up out of them.

A masked monster was working at full operational speed, moving forward, with force and purpose. Arms out and extended, spinning and twirling in all directions. Its eyes were red and shining, like one might imagine the Devil’s eyes, cutting down the masses, as if Death himself had come with his scythe to claim all. Light reflecting off steel, sending mirror ball reflections dancing all over the wall and ceiling. A beautiful, deathly dance of mechanical precision.

As the screaming and shouting started to die down, and the number of people standing reduced to a handful, Bernie’s brain kicked in and she realised that she must either fight or take flight.

The beaked demon glanced her way. Bernie could see its metal talons protruding from where its fingers should be, a laser coming from its eyes, pistols extending from its knuckles, and some sort of smoke emitting from its mouth.

A beam shot past her, and the nearby velvet curtain immediately ignited. It continued to move towards her. Only the stunned couple standing in front of her were left. This was not a battle she could win. Bernie turned, and ran.

The back-door emergency exit had a push bar to release it. It was alarmed, so it would give away her presence, but she was confident that she could outrun her assailant. She gulped in the shockingly-cold night air, and sprinted towards the cable car.

Bernie ran alongside the lit track, rather than on it, believing that she would not be seen in the darkness but could still use the guiding lights to find her way to the cable car station. Looking around, she could see nothing. But that was no guarantee that she wasn’t being followed, as the visibility was so poor.

Bernie ran for her life as fast as she could. Just around the corner, and the cable car would be waiting.

Bernie figured on jumping in one of the cable cars to make her escape; she would be untouchable on the way down, and would gain a good breather, so that she could flee to safety at the bottom.

Bernie thought about being pursued. The killer might be in the cable car behind, watching her with those horrific red eyes, as both of them trudged on slowly downhill, separated at a constant distance by mechanical means, unable to gain but equally not losing pace; the killer would be waiting for her like a greyhound waiting to be released from its trap, ready to rip her apart like a stuffed hare.

Bernie tried to calm herself, figuring there would be plenty of people in town, even at this time of night, so it was unlikely the killer would pursue her. She should be safe.

She stopped dead in her tracks; all of the station’s lights were out. There was no noise. The cable car was not running.

Frantically, Bernie looked around in all directions. She could not stop herself screaming out when she saw a towering pile of corpses under one of the park lights. Hundreds of dead eyes, staring blindly, observing her fate, waiting for her to join them.

The post for the 10-kilometre downhill walk caught Bernie’s attention, and she moved on towards it. There was still no sign of anyone following her. She might well make this. Perhaps she would run all the way, or maybe hide for a while, once she was certain of her escape. The main problem was that the forest path was not lit, so she would have to rely on the half-hidden moonlight or the phone’s torch to guide her.

Her phone. It was still wedged in Bernie’s back pocket. Switched off, to avoid interference with the café’s microphone and speakers, but she knew it was there and charged, as she had told John to call her if he wasn’t coming. Still running, she pulled her phone out, and switched it on. The usual loading screen showed on the display. It seemed like hours before it completed, and she struggled to run while inputting her password. It then said it needed an update and did she want to do that now or later. Exasperated, and in a panic, she hit the wrong key, having forgotten how to make emergency calls, and not remembering if the number was the same on the mobile or if there was some special speed dial button or function. It locked. She put in her password to release it, and dialled 911. It worked.

Pulcinella’s radar revealed the last living human’s location. It set the trace function, and strode forward at a constant, high speed. Its internal calculation gave the exact time of interception, based on all available data. Two minutes. It was likely to be sooner, given the human’s pace was gradually slowing. As it approached, it picked up a signal from a nearby mobile device, and jammed it.

“Hello? Can you hear me? Hello?” Bernie demanded, in a terrified whisper.

Bernie had just managed to connect to the emergency operator but had been unable to give her location or alert them to the situation. Assuming that she had disconnected the call herself, due to her sweaty fingers betraying her, she stopped running, and focused. The phone seemed ok, except it was now showing that there was no signal. She thought of turning around, just to go back a little to reconnect to the network.

Bernie suddenly heard a noise behind her. She turned and saw two red eyes in the darkness moving steadily forward towards her. It seemed to see her, but she couldn’t understand how. Maybe it had night vision. She sprinted. It gained. Her legs hurt, and weakened. She couldn’t keep going. Looking around, it was rapidly closing in on her.

“Get away! Leave me alone!” She pleaded, not looking back, but sensing the imminent impact.

Suddenly she was on the ground, lying on a damp carpet of rust-coloured leaves, beginning their slow decomposition to fertilise the next generation. She felt her top being ripped off, and braced herself for an assault.

A razor-sharp quill protruded from Pulcinella’s robotic nail. It pierced her skin, and etched its words into Bertie’s pale, naked back. It stencilled a short message:

“Death comes for us all.

Live now while you can.”

Pulcinella

It picked her up by the throat, and stared into her eyes; red lights beaming into dilating, black pupils. She could smell the leather from its mask, as its ice-cold, vice-like grip intensified the pressure on her neck. She kicked and fought back with all of her might but it did not even flinch.

Desperately, Bernie reached into her jeans and pulled out her electronic car key. The manual override steel key flipped out, and she stabbed at her attacker’s side. Nothing happened. There was no penetration, no injury, just a stalemate of steel. Bernie could feel the life draining from her, and she let the key slip from her hand. It landed, unnoticed, into the gaping pocket of Pulcinella’s cloak.

Its mouth opened, and Bertie felt certain this was the end. A toxic last kiss. Instead it spoke, in a mechanic monotone:

“Messages were left before. Make sure this is known. If you do not, I will come back for you. Not immediately; I will not be trapped. But your end is certain if you do not do as I say. You have a chance to survive.”

And with that, Bernie was left semi-naked, and alone in the middle of the dark woods.

Blood flowed from the wounds in her back, mixing with the sudden downpour of rain, and channelled down her spine and buttocks; an unexpected violation which would haunt Bernie forever. But she was alive.

Instinctively, Bertie reached again for her phone. The signal had returned. Her body shivered from shock, and the cold. Her hands were violently shaking but she somehow managed to hit redial. She sat on the ground, bringing her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and waited for help.

EIGHT

Dan and Luke drove along the snaking black road as quickly as they could, their emergency siren screaming and lights flashing, as they followed the trail of reflective lights marking the route.

While they had correctly guessed the next slaughter would take place to the West, and were certainly closer, the drive to the crime scene would still take them over three hours; maybe less, if the traffic was light, and Luke hit top speed.

Luke pressed his foot down lower, straining his toes as though the extra pressure might eke out extra gas to make them go faster.

“Luke, you need to slow down a little. There is no point in getting us both killed. It is done. We cannot stop what has happened.” Dan said, genuinely concerned.

“But, Dan, there is a survivor. The first. We have to get to her fast to ensure her testimony is properly controlled. This could be the break we have been waiting for. We might actually get a credible lead.”

“I’ve told the local sheriff that no one should talk about what happened with her until we get there.” Dan said, trying to both calm and reassure Luke, “The local officers have taken her to the hospital for a full medical examination. We also have to investigate the scene, which I understand has been cordoned off to the public. It’s going to be a long night, Luke. We have a lot to do. And it would really help if we could make it there in one piece!”

Dan and Luke arrived at the cable car station ahead of schedule. Fortunately, the local sheriff had seen their car pull up, and walked over to meet them. She held her impressive physique confidently; tall and muscular, she clearly kept in shape by regular heavy lifting of some description. All of her uniform was tight, as though fitted to define her muscles. Dan thought that it would take a brave criminal to mess with this lady.

“Hello gentlemen.” She said, approaching them with an outstretched hand, “I’m Sheriff Dawson. I’ve read a lot about you two but it’s good to meet you in the flesh, although I would, of course, have preferred it to be under better circumstances.”

Sheriff Dawson looked down on them, with her wide-brimmed hat and aviator shades hiding most of her face, and offered out her hand. Dan and Luke took turns to shake it. Dan discretely rubbed his fingers afterwards to help reduce the soreness caused to them by her vice-like grip; whether or not it was Sheriff Dawson’s intention, she certainly made a strong impression.

“I’m Assistant Director Goodchild and this is Special Agent Harrison.” Dan said, unnecessarily introducing them both, as Sheriff Dawson clearly knew who they were due to their unwelcome celebrity, out of habit, “Sorry we’re early. We came here as fast as we could, which ...”

“Oh, that’s ok Director Goodchild.” Sheriff Dawson interjected, “It’s a terrible scene, just horrific, and it isn’t going anywhere. Early or late, it wouldn’t matter to the poor folk involved. So many bodies, you would think it was some kind of war zone. I can take you up there just now though, if you’d like to press on?”

“I was thinking,” Dan began hesitantly, “That we should maybe talk to the survivor first, Sheriff. You know, just in case she can help us to catch this maniac. Perhaps we should see her first, and then come back to investigate the scene?”

Dan knew it was unlikely that Sheriff Dawson would grant him his request, as protocol always put the wellbeing of the victim first, but he wanted to check, as this was foremost in his mind. And procedure can sometimes be overlooked in crimes of this magnitude, which local law enforcement officers simply never see and so, through no fault of their own, don’t know how to handle.

“Oh, I’m sorry Director Goodchild,” Sheriff Dawson said with sincerity, “Bernadette Saunders was rushed straight to the local infirmary. I thought they would have told you that? She was quite a sight, I can tell you. We found her covered in blood and half-naked, silent and shaking. I think she had gone into shock, you know. It’s a good job that she phoned in. We have no idea just how bad Bernie is, yet, but I asked them to let us know just as soon as the doctors have finished checking her over. I am not expecting a call for another hour or so. I suggest we go take a look up the mountain, and you can then head straight on over to the hospital once I receive any news.”

“Ok,” Dan said, “Let’s take a quick look at what we are dealing with here, and we can catch up with Ms Saunders later.”

Dan and Luke followed Sheriff Dawson as she strode on in front of them towards the cable car entrance.

Dan was anxious about what awaited them at the summit. Having seen Pulcinella’s previous crime scenes, he could imagine the sort of horrors which they might see, and which nothing could prepare you for.

Luke appeared to be even more anxious than Dan, and was trying to disguise his nerves by saying little while pushing his cold, trembling hands into his pockets. Dan could tell that Luke found this difficult but it was necessary for them to investigate the scene.

The cable cars had been restarted as soon as the emergency services arrived on-site. As they approached the station, Dan could hear the churning chains constricting the gigantic gears of the machinery to pull its perpetual load up and down the mountain again.

Sheriff Dawson was talking excitedly, non-stop about the local weather, the mountain, and the town, but Dan wasn’t listening. Instead, he thought about what lay ahead. He dreaded seeing yet more mutilations but, this time, at least there was some hope that the survivor might be able to at last provide some detail to help them understand what they were dealing with, and maybe even produce evidence which could lead them to the killer; Dan prayed that Bernie, as Sheriff Dawson called her, would give them the break they desperately needed.

The cars creaked around the rusting loop towards them. Dan half-wondered whether they would even make it up the mountain themselves, given the state of the cable car machinery, but he had no choice in the matter, and could not walk away. They huddled into the first car which approached them; Dan and Luke sat on one-side and Sheriff Dawson sat, spread-legged, opposite them. The weight balanced nicely.

On another occasion the journey up might have been romantic, Dan thought. He felt the warmth of Luke’s thighs pressing against his, as they were squeezed together into the cramped interior of the car. The shadowy landscape far below them was intermittently illuminated by the stars and light of the full moon above; the houses, trees, rocks, and fields below shrank to toy-model size as they ascended apace. Dan noticed that the string of differing coloured cable cars looked almost like a line of swaying, Christmas baubles, decorating the hillside.

“How could anyone have escaped this, Dan?” Luke asked quietly, almost in a whisper, “They were trapped. It is so high up and would take an age to get down on foot, if that is even possible.”

“Oh, it is possible,” Sheriff Dawson answered, “There’s a path. Not too steep either, although it would take you a good three hours to walk it. That’s where we found Bernie. She had done a runner for it, but was caught.”

“What I don’t understand is why the killer let her live? They have never let anyone escape before. Why this time?” Luke asked.

Dan looked towards Sheriff Dawson, leaning forwards towards her, indicating that he also was interested in the answer to this question.

“Well, it seems to me that the assailant wants to get a message out to the world,” Sheriff Dawson began, happily filling the deliberate silence, “And Bernie is his messenger. There was some wording scrawled on her back, although I couldn’t read it, given all the blood. When we put Bernie in the ambulance, she screamed out that we have to tell them. Tell them all. I don’t know what she means by that, exactly, but it suggests to me that our killer, whomever that is, wants some publicity. Probably fancies himself, or herself sorry, as something of a celebrity.”

Dan and Luke gave each other a knowing look, as the cable car juddered over an intermediary junction point. This was not lost on Sheriff Dawson, who raised her eyebrows and waited, but they did not volunteer anything further on the topic, and they all fell silent in thought.

After a short while, Luke glanced around nervously, unaccustomed to heights. In truth, he suffered a little from vertigo but was not going to let Dan know this.

Luke tried to distract himself by looking at Dan. His shoes, legs, arms, body, everything; he took in as much of Dan as possible. Dan seemed overly quiet, with a faraway look on his face. Staring at nothing. This case was clearly starting to affect Dan, Luke thought, and the existence of a survivor was a crucial turning point.

Bernie must be able to tell them something. She was the only person who had seen the killer and lived to tell the tale. That alone would help take their investigation further. If nothing more, they would know whether they were dealing with a group, a man, or a woman. They should also be able to get a description of sorts. Luke concentrated on the positives, this was the first step towards catching the killer.

The car started on its final, steep incline to the top, heaving its heavy load onwards. Luke dared to peer out of the window again. They were now in darkness. He could see nothing except twinkling white starlight, and a hazy orange glow from the town below. He could hear the rustling of tree leaves, and the moaning wind stirring the branches; outstretched limbs reaching up, and waving, to the night-time visitors in the sky.

The temperature was starting to drop sharply, and the touch of the steel cage on Luke’s body, only made it worse. He shivered, and wrapped his arms around himself for comfort and warmth.

Luke admired the curved welding work but knew that any semblance of protection from this metal support was illusionary. If the car fell now, the cage would immediately crush on impact, and they would all die. Luke shuddered at the thought, and instinctively pressed himself harder against Dan.

Luke had managed to grab both his favourite sky-blue jumper and navy corded jacket but Dan was only wearing a padded shirt. Luke thought how cold Dan must be, and started to worry about him.

“Dan, would you like to borrow my jacket?” Luke asked, smiling at him, “It’s freezing up here, and I’ve got both my jacket and jumper on. I’m actually feeling a bit too warm.”

“Thanks for the offer, Agent Harrison.” Dan replied gruffly, somewhat embarrassed and acutely aware of Sheriff Dawson’s presence.

Dan noticed that his reaction had upset Luke, so he softened his voice, “Unfortunately, I don’t think it will fit me. I appreciate the offer though.”

Dan was slightly overweight, with a cute little belly, but Luke liked that about Dan; it suggested that Dan was not one of the gym-obsessed men that usually seemed to go for Luke. And Luke liked a stockier frame. That was his type. He couldn’t give a reason why he preferred his men like this, he just did.

“Here, try,” Luke insisted, taking Dan’s response as encouragement to persevere, as he shuffled around trying to take his jacket off. The cable car swayed slightly with the motion. Dan did the reverse manoeuvre and found, to his genuine surprise, that the jacket fit him perfectly.

“Thanks Luke.” Dan said, pulling down the bottom of the jacket, “I mean Agent Harrison. That is much better. I have to admit, I was starting to feel quite cold.”

Dan was touched at Luke being so thoughtful, and delighted that the coat fit him, as he was pretty sure that he was turning blue beneath his shirt.

Sheriff Dawson looked somewhat bemused, shook her head, and gave a little chuckle. Dan gave her a stern look, to ward off any comments. He suspected, rightly, Sheriff Dawson was not the sort of person who would keep things to herself. Dan imagined how he and Luke would soon be part of the town gossip.

Dan considered the inappropriateness of his thoughts. Should he really be sitting feeling happiness over such a simple gesture, in the circumstances? Acts of terror happen but life goes on alongside them. In this moment in time, Luke’s act of kindness possessed Dan’s mind. It would soon enough be replaced by horror, so he forgave himself for this brief, secret, moment of joy.

The cable car jolted forward as it reached the top. It swayed around its steel perimeter before unclenching its jaws to release the captives from its hollow belly. Sheriff Dawson leaped out first, almost gazelle-like. Dan was nearest to the exit, so he went next, and Luke followed him out, treading gingerly as the car rocked from side-to-side.

“Mind your step!” Sheriff Dawson yelled out, “There is blood all over the place. One of our officers slipped earlier on, and nearly fell off the edge of the station platform. I reckon a plummet that far down would mean certain death.”

Luke followed Sheriff Dawson’s eyes back down the hill, and felt the world spin faster. He steadied himself by reaching for Dan’s arm.

“Are you alright, Agent Harrison?” Dan asked, searching Luke’s eyes to make sure. Luke just nodded and let go, regaining his balance.

A different kind of nausea took hold of him as he looked around the cable car station’s small lobby. The grey, concrete floors had splashes of blood and red smear marks all over it. Luke thought it must look like a slaughterhouse before the end-of-day cleaning takes place. The metal grills, which divided parts of the area, were soaked in blood; occasional dripping sounds echoed around the room, as some of the blood drained away.

Dan and Luke said nothing, as they tried to take in the surroundings. Several bodies lay around about the exit. All of them nicely dressed for an evening out, now dishevelled and dead, lying in their own bodily fluids, with various final looks on their frozen faces - surprise, shock, sadness, acceptance, horror, it was hard to say which. A last gathering of the mutilated middle-classes.

“This is only the start of it, I’m afraid.” Sheriff Dawson said, breaking the silence, “Outside we have even more bodies. And wait until you see the café. If you follow me. This way please. Watch out for the body in the corner, you can hardly see it but the legs are sticking right out and are liable to trip you over.”

Luke thought that Sheriff Dawson sounded like some kind of ghoulish tour guide, “And on the left you will see the lady with a severed head. On the right, the man who found a spear through his heart. And straight on, the best site yet with tens of bodies all lined-up together for your delight, with popsicles of blood everywhere.”

Outside the exit, Luke noticed that some heavy, white clouds were quickly forming overhead. They looked almost heavenly due to the illumination from the moonlight. Flecks of sleet floated gracefully down from the sky to wash away the human stains, and renew the landscape. Luke thought how in years to come, this might all be forgotten. There would be walkers and skiers, amorous couples and families, all walking around this area, enjoying life and having a good time, unaware of the terrors faced by the ghosts walking invisibly alongside them.

Luke was startled from his thoughts by the bright, sporadic flashes from the forensic team’s cameras, as they attempted to catalogue all of the corpses.

In the distance, by a lamplight, Luke made out a pile of bodies. He looked across at Dan, lost for words. Dan was looking back at him, looking equally disturbed. Luke wondered how anyone could possibly do this. What sort of mind-set must someone have to commit such atrocities? They must be mentally insane, or maybe just evil. Seeing the number of victims reaffirmed Luke’s suspicions that there must be a group or some kind of cult involved here. One person could not do this alone in such a short space of time.

“We have counted 21 bodies in this pile alone, so far. Mind you, some of them are pretty chopped up, so there could be more. I suggest we leave the forensics to it and move on to the café.” Sheriff Dawson said, matter-of-factly, before beckoning them on, “This way.”

Sheriff Dawson led them past the pyramid of dead people, and down a long path. Luke stared on at the mound of corpses, twisting his head around as they went past. He really was like a tourist now, desperate to spend every possible second with the star attraction. This image would be indelibly inked in his mind for the rest of his life. He had seen nothing like it, except photographs or recordings of war time or pestilence; he imagined such stacks of bodies would have been commonplace during the time of the Plague or when Hitler was in power. Here and now, it was alien and shocking.

The bar was fully lit up and, on approaching it, there was no obvious sign that anything was wrong. It simply looked like a normal place to go to have a drink, with welcoming neon lights and billboard drink promotions to attract people in. Now, it would be infamous, known to the world forever for the horrors that happened within.

The press had not yet arrived on the scene but it was only a matter of time before their sources reported the latest killings, and then they would swarm in, like bees coming to collect pollen from a flower in full bloom, buzzing around anyone who might have some information.

Dan did not want to be there when that happened. He already felt guilty that he had not been able to stop Pulcinella, and did not need to be asked countless times why they had still made no progress. Dan also hoped that, after seeing Bernie, he might actually have some positive news to comfort the nation that some progress was being made. Dan had no care for his own profile but he hated seeing the way that everyone had started to avoid going out at the end of the month, cowering away indoors to minimise the possibility of a deadly encounter. No one could really blame them. Seeing the images of the savaged corpses left behind, and the shattered families on their screens, was enough to make anyone afraid; no one wanted to be the next star of this frightful spectacular.

Sheriff Dawson parted the wooden doors and held them open, gesturing for Dan and Luke to go in first. On any other occasion, Dan would have viewed this as an act of politeness. Tonight, he was not so sure. Sheriff Dawson knew what sights lay ahead of them inside and clearly was in no hurry to see them again. She remained in place, stopping the powerful hinge from slamming the door shut, until Dan and Luke had fully entered.

The bar was eerily silent. The lack of noise was accentuated by the setting; unfamiliar and disturbing to a house of mirth and music. The smell of stale beer mixed with the heady scent of human excretions. Dan and Luke said nothing to one another, looking around at the scene before them.

Multiple bodies were slumped on the ground, covered in blood. Wooden tables were smashed, with broken glass and various intoxicants carpeting the floor. Chairs had been flung to the far corners of the room, as though positioned for dunces. It was a place where a torrent of violence had been encountered; it reminded Dan of the ending from an old-fashioned western movie, where all of the patrons had taken out their weapons and struck out indiscriminately at anyone and everyone nearby, desperate to secure their own self-preservation and uncaring about the fate of others. A fight to the death with only one victor.

Pulcinella, the maniacal killer, had ripped this place apart; like some kind of whirling dervish of destruction. Everyone was dead, except Bernie. Dan wondered again exactly why Pulcinella had spared her, and started thinking about what Sheriff Dawson had mentioned earlier about the messages; warnings deliberately hidden from the public.

“Director Harrison! Come over here.” Sheriff Dawson shouted out, “Quickly! Look what I’ve found.”

Dan and Luke both ran over. Next to Sheriff Dawson were a middle-aged couple, draped over the table with their heads flat against the sticky wooden surface, facing towards one another, open-mouthed. And nearby on the floor, a teenage boy was spread out, with deep crimson patches staining the back of his once-white T-shirt.

Sheriff Dawson held a compact camera in her gloved hands. She had turned the camera on, and was looking at the picture display on the back of it. The battery indicator light was showing one bar left, and it was flashing, so they needed to be quick.

They huddled around the small screen, like a family admiring some holiday photos. A smear of blood ran diagonally across the glass. This alone would normally be an interesting sight but the shot underneath it was a revelation. They could make-out a tall figure, draped in a sweeping black cloak. Its arms were stretching out with what looked like knives coming from its hands. Two red eyes stared menacingly ahead, from behind some kind of mask, into the camera lens. A blurred vision of terror taken by a dead teenager.

The camera automatically turned itself off as the battery died. Dan felt a sudden chill take hold of him, as if someone was walking over his grave.

They looked back up from the screen and stared at one another, still taking in what they had just seen. Dan’s mind raced as he thought about the image. This was their first sighting of the murderer. It seemed to confirm that only one person was involved, not a group as he suspected. The killer looked almost inhuman; a vampire-like nightmare. What were they dealing with? How could he possibly take down so many people on his own?

Dan’s internal musings were interrupted by Luke, who spoke out with nervous excitement.

“Well, that is one creepy picture.” Luke said, “What are those things coming out of his hands? I mean, I assume this is a man, given his height and all. They look like blades. And what’s with those red eyes? Maybe it’s the camera filter? I think he’s wearing some kind of mask too.”

Dan noticed that Luke was moving from foot to foot, clearly unnerved.

“Sheriff, please can we get a copy of the picture as soon as it has been analysed by the lab?” Dan said calmly, “A digital copy, please, together with a full-size print out would be ideal.”

“Sure, Director Harrison.” Sheriff Dawson replied, genuinely pleased to be able to do something to help, “I will arrange that straight away.”

“It goes without saying, Sheriff, that this image should be controlled with the maximum of confidentiality and security.” Dan said firmly, “It cannot get out into the press, as it could cause widespread panic. Anyone who wants to see it must have my prior authorisation.”

“Of course, Director Harrison.” Sheriff Dawson said firmly, “I can assure you that no one will hear about this from me. What a picture. It’s awful to think that this is the last thing that poor young man saw. I can’t imagine how he must have felt.”

The forensics team walked through the doors, causing all three of them to jump. There were photos to be taken, bodies to be outlined and bagged, and any trace of evidence collected; prized personal possessions would be sealed for testing and analysis, but would not be missed; the dead probably have no need of a wallet or a phone in the afterlife.

Sheriff Dawson’s walkie-talkie crackled into life.

“Sheriff,” A voice rang out, breaking the silence, echoing in the quiet of the room, unaware of the horrors surrounding it, “The hospital says that Bernie has been given the all clear, and that you can speak to her now. They haven’t told me anything. They want to speak with you first.”

“Ok, thanks Deputy.” Sheriff Dawson replied, “Tell them we’re on our way now, and not to let anyone talk to her until we arrive. Over and out.”

The trio quickly retraced their steps back to their cars, passing the growing number of officials on the scene. All units of the force were coming together to lock-down the site; to document, analyse, and obtain evidence.

Luke drove, with Dan riding alongside him. As they sped down the road, following Sheriff Dawson’s car, Dan suddenly felt anxious about the task that lay ahead. While he really wanted to speak with Bernie, he knew that her evidence would be crucial to the case, and suddenly doubted whether he was equipped to deal with such an interview. How do you even start to ask someone to describe an experience like the one Bernie had just gone through? Dan wasn’t sure.

Of course, Dan had questioned many victims of violent crimes in the past, but nothing compared to this. No one could prepare to encounter this sort of situation. Dan would have to rely on his intuition, and trust that his emotional intelligence was sufficient to get him through it. And he had Luke, of course. Although Luke was inexperienced in the field, he was clearly intelligent and thoughtful; perhaps the Academy had taught him some new interviewing techniques which weren’t around during Dan’s tenure. If nothing else, simply having Luke there was of comfort.

The hospital looked surprisingly small to Dan, although he questioned himself as to what he expected from a provincial town. There was only one entrance at the front of the red-bricked building, and the glass door automatically opened to welcome them in.

Dan inhaled the strong smell of bleach; the same antiseptic odour common to every hospital, chemical cleaners to wash away the inconvenient stains and smells of the sick and dying. He hated everything about hospitals; their deathly detergents, shiny floors, maze of corridors, incomprehensible signs pointing in every direction, sticky vending machines, and multi-coloured bed linens used to hide any bodily emission.

Hospitals only served to remind Dan of the many hours he spent with his mum, as cancer slowly ate-away various vital organs, leaving her to waste away in body and, ultimately, soul.

Seeing someone you love go through such a transformation, and at such a young age, was crushing. A vibrant, energetic woman turning into a hopeless skeleton; saggy skin resting on hollow bones. Sitting waiting for hours for her to die, with nothing left to talk about; you can only recount cherished memories and say “I love you” so many times.

Death came as a welcome stranger to take his mum away, but left Dan feeling alone with nothing but guilt, as he had prayed for her to die quickly to end the suffering, and anger, because they had been parted from each other so soon.

Dan was left alone. His successful brothers were too busy shoring up their fortunes in far-flung states, with their cosy bourgeois families, and did not make the effort to come to see their mother or to help Dan; no, they always had reasons to delay the visit, most of which Dan suspected were convenient fabrications. As for his dad, Dan had not heard from him in years and wasn’t prepared to break FBI protocols by tracing him; he wasn’t worth it, and, in any event, he had been out of Dan’s life for so long, there was no reason to bring him back. There was no solace to be found from his phantom father.

Dan struggled to focus, as painful memories returned as spectres in his mind. Luke placed his hand gently on the square of Dan’s back, watching him with a look of concern, having noticed that something was not right and wanting to let him know that he was there to support him. Dan gave Luke a sad-smile, in thanks. Luke stood confidently beside him, ready for the difficult conversation that lay ahead. All Dan felt was uncertainty and sadness.

They were met in reception by the Doctor in charge of Bernie. After some brief introductions and identification checks, Doctor Tern led them through the sterile, narrow corridors and on to Bernie’s private room.

There were no pleasantries or small-talk on the way. Dan simply focused on the clip-clopping of Doctor Tern’s heels on the floor, as she marched on ahead. He noticed that her hair was tied tightly in a top-knot bun, held firmly in place by some constricting red bands. The colour of the band matched her lipstick and shoes perfectly. This was clearly a lady who took pride in her appearance. Dan hoped that such attention was equally placed on her patients.

The bedroom was small and, with the four of them surrounding the single bed, it felt overly crowded. The plain white walls almost seemed to close in on them. A television hung on a black wall-bracket, almost resting on Dan’s shoulder. The news was showing, and the story was breaking.

“Terror in the mountains, as another month ends, and the notorious serial killer strikes again, murdering another 43 people. We now head live to our news team on-site.” The news presenter said, with well-rehearsed emotion.

Without asking, Doctor Tern picked up the remote control resting on the bedside table, and switched the television off.

Bernie sat looking ahead at the blank screen, her own reflection staring back at her out of the darkness. She then hung her head down low, to face the bed. From the angle at which he was standing, Dan could see the beginning of blood stains seeping through the back of Bernie’s blue hospital gown.

Doctor Tern began talking in a monotone, matter-of-fact voice, “The patient is in fair physical condition, except she has deep skin lesions on her back. Her mental state remains uncertain. Clearly, she has been through extreme trauma, and still seems to be in shock. This is to be expected in this type of situation.”

Dan felt angry and embarrassed that Doctor Tern was talking as though Bernie was not in the room with them. She had not even offered any introductions or explained who they were. Dan knew that medics had to keep some distance, to avoid emotional interference or sentimentality from clouding their judgment, but this was ridiculous.

“Thank you, Doctor Tern,” Dan interrupted, “We will take it from here.”

“Very well. I will be in my office should you need any further assistance,” Doctor Tern said before spinning around on the balls of her feet, and marching out of the room; head held high, posture-perfect.

Dan moved closer to Bernie and knelt down, so that he was on her level.

“Sorry about that,” Dan said, “Let’s start again, shall we? I am Assistant Director Dan Goodchild of the FBI. Please call me Dan. This is Agent Luke Harrison, and I think you might know Sheriff Dawson already.”

Bernie immediately raised her head when Dan said his name, and stared into his eyes. Her eyes were blood-shot, with miniature crimson lightning strikes flashing across their white background. She had clearly been crying. Any pigment of colour had left her face, leaving her snow-white. Her thin lips forced themselves open, almost sealed from being so dry, and having caked together from a mixture of congealed saliva and ointment.

“Bernadette,” she said in a whisper, “But everyone calls me Bernie.”

It was an automatic response, and she spoke without emotion, like an electronic voice on a pre-recorded telephone message. At least it was a start, Dan thought, some interaction.

Dan searched his mind for the next question but he did not get the chance to ask it. Bernie had become more animated; her cheeks were starting to flush. Her eyes were welling up with new tears. She looked at him searchingly.

“Did you hear what he did to me?” Bernie stammered, “Did they tell you how he carved up my back in order to send his message to the world?”

Dan noticed that Bernie’s voice was turning harder, and suspected the change in appearance was a look of anger, not sorrow.

She continued, louder, “Turns out, Director Goodchild, that the FBI, no, that that you have chosen not to deliver his previous messages, and now I am paying for your silence.”

Bernie started to undo her robe and pulled it down off her shoulders. She ripped off the blood-soaked cotton bandages to reveal her torn flesh.

“Here. Look. Look for yourself!” Bernie’s voice was now raised and getting louder, until she was shouting at Dan, “See what he has done to me! Go on, look!”

Bernie had turned her naked torso around, so that they could all view the message. Dan had not expected this and felt even more annoyed at Doctor Tern; she should have told them about this straight away.

Bernie was now in full fury, “So, I need you to tell me. No, to promise me, that you will do exactly what this maniac, this monster, wants! Can you promise me that? I need to hear you say it! You have to tell everyone what he wants. You must!”

The tears burst out from Bernie’s eyes, and she started to cry uncontrollably, heaving heavily, searching for her breath.

“Why did you not warn us, Detective Goodchild? Why?” Bernie yelled out, having lost all control over her emotions, flailing at Dan with her clenched fists. Dan just stood in silence, taking the pounding.

Luke pulled Dan back from the bed, and Bernie collapsed back onto the mattress, almost wailing. No one knew what to do, except watch in an awkward silence, with concerned looks on their faces.

Doctor Tern re-appeared in the room with a nurse, and started to prepare an injection.

“It’s probably best that you give her a little more time.” Doctor Tern said authoritatively, before turning back to Bernie, “Now, Bernie, we’re just going to give you a little sedative to help you to calm down and get some rest.”

Bernie willingly accepted the relief on offer. She quickly calmed, and closed her eyes, as the nurse gently covered her with the duvet. No one else had moved, spectators to this uncomfortable scene.

“It’s really late,” Doctor Tern said in a more gentle, persuasive voice, “Perhaps it would be best to let her get some rest. Come back tomorrow. We will make sure she is not disturbed until you return.”

“I think that is a good idea Doc.” Sheriff Dawson said, in ready agreement.

“Yes, come on Dan.” Luke joined in, gently turning Dan around by the shoulders and leading him through the bedroom door, back out into the corridor.

Dan was shaken by this unexpected outburst. He had never expected to be attacked by Bernie or blamed for the killings. Nevertheless, guilt started to creep in, as exhaustion from the day left him feeling weak and vulnerable.

Dan knew that he needed to get out of this place, and wanted some time to process everything; the incident, the photo, the message, the demand, and his own feelings. Maybe then he would be ready to take on the red-eyed demon of a man who had proficiently killed off so many people.

Back at the hotel, Luke persuaded Dan to have a night-cap with him. Just to calm them both down after such an overwhelming day; a friendly sedative to help them sleep. They took a table in the corner, far away from the last few guests who were lingering around the bar.

Luke looked around to check they were out of sight and earshot of anyone, and rested his hand on Dan’s leg.

“You know this is not your fault, Dan. You cannot think that.”

Dan looked down at Luke’s hand, and then back up at Luke. He nodded slowly.

“And yet, Luke, I can’t help thinking that I went along with the decision not to tell anyone about the messages. That hasn’t helped. What if we had disclosed them? Maybe there would have been no more killings. Or maybe the people who have died would have stayed safe at home. At least they could have made an informed decision.”

Dan continued with his stream of consciousness, “I don’t know. Right now, all I do know is that I don’t feel good about any of this. Maybe I am just tired.”

Dan let out a large sigh, and scratched at his head out of habit.

“Dan we cannot be controlled by fear,” Luke said forcefully, “Should we all just hide-away and do nothing? What is the point of living if that is our attitude? You would have more chance of getting hit by a car than being killed by Pulcinella. So, do we never go outside just in case it is our unlucky day? No, of course not, we go out. We stand up to be counted.”

Dan watched Luke as he spoke, transfixed by the sincere passion in his voice, and the intensity of his stare.

“Anyway,” Luke continued, “Had we published Pulcinella’s words at the outset, can you imagine the panic they would have caused? You know how many crazy people would have come forward to declare themselves the killer. How could we have tested them? No, you did the right thing. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel sorry for Bernie and wish she had not been forced to suffer the way she did, but I don’t believe for one minute that Pulcinella would have stopped killing people just because we published his messages. Do you? No, he has a taste for it, the self-righteous maniac. He won’t stop now. We have to catch him. And we will. He is already making mistakes, being photographed and leaving a witness. His time will come, Dan.”

Luke drank his whiskey, and slammed the glass down onto the round, glass table.

Dan hoped that Luke was right and, somehow, hearing him confirm it aloud made him feel better. Now was not the time to dwell on past decisions. No, he had to focus on what to do next.

Dan knew that revealing the messages now would leave him open to scrutiny and criticism, and might create an air of fear, but not disclosing them had not really helped the case. It might just be that someone, somewhere knows something. These words may prompt them to come forward to share information that could lead to Pulcinella’s capture.

Dan also knew that Bernie’s life was in danger; if he did not do as Pulcinella instructed then he might well kill her, and Dan could not live with that on his conscience. Dan would not risk calling his bluff. It had to be done.

He talked it through with Luke, who agreed. Not that Dan needed to consult him but he valued Luke’s input. They were partners in this, and he knew that he needed Luke beside him all the way, if he was going to get through this.

Dan swigged down his whiskey, and made the necessary calls.

Dan first spoke at length to Director Downton, who made it clear that he expected Dan to come up with some positive leads, and soon. However, he agreed to the press release, and readily conceded that full and frank disclosure might be preferable from now on. Keeping secrets was not working, so maybe the public should be fully briefed.

Dan suspected Director Downton’s support came from self-protectionism, so that he could not be criticised personally. However, Dan knew that, even if Director Downton had not supported his decision, he would have proceeded with this course of action in any event. Having Director Downton’s backing made it much easier.

The press junket was to be held tomorrow afternoon, after they had spoken again to Bernie and knew more about what had happened, and what they were dealing with.

Given Bernie’s reaction to Dan, they had agreed between them that it might be better to let Luke speak with her. Dan had initially resisted this idea but Luke’s was keen, and his gentle bass tones had proven persuasive.

Dan wanted to explain himself to Bernie, to try to explain the reasons for his decision, to take responsibility, and seek her forgiveness. However, it was too soon for this; Bernie was distraught and damaged, and she may never be ready to absolve him for his part in her mutilation. Dan knew he could only really obtain any sort of atonement by stopping Pulcinella.

Luke stood a much better chance of getting the much-needed information. In any event, Luke would be fitted with appropriate equipment to allow Dan to provide his input through an invisible earpiece, and to hear everything she said but, importantly, he would not be in the room to arouse her anger.

Luke agreed to take on the task even though he knew it was not going to be easy; it would be an uncomfortable discussion, and his questioning would naturally cause further upset to Bernie. The ‘nice guy’ in Luke did not want to do that, but he knew it was necessary if they were going to progress the investigation. He also wanted to help Dan.

Neither Dan nor Luke benefitted from much sleep that night, with too many thoughts racing through their minds, not to mention the pressure on them to get some results. They both awoke early. After eating a quick breakfast, washed down with copious amounts of black coffee, they drove straight over to the hospital.

Doctor Tern was thankfully out on an emergency call, so a nurse accompanied them to a small office to set up their audio equipment before escorting Luke back to Bernie’s room.

Luke knocked gently on Bernie’s hospital door, and slowly opened it, peering around to check that she was not asleep or indecent.

Bernie was sitting up; the bed having been mechanically raised to a right angle. The television was not switched on but she was still staring blankly towards it; her mind was processing the horrors of the recent past, and couldn’t cope with any further distraction.

“Morning Bernie,” Luke began, “I hope you don’t mind me coming back so soon but it is really important that we speak. There is a killer on the loose out there, and we need as much help as we can get to catch him.”

Bernie came to, and looked at him. She was pleased that only Luke was there. While she felt embarrassed about her attack on Dan, she was in no mood to apologise. Rightly, or wrongly, Bernie needed a release for her pain and anger. Dan remained a convenient target.

“Come in, Luke,” she said softly, “Here, come and sit on this chair beside me. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable but should do.”

Luke sat down on the red plastic chair. He passed her a paper cup. Small wisps of steam came up from it.

“I brought you some hot chocolate. They reckon having something sweet helps. Although I doubt if anything could help the way you must feel at the moment.”

Luke blew on his own drink, and took a sip. He knew it was a pathetic offering but he wanted an easy introduction to start the conversation.

“Thank you,” Bernie said, happily taking the drink.

They sat for a few moments together in amiable silence, enjoying the hot chocolate, and the accompanying artificial comfort it was providing; saccharin for the soul.

“Bernie, I have to ask you to tell me exactly what happened,” Luke said quietly, almost apologetically, “I need as much detail as you can remember.”

Bernie paused, and took another mouthful of her drink, “Luke, I am not sure I am ready to go through this. Not yet, at least.”

Luke noticed that the liquid in her cup was quivering, as her hands started to tremble. Bernie’s emotions were rising. Luke could hear Dan in his earpiece telling him what to say next. Just be truthful. Be yourself.

“Bernie, can I level with you?” Luke didn’t wait for an answer to his rhetorical question, “We have no leads at the moment. Nothing to go on. That’s why we originally didn’t disclose the information about the messages. If we had then we would not know whether the information we were receiving from the public was legitimate, and we could have caused panic. But now, we are stuck and have no way of stopping this from happening again. We will tell the press everything but we need your help now. Every second counts. He will kill again in less than a month, unless we can stop him. I know this is hard for you, and I really wish that I didn’t have to ask you, but we cannot wait. Please, Bernie. If you can. Please help us to stop this monster.”

Bernie paused for a moment, still looking down, but then she slowly raised her head, and nodded.

“Thank you, Bernie.” Luke said sincerely, “How about we start with what he looked like?”

Bernie exhaled heavily, and then spoke quietly, as though to ensure her attacker would not hear her incriminating testimony, “His eyes glowed red but seemed somehow lifeless. I know that sounds incredible, and I cannot explain it. I have seen nothing like it before. Maybe he was wearing some sort of night-vision device, or fantastical contact lenses. I really don’t know. A stare from the Devil could not have been any more terrifying.”

Bernie took a second to compose herself, “He seemed so tall. I don’t know what he was wearing, his clothes were indistinguishable it was all just loose, black, flowing. But he did wear some kind of weird mask.” She continued, “It was made of leather and had a long, protruding beak-like nose. It stunk of mouldy leather. And his arms and legs seemed to be made of weapons. They just came out of his body, and seemed attached to him. During the attack, there was a fury of metal. Flashing and glinting in the spotlights. Maybe swords or knives. And he also had guns, and some kind of gas spray.”

Bernie was now speaking quickly, as though trying to get everything out as fast as possible to bring the discussion to an end. She went on, without further prompting and before Luke could interject, “His voice was monotone. Calm and flat; emotionless. After all he had done, and yet there was nothing in his voice. He was also not out of breath.”

“What do you mean by that Bernie?”

“I ran away from him, as fast as I could, but he followed and easily caught up with me. Yet, despite all of this effort, I couldn’t hear his breath. I was panting, and in pain from the effort, but he showed no signs of exertion. I also couldn’t see his skin. Even when he came up close to my face, I couldn’t see anything except the mask, and those red eyes. Otherwise, there was nothing but darkness. Like some kind of phantom. I sound mad now, don’t I? Maybe I am.”

“And was he alone, or did you see anyone else?” Luke still could not believe this was the work of one person, and wanted to test this further.

“No, it was just him. But he moved so quickly, it was as though I was seeing everything in fast-forward. He killed so many people, so fast, and I thought,” Bernie inhaled deeply, put her head in her hands, brushed her hair back, and then rubbed the back of her neck, “I thought that was it, Luke. I thought I was dead. I tried to fight back, to get him off me, I even tried to stab him with my car key, but I wasn’t strong enough. And when he was cutting into my back, I was pinned down so that I couldn’t move. And it hurt so much. I felt every slice of his knife. It was agony but my body let me down, and I couldn’t get him off me. I should have done something more. I should have run faster, or picked up a branch and hit him. Anything. Instead, I was forced to lay still, waiting for the end. Sobbing, thinking about all people I would never see again. All the things I hadn’t done.”

Luke couldn’t help but be affected by this and, when Bernie reached out to him, he instinctively took her in his arms, and held her tight. Her body heaved, as she broke down again.

“I’m sorry, Luke.” Bernie said, with a gentle sigh, as she eventually let go of Luke, “You didn’t come here for this. I am just trying to deal with this the best I can, you know? I can’t really believe it happened. I think I am going to wake up and it was just some awful nightmare. But it did happen, and I cannot escape it.”

They talked some more, and Bernie went on to provide further details of the fateful evening. It had been a brief moment in time but Bernie told him everything she could about what happened.

“I just keep seeing everyone screaming. See the blood, the fear in their eyes, as they looked for a way out, the panic as they fought for their lives. It happened so quickly. All I could do was run. As they were cut down, shot, and maimed. How could someone do that? I just can’t understand it. Luke, you have to stop him. Please. I don’t think I can go on knowing he is out there waiting for me.”

Luke gently placed his hands on Bernie’s shoulders, fixing her with his eyes, “Bernie, we will get him. I promise you. We have our best agents working on this. But listen, you need to stay strong and focus on yourself. We will make sure you are ok. We will have officers with you day and night to protect you. No further harm will come to you. You have my word.”

Their discussion was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of a large commotion coming from outside the door.

“No, you cannot go in. Please, no, wait!” A nearby voice urged.

"Wait a second Bernie, I will see what is going on.” Luke said reassuringly.

Bernie, who was becoming seriously agitated, fearing the worse, that Pulcinella’s promise to revisit her was about to be upheld.

Luke peered his head around the door, and saw the officers tasked with watching over Bernie holding back a middle-aged couple, who were almost overwhelming them with their energetic drive towards the door.

“Let us see our little girl, please! She needs us,” the woman was saying animatedly, “Please, officers, you must let us in!”

Bernie must have heard, and started calling back to the familiar voice, “Mum? Mum!” She called out, reverting to an almost childhood cry for help.

Luke nodded to the officers to let them in. Bernie smiled at him, as he shut the door to give them some privacy for the reunion. Bernie needed this, and Luke knew there was little more information to gain from her at this time.

Luke felt his eyes well up, as he heard the tears and declarations of love echoing out of the room. It reminded him of what is the most important thing of all in life. Love.

“Are you ok, Luke?” Dan spoke in his earpiece. “Come find me, and we can talk it through. You were amazing in there.”

Luke was a sensitive soul, and Dan knew that he would need his support to bring him down from this experience. At least now they had verification that the photograph was of Pulcinella, and Bernie’s description fleshed out a little more of the detail hidden by the poor quality of the image. They could try to work up a profile from this. It was a start.

Dan waited for Luke with a cup of strong coffee in the small, hospital cafeteria. No one was in there at the moment but Dan knew they had to be careful when talking in a public place. The row of high vending machines, selling everything you might need, from toothpaste to trashy magazines, stood along the back wall. Dan sat as far away from them as possible to avoid their flashing lights, and the constant drumming of their electrical hearts.

Luke walked in, pulled out another plastic red chair, and sat down in it.

“Here,” Dan said, “I thought you might need this.”

Dan passed over the coffee, and realised that he was employing exactly the same technique that Luke had just used on Bernie. Luke didn’t seem to notice, or care; he was just grateful to be back with Dan.

“How do you get over something like that, Dan? I have to admit that I am struggling to cope with what I have seen but to actually live through it. To watch people being slaughtered, and then to be hunted down yourself. I don’t see how she will ever recover.”

“I know this is trite to say, Luke, but some people really are stronger than you think. Maybe they will never get over it but they live-on. And maybe they will be grateful for being alive, or perhaps they will feel guilty for being the one to survive, or just get angry that this ever happened. Other things will come into her life to distract her from the horrors of the past. It will get easier for her with time, even if now that seems like an impossibility. Bernie is strong. I know she will get through it. Just as you will, Luke.”

Dan thought back to his time with the Tennessee Torturer. He spoke from personal experience.

“I know you’re right, Dan. I just find it hard to take it all in just now.” Luke paused for a second staring into his swirling coffee, “Hey, what time is it?”

“It’s just gone 11,” Dan replied, glancing at his plastic watch, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just thinking we have a lot to consider before your press announcement.” Luke was trying to move the focus away from his feelings, and back to the job at hand, “We had better get back to the hotel.”

Dan and Luke drank the last dregs of their coffee, and headed out of the hospital and back to the hotel. It was pretty close by, so they walked. On the way they discussed in detail what Dan should say to the press. There was no easy way of dealing with this, and they agreed that he should just tell it how it is, notwithstanding the repercussions that might follow.

The thought of the press conference filled Dan with dread. He hated public speaking but admonished himself for dwelling on his own concerns, given how petty they seemed in light of what was going on around him. Still, it was difficult not to feel the nerves well up inside of him, no matter how much he tried to coach himself, or received comforting assurances from Luke.

The heightened camera lights surrounded Dan, focusing their blinding glares onto his pale face. An arc of microphones came next, closer to Dan and penning him in, ready and waiting to pick up his every word in perfect digital sound. And beside them, were a line of hodgepodge reporters pressing forward with their various news channel brands.

Dan inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly. The newscasters were intimidating enough in themselves but the thought of the watching millions was an unfathomable terror. Dan felt his leg twitch involuntarily due to the tension building up inside of him.

“Come on, calm down,” Dan said to himself aloud, biting his lip. He glanced over to Luke, who smiled reassuringly back at him. His lips were parched. He licked at them repeatedly, and kept swallowing every couple of seconds, desperate to moisten his throat to ensure that he could at least talk. He suddenly imagined himself letting out a loud croak. The absurdity of that, not to mention the reaction, sufficiently distracted his mind to allow him to relax a little. He took a final, deep breath. And then he heard himself speaking, as though he was somehow removed from his body. Dan could hear his own voice, see his own hands, but it didn’t feel like him. The inner professional had taken control to protect the scared, little boy occupying Dan’s mind. It was all very surreal but he was saying the right words, that he had rehearsed with Luke. It was going as well as could be expected.

“We know that we are dealing with an individual.” Dan spoke confidently, having detailed the recent killings, and the messages left behind at each crime scene, he was moving on to the description of the suspect, “A tall, thin man. Estimated to be around six-and-a-half foot tall. Highly athletic, and proficient in the use of a variety of weaponry. He was last seen dressed in a long, black cloak, and wore what we believe to be some sort of Venetian, leather mask to hide his identity. The key feature of this mask is a long, beak-like, nose. We believe that he also uses modern technology to track his targets. The accuracy of his aim in the dark, together with what we believe to be red, laser sightings attached to his eyes, backs this up. Following this interview, we will release an image taken by a brave, young victim. We ask that any information that may help us in our investigations is immediately passed on to your local sheriff’s department, or passed on directly to my team, who can be contacted on the telephone number now showing at the bottom of your screen. We know these are worrying times, and we are doing everything we can to stop Pulcinella, but we need your help and urge you to come forward. My thoughts are with the families of those affected by these terrible attacks, and rest assured that we will be doing everything within our power to bring this murderer to justice. You will understand that I have to press on with the investigation, and so I will not be taking any questions directly at this time.”

Dan stepped back into the hotel, and was quickly followed in by Luke. He could hear the cries of his name coming from outside, as the reporters pressed towards the entrance, hungry for more information, and for any exclusive detail which they might be able to get, to help advance their own careers, rather than to help catch the killer. The officers on patrol kept them away.

Luke was waiting for him, already inside. He smiled at Dan, and raised his thumb upwards. The performance had gone well.

The online reporting was immediate. A prolific serial killer was on the loose. The purge of Pulcinella. Prowling Pulcinella. Pulcinella the Predator. Live now or die. Find the joy in every day. So many differing warnings. The message was out.

Every day from then on, the news reporters crafted their stories and reports for maximum effect, constantly providing visuals of the killings and repeatedly reading out Pulcinella’s messages. The fear and panic setting in society was almost palpable. The people listened, and started adhering to their orders. Sales in overseas holidays peaked. Self-defence classes filled. Personal credit sky-rocketed. Shops selling luxury goods became over-crowded. Divorce and emigration applications soared. Gun sales hit new highs. Bullets ran out.

Then, as the evening of the last day of the month approached, the streets completely emptied as everyone rushed home to hide-away behind locked doors, hoping that Pulcinella would not find them. But no one was safe.

NINE

The golden, glittering letters spelling out the Northern Hotel’s name, and marking its entrance, stood out starkly against the onyx backdrop.

Looking at the sign, you would be forgiven for thinking it was a jewellery shop and, even after the addition of the word “Hotel” to the sign, the receptionists still sometimes found lovers lost in their lobby looking for that perfect ring.

The hotel had grown over the years. The demand for rooms was such that they had taken over the adjacent department store, and converted it into more rooms. Now, the towering conjoined building was one of the biggest hotels in the up-and-coming business district.

The manager made false promises of five-star luxury for three-star prices. The economic downturn, coupled with the ever-present need for social media updates, assured the hotel’s success, as vainglorious adults described yet another amazing stay in a top establishment. The illusion of superiority more important than the reality of the experience.

Pulcinella had chosen it for this very reason. A crowded lobby of self-interested individuals was guaranteed. It could come and go at will without being noticed or questioned. The management had cut costs wherever it could; staff numbers and security systems were efficiently minimal.

Transforming its appearance to that of a middle-aged male, matching its plastic skin tone to one of the commonly seen pink hues, and wearing an ubiquitous navy suit, meant that Pulcinella looked like nearly half of those passing through the corridors on any given day.

The one security guard, disguised as a lobby assistant, could not possibly recognise all of the guests or differentiate between the indistinguishable masses. Pulcinella could come and go as it pleased.

The small steel lifts had no surveillance devices installed or extra security measures.

Each floor looked almost identical, with long, narrow corridors, flanked on either side by plain wooden doors facing each other.

Two cameras were installed at either end of each of the long corridors, one of which was a dummy camera; Pulcinella found that the one working device could be disabled remotely, and that no one responded when this happened, which suggested they were not actively monitored.

The room doors had no “spy holes”, and a card merely needed to be flashed at the door to open it, which Pulcinella could easily replicate or override.

The crowded warren of rooms provided an accessible source of prey. There would be no escape from these comfortable burrows.

On the last night of the month, Pulcinella stood outside in the rain, watching and waiting for nightfall. It did not feel the delicate splashes of cool water bouncing off its plastic frame, or the cold kisses of the late Autumn air. Dusk fell, and the hotel sign glowed welcomingly.

Pulcinella entered through the revolving door, and proceeded to the lift. It looked at the panel of illuminated numbers. A deathly lottery for the sleeping masses above. A push of a button which would decide their fate; live or die.

Pulcinella did not choose at random, it had calculated that the top floor was preferable to minimise the risk of any escape. The windows were restricted so that they would only open a little; even if they were forced, there would be nowhere to go, as the rooms were so high up. The fire exit stairs would take a long time to go down. There was no one above to hear, and the sound proofing would stop most of the noise from travelling below. Floor 15, your number is up.

Marshall disliked business trips, and yet he found himself often in hotel rooms. Travel was a necessary element of his role and there was little he could do about it, except start-over. Realistically, he could not do this. He felt 44 was too old to take-up a new career or try something different. And it was not so far off until retirement. Only 20 years or so. He spent many a moment dreaming of the day when he would no longer have to work, and wishing his life away.

Marshall sighed, as he looked down at yet another tray of familiar food. At first, Marshall found ordering whatever he wanted and eating carefree, sitting in nothing but his underwear, chewing with his mouth open, and using his fingers, to be liberating and enjoyable. But the novelty of room service soon wore off, and now it just left him feeling unhealthy and disgusting, like some kind of fat ape.

The ubiquitous burger with fries was tonight’s speciality. Marshall wondered how this could ever be passed off as a notable offering. He looked at the plate smeared with tomato ketchup and rice-sized grains of salt. His lips felt dry due to the combined attack coming from the heavy seasoning coupled with the powerful air conditioning.

Marshall never felt as lonely as on these occasions. He missed his wife, and wondered what she was doing. They spent their life together, with no children and only a few, transient friends.

Here, in this room, there was only CNN for company, with the same story playing on a loop. Or his sales pitch, which he had learnt by rote. Marshall didn’t particularly like convincing people to buy his company’s products but he was good at it.

He thought of the effort he had put in at college to get the best grades. The hours he had worked, not to mention the pressure and stress, to become the best. And with a joint high income, he and his wife had moved to an expensive neighbourhood, chaining themselves to an interest-heavy, mounting mortgage, so large that they would have to work longer, leaving little time for respite together before the big sleep.

And now at the top, he found himself alone in a mid-range hotel. Beholden to even richer men and women, demanding more of his time. There was little left to give. He regretted wasting his life, and contemplated the folly of the masses who thought wealth and status to be of any real importance. Marshall chuckled at the irony, realising his mistake too late.

Marshall thought how he should cash in now, and open a little coffee shop with his wife or go back to doing an easier job, with a request for flexible time, so he could rediscover past pursuits and old loves.

Of course, deep down he knew that pride and pragmatism wouldn’t permit either option. It takes a bold person to throw away a gilt-framed life for the possibility of a fickle dream. Marshall liked to think about it, even though he would never do it; it made him feel better, his adventurous soul survived. Escape was possible, even if illusory.

Marshall sat in his boxer shorts and loose, white T-shirt. He never had time for exercise but was naturally slim, and so naively thought that he could eat whatever he liked. Unbeknown to him, fat lurked in his arteries, building up, waiting for an assault; the stealthy killer was well-positioned to take its shot.

There was a gentle tap on the door. It must be the pretty, young server come to take away my tray, Marshall thought. He called out for her to wait, as he rushed to grab his overlarge, fluffy, cotton bathrobe. His big toe pressed for release from his sock, which he pulled off to give him a resemblance of respectability. He donned a large smile in preparation for his imminent charm offensive; not that he had any intention of acting on any advance but it was always nice to fantasise, and it was normal to try to impress beautiful people.

Marshall opened the door quickly, and the do not disturb sign flew off. Immediately he felt something scratch across his throat. Confused, Marshall grasped at his neck with both hands. He saw blood spurting between his fingers, cascading to the floor. Looking into crimson eyes, he was pushed hard back into his room, and fell to the ground. The door shut quietly.

As he lay on the floor, he could smell the remains of his meal coming together into an unpleasant odour of stale onion and fried flesh. His hands were soaked with his own blood. Marshall clung on, almost strangling himself to stop the flow.

The reality of the situation hit him. This was it. Marshall thought of how he wouldn’t see his wife again. Worried for her grief. Wished he had held her longer, and used all those lost moments. Told her more often how much he loved her. No more opportunity for anything. No happy retirement. His hands loosened, as his strength and soul left him. The carpet reddened all around him.

The hotel corridor was long and narrow, to maximise the space. The brown carpet looked relatively new, and its dark geometrical patterns disguised the many stains trodden in to it. It softened under the dim lighting and looked almost like some sort of optical illusion. Snaking straight up to the entrances of its 30 rooms.

Pulcinella needed to move quickly and quietly. Starting from the far end, it would follow the shapes down the landing, until it reached the emergency exit stairwell at the other side. It moved silently to the adjacent room.

Pulcinella could see the heat signatures in the room, seemingly lying next to one another, unmoving. It listened and heard the gentle purrs of someone snoring lightly. A small spherical camera slid down Pulcinella’s side, and slipped under the door. Pulcinella observed.

The couple were asleep on the bed, spooning each another. Both with their mouths wide-open, gasping in oxygen from the hot, suffocating air-conditioning. The woman kicked out, from a fall in a dream, stirred briefly, and then went back to sleep.

Pulcinella retrieved the sight, and raised its palm to the door’s card reader. It clicked open. Pulcinella entered, standing on the wine stained shirt and shiny blue bra on the floor, passing the bin with oily tissues, ripped packets and foils, moving towards the sleeping middle-aged couple. It touched the side of the man’s temple, who jolted violently, and then fell still. It immediately did the same to the woman, who jerked in some inelegant electric dance before stopping dead. The fatal shocks left the lovers in one final embrace.

“Thank goodness that racket is over.” Janey said to her husband, in the adjacent room.

“Really, why people think we all want to hear them at it is beyond me. And those shrieks. Oh, come on. That was really some of the worst acting I have ever heard. Thank goodness I couldn’t see what was going on, although the detailed descriptions unfortunately left little to my imagination. At least our neighbours have nothing to worry about from us, do they honey?”

Janey over-enthusiastically plumped her pillow, smiling to herself. A pillow that was full of dreams from the hundreds of people who had slept on it before her. She sat up, propping her heavy book, which was half-read, against her legs for support.

“That’s right honey.” John said, only partially listening to Janey, preferring the news report on their hotel television.

The programme was a one-off special on the efforts we all need to take to save our oceans from devastating pollutants. How marine life had so much plastic in them that they could be dangerous for human consumption. He worried that the fish he ate this evening might now be feeding a tumour in his stomach; the hypochondriac in him taking over.

The television had become a permanent fixture in their bedroom. After the end of an exhausting day, it was much easier to watch the box than make love.

Janey was not that interested in sex anymore anyway. It seemed that tormentor had lost its interest in her. And that was ok with Janey. Life seemed easier without it. No temptation or wandering eyes. No lustful fantasies or tempting affairs. It is easy to be bad but difficult to stay good.

Not that Janey had ever strayed, but she had thought about it often, and once nearly did. Still, the noise from the couple next door reminded her of some happy times, and she suddenly missed her carnal longings.

Now that they had stopped, she settled down and returned to her book, putting such thoughts out of her head. Scared that the giant within her might be re-awakened.

Janey was really enjoying her book, it was a self-published novel about a dystopian future where a new plague had returned to wreak havoc on society. Janey felt confident that she would survive in one of these apocalyptic scenarios. She almost wished for it to happen to prove the strength of her mettle.

Janey realised that she had read the same sentence about four times. She could not focus because of the constant energetic reporting coming from the screen. She looked up. More dead sea creatures coiled up in plastic. It was revolting, and she wished John would change the channel. Or, better still, switch it off altogether and go to sleep.

Janey sighed heavily, hoping that John would take the hint and, at least, turn down the volume. Of course, he didn’t. She turned her head and stared at him. He was still handsome, even though his hair was grey and thinning, his wrinkles were deepening and more pronounced, and hairs had started to grow vehemently in the most unusual places, creeping out of his ears and nose. It all added to his overall character, and she wouldn’t change anything about him.

John was the strong but silent type. He had always been there for her. Grasping Janey’s hand when their first born arrived, holding her defeated, shaking body when the second arrived far too early for this life, made all the arrangements when her father died and the bottom fell out of her world, and accompanied her on these weekly visits to see her mother who was fading before their eyes, losing the memories of her life to dementia. She thought on. Some noise could be forgiven.

Janey decided she might need one more trip to the bathroom to try to get her through the night undisturbed. She sat down on the toilet and waited. Looking around, Janey noticed names etched on all the shining porcelain bathroom furniture; it all sounded very fancy. A little came out. She wanted more, and pressed her stomach.

“Oh, come on. I know there is more in there.” She said to herself.

Looking up at the ceiling, she noticed some mould patches growing in the corners, and tutted disapprovingly.

There was a knock at the door. Typical, Janey thought to herself, whenever you go to the toilet or have a bath, someone always wants to come and clean your room or turndown your bed.

“John? John! Will you get that please?”

“Can’t you? I’ve got nothing on.” John called back to her.

“I’m on the toilet, John. Just pull on your pants, and see what they want. It’s probably just a final check that we don’t need anything else before bedtime.”

Janey made a mental note to complain to the manager about this tomorrow. They should not be knocking on your door at this time of night. She might well have been asleep.

Janey heard John stumbling around the room, heavy footed. Well, that will wake up the people in the room below us, she thought. The door clicked open, but Janey could hear no voices, no discussion. Perhaps John had needed to go out for something with them.

“John. John? Who was it?”

The bathroom door handle turned. Janey stood up quickly, pulling up her underwear to maintain her privacy. Even though it was John, she didn’t want him to see her naked or struggling to pull up her knickers.

“John, wait.” She said urgently, “I told you, I am on the toilet. You can’t come in yet.”

Janey watched in disbelief as the lock slowly turned, manipulated from the other side of the door. An easy manoeuvre.

The door was flung open, narrowly missing Janey. She had barely a second to register the figure standing before her. Tall, cloaked in dark clothing, red eyes burning her face. A masked monster, hooked nose pointing towards her.

What was happening? Her brain could not take it in. She was terrified. In shock. Emotions mixed within her mind, stalling her reaction.

It moved towards her. She opened her mouth to cry out. Smoke suddenly seeped out of its large nostril holes. Janey gasped, sucking in the poison, and started to choke. Janey desperately tried to breathe, heaving in and out, but she could not take in any air. She slumped heavily on to the tiled floor. It was cold. She was cold.

A final word, said with so many feelings and meanings attached to it, “John.”

Pulcinella turned to leave, walking past the man lying on the bed in a pool of blood. It closed the door gently behind it.

Pulcinella had decided that shocking and gassing the sleeping inhabitants would be the best method tonight; quick and silent. But its plans were thwarted, as more people were awake than it had predicted, and the purge was taking much longer as a result. Pulcinella calculated that a quicker pace was needed, and recalibrated the scenario.

The analysis suggested that there should be no knocking on doors, no soundings or pre-emptive viewings, just go straight in to the rooms, kill by whatever means necessary, and get out.

Two bickering sisters in the next room quickly found their trivial argument cut short. Left holding one another, and wishing they had been kinder.

A showering insurance broker had his tuneless singing stopped by a spear ripping through the plastic shower curtain, plunging deep into his chest. Suddenly forgetting the new car which he had been thinking about, as red waters funnelled down the greedy plughole.

A joyous preacher left early for his eternal heaven, wondering where his god was as the pain from the slicing blade tore away his faith.

Tourists dreaming of their next holiday, while still on the current one, lost their opportunity to see any more of their bucket list sights, as the toxic gases guided them to their last journey.

This was faster. Pulcinella was back on schedule. It approached room 1524.

Lucy had never liked hotels. She did not like sleeping where the hundreds had been before her, leaving skin, saliva and excrement. Avoided cups and glasses sipped by the masses, or left rim-down on some dirty shelf. Feared the readily accessible door between her and the outside world, worrying that someone might enter at any time. That a bellboy would come in, or the room was mistakenly double booked and another tourist would slouch in, to invade her privacy, or worse, a failure to tip could result in some sort of grisly revenge.

Lucy could also not sleep if there was any light in the room. At home, her bedroom was a dark cavern with blackout blinds and curtains, with all sources of lights banished. In a hotel room, she had to try to remove any trace of light; clock LEDs and flashing smoke alarms were a particular annoyance. She was convinced that she could see them, even with her eyes closed, and they kept her awake.

There was no hotel room in the world that she knew of that could address all of these issues. So, as usual, Lucy pulled off the bedding, and had taken it into the bathroom, together with any spare pillows or extra blankets. She made a kind of nest on the floor.

She liked bathrooms. There were no lights, and she could lock herself in. It was the only way she could get any sleep in a hotel. The additional barrier at least providing her with some extra time in case of a room invasion.

The bathroom in the Northern was larger than most of the hotels Lucy had visited recently, so there was actually space enough to stretch out her tired limbs, rather than being forced to curl up into unnatural shapes and positions to fit in.

Lucy covered herself in the blankets, and rested her head on a pillow, which was propped up against the wash basin’s stand. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Her maniacal mind wouldn’t allow it and, instead of concentrating on fluffy animals jumping over wooden fences, she started to dwell on tomorrow’s interview.

Lucy wondered how she could possibly perform well seeing as how she had no genuine interest in the role. None of her previous interviews for similar jobs had gone well. She was convinced that she must be generally unlikeable. Or maybe it was the way she looked or the clothes she wore. Perhaps she was just naturally incapable of being put on the spot, and answering questions.

Lucy was becoming increasingly anxious. At this rate, she would have to rely on family handouts for the rest of her life. Having wealthy parents certainly helped from a financial point of view but this did not make her happy. She often thought that the cash was a convenient substitute for any meaningful affection.

Perhaps that was why Lucy had failed to fit in with society, and couldn’t get a job. Being brought up by emotionless, perfunctory parents was it any wonder that she struggled to converse with normal people? If money is your god then you sacrifice your soul.

Lucy thought of running away from it all. Maybe she could find herself by doing some voluntary work; escape to a third-world country to help those in need. Strip everything away to see what was at her core. But then the thought of overseas travel scared her. Having to rely on a gravity-defying machine in unpredictable gales, or drifting afloat on an oversized construct in stormy seas, was not for her. And then there was the harmful heat and toxic serpents which awaited inexperienced strangers, to burn them with skin cancer or lick them with a toxic kiss.

No, better to get a job, Lucy thought to herself. Advertising looked interesting enough. Well, at least it looked appealing from the television shows that she had watched. Lucy also figured she would be good at coming up with ideas to coax money out of the vulnerable public. She had been doing this long enough to her parents.

Unfortunately, actually securing an internship was proving much more problematic than it seemed to be for her role-model fictitious friends, although Lucy appreciated that they were scripted to succeed.

Still for someone with Lucy’s high academics, applying for an internship seemed demeaning. Surely someone would recognise her talent or, at least, potential and offer her a starring role in this show. Lucy remembered the applause from her school days, and expected the same from life. But everyone is a principal in the show of their own life, and Lucy was nothing special.

Lucy heard a noise. It sounded like her door was opening. She was very tired, and suspected her mind was playing tricks on her again. She had stopped taking pills to stop the bad thoughts, as they prevented her from having an authentic existence.

Another sound, coming from outside the door. Lucy was sure she heard footsteps. It was happening. The thing she feared most of all. There was an intruder in her room. Someone had come for her. To take her or hurt her. Lucy was terrified.

Lucy tried to remain calm. She had rehearsed this moment in her head over and over again. Had seen it, almost lived it. Somehow seemed to know this would happen. And it was. At least this was some sort of validation that she wasn’t crazy.

Lucy reached for her personal alarm and pepper spray, which she took everywhere with her. But what if this was not an invader? It could be room service or housekeeping, and she could cause them serious harm if she went out and tried to repel them like a fly. Her alarm was also top of the range, and would emit a signal so loud that it would probably awaken half of the hotel. No, she had to remain calm and act responsibly. It was likely nothing.

Lucy stood up as quietly as she could, and leant her head against the door. She listened but could hear nothing. Her heart slowed. It was going to be alright. And then Lucy felt an excruciating pain in the side of her temple, as steel pierced forcefully through wood and skull. She fell to the floor, and on to her personal alarm. The siren screamed out for help.

Pulcinella forced the door open, and stamped out the sound. It knew this noise would have been heard, and was likely to attract attention. It scanned with its sensors, and detected that most of those left alive on the floor were rousing.

Pulcinella strode quickly outside of the room and set off the fire alarm system. This was enough for the remaining guests to start fleeing. One by one, Pulcinella swiftly executed them in a flurry of steel and silenced bullets, as they left their rooms, running for their lives.

It drew up a message in blood on the corridor wall:

“There is no fire.

Humanity has lost its passion.

Burn brightly now
before your cold end.”

Pulcinella

Pulcinella then hurriedly exited down the fire escape stairs, losing itself in the crowd of half-asleep, addled guests. Another successful night.

TEN

Luke stood outside the grand entrance to the Northern Hotel. He slowly moved his head upwards, as he counted the floors. When he reached the fifteenth, he thought of the sights which awaited him. More murderous mayhem.

Luke wasn’t sure how much more he could take. It was really starting to have a detrimental effect on his psyche. He found himself having nightmares of being chased by a faceless devil, being caught and cut up, before waking suddenly, drenched in sweat. It was abnormal for someone to see such horrors, so perhaps this was a normal response. Still, Luke had expected himself to cope better than this.

Hundreds of passers-by walked on the pavement adjacent to the hotel, all of them unaware of the ghastly acts that had recently taken place just above their heads, so close to their footfall. They walked quickly past the hotel, heads-down, as though sensing something was wrong within. In fact, this was just a typical sight in this district, where time was the most precious commodity, and any distraction was to be avoided.

Luke momentarily wished that he could share in their blissful ignorance of the killings. That he had never been asked to help with this case. Thoughts came into his mind of the families that would soon receive the worst possible news, that their loved one was dead. Not only dead but brutally killed. He doubted himself. Maybe someone else would have done better. Someone with more experience might have already stopped Pulcinella, and prevented this mindless violence. Perhaps it would be better if he stepped aside and let someone else help Dan.

Luke forced himself to stop thinking like this. It was self-indulgent and would take him nowhere. Dan had asked him to be involved; he must be strong and supportive. That is what Dan needed from him and that is what he would do. Luke steeled himself. He would stand by Dan every step of the way. He could cope with seeing the mutilations both in reality and in bad dreams. This had to stop. This was exactly his reason for joining the FBI. To make the world a safer and better place; a naive sounding thought probably shared with millions of other people but Luke genuinely wanted to do something good with his life; he could think of no better way than protecting the country he loved, and keeping people safe.

Luke felt a hand on his shoulder. A warm touch. He turned around to see Dan looking back at him. Any lingering negative thoughts suddenly disappeared, with Dan’s presence warding them away. Dan didn’t say anything but was clearly searching Luke’s face to see how he was bearing up. Luke relaxed his muscles and put on his best confident, calm face, “Let’s do this, Dan.”

Dan nodded, “Have you been in yet, Luke?”

“No, not yet,” Luke replied, “I thought that I should probably wait for you. The officer on the door told me that the forensic team is already on site.”

Luke looked back up to the top floor and, as if on cue, a bright flash illuminated one of the large, bedroom windows. The careful documentation of the crime scene was clearly well underway.

“Shall we go in then?” Dan asked, as though they had a choice in the matter. Luke nodded, and they walked forward together towards the revolving door.

The old, wooden door had been well oiled, and moved rather too quickly as Luke pushed it firmly, almost catching Dan as he walked out of the other side. It continued to revolve behind them, ushering in the cold air, as they stared around the large, rectangular lobby area. The floor was decked with chestnut stained planks of wood. Antique paintings hung on the wall in gilded frames, as the immortalised, wealthy subjects looked down with unflinching stares and unchanging smiles. Over-sized chandeliers dangled from the lofty ceilings, with shimmering crystals casting dancing rainbows on the white walls. Green leather, wing-back chairs, pinned with copper studs, rested their ornate limbs on crimson carpets. It was all designed to give an air of old-fashioned opulence. Luke hated the false vulgarity of it all.

Groups of officers huddled together at various places, animated in conversation, but all guests had been evacuated. They had been informed that there was an emergency situation but, of course, had not been told the true reason for their departure, which would have been inappropriate. Luke visualised some bespectacled manager ordering them out, “We need you to leave because a maniac has slaughtered all of the residents on the fifteenth floor, madam, and he might still be in the building.” No, sometimes the truth must be withheld for the greater good.

The concierge was gone; there was nothing they could help with now. The welcome desks stood empty, and probably would for some time. It was like an empty film set awaiting its actors.

Luke imagined that some opportunist entrepreneur would likely buy the hotel’s lease cheap, and use it to market paranormal experiences in the soon-to-be infamous killing suites.

Dan and Luke approached the officer standing in front of the two elevators, whose job it was to check identities and access permissions. He paced slowly back and forth but stopped when they came forward.

They flipped open their small, leather card holders to show their FBI picture, badge and signed credentials. “Assistant Director Dan Goodchild and Special Agent Luke Harrison of the FBI,” Luke said, “we need to go up to the fifteenth floor, please.”

The officer nodded, and pressed the call button. A large, golden pointer dial above the first lift started to move, counting down the floors to the lobby. The elevator did not understand the urgency of the situation, and moved at its usual, slow pace. The three of them stood awkwardly in silence, awaiting its arrival, before the doors pinged open expectantly.

“After you,” Luke said, holding the door, in case it decided to automatically close. Dan walked passed him into the small lift. Luke noticed that the carpet floor had the day of the week printed on it, as he followed Dan in; a novel touch for the mindless masses whose days all seemed the same, and blurred into one.

Luke pressed the button for the fifteenth floor, and thought about how Pulcinella would have done exactly the same thing only several hours earlier. How he would have stood and waited during the ascent, listening to the mundane music, before starting his killing rampage. The lulling tones of the elevator belied the monstrosities which it would soon present to its occupants.

Luke could normally cope in an elevator for a short time but the walls were closing in on him and, the more he looked around, the worse he felt. Dan was looking towards him, concerned. The enclosed space was limited but Luke noticed that they were standing closer together than required. He could feel his hairs bristle and reach out, tormented by apprehension, and excited by Dan’s close proximity. Luke breathed in deeply, as they neared the fateful floor.

The shining doors opened unhurriedly, as if building anticipation for the appalling sights which lay ahead. It did not disappoint. The camel coloured carpets lining the long, narrow corridor were soaked with pools of blood. Red hand marks were randomly imprinted on the cream walls, like some kind of gruesome graffiti. Occasional blood spatters stained the walls creating contemporary patterns. It could almost have been a modern art installation, Luke thought, as his brain tried to normalise what he was seeing.

The air in the corridor was warm, and stale. How many people had breathed it in, circulated it around their body, and exhaled it out, having drained it of its oxygen, its purity? Not now. The dead had no need for air, and any left in them was currently being disgracefully vented from their bodies. The lack of natural ventilation created the perfect breeding ground to propagate the stench of death and the onset of decay.

Dan placed a reassuring hand on the square of Luke’s back; it was timely and necessary. Luke moved on up the corridor towards the numerous bodies scattered along the floor. Each was covered with some opaque plastic sheeting, awaiting removal after being carefully chronicled and numbered, after having their final photograph taken. None of them would have believed that their last photo would be that of their hacked-up corpse; there was no warning to smile for the camera, no time to pat down their hair, or to apply some last-minute make-up, or dress in their smartest clothes. No, there was not time for any of that, and all that those looking at their images would see was a murder victim; a bloody pile of skin and bones, staring blankly into endless space.

Luke was grateful to be spared from seeing what lay beneath the sheeting but felt a deep sadness at the tragic loss. One of his family could just as easily have been numbered. It was all so unpredictable and random. Although, life is random, and nobody knows when their number might be up; it could be today, it could be many years. How could anyone believe this sort of massacre could help humanity? How could anyone have the mindset, let alone the stomach, to carry out such barbaric acts? Luke struggled to comprehend it, as he looked at the various tagged bodies which would now be part of a new family album.

“How many are there?” Dan stopped, and asked, one of the forensic team passing nearby one of the corpses.

Dan identified him as part of the forensics contingent because he was wearing a white, plastic boiler suit, goggles, and a restrictive mask, covering his nose and mouth to stop contamination. The team were like a fright of living ghosts walking the corridors alongside the imperceptible spirits of the recently departed; all dressed in similar attire to blend in, not wanting to scare away the quivering souls before all of the evidence had been collated.

“There were 42 in all, sir.” The forensic agent said remorsefully, almost apologetic in his tone.

Dan let out a heavy sigh, “And are you in charge here?”

“No, sir. Diana Laws has oversight of this forensic investigation. I think she is in room 1502, if you would like to speak with her. Brace yourself though, sir, it is quite a sight in there.”

The agent moved on, leaving Dan and Luke alone in the corridor. They looked at one another before walking gingerly around and between the bodies, down the corridor, towards room 1502.

Dan noticed that Luke’s face was white, and he wasn’t looking so well. Maybe he was pushing Luke too hard. Or perhaps he just needed a break from all of this for a little while. Time to gather his thoughts and rally himself.

Dan saw that the fire exit door was slightly ajar, and nodded towards it.

“An easy escape route,” Dan said disappointedly, “We will need the whole area searched and examined. Could you please go and make sure that the surveillance tapes have been preserved, and take a look to see if there is anything which stands out? There are two cameras here in the corridor,” Dan pointed them out, “And there may well be some in the stairwells or outside. Can you also check that the forensics team will examine the stairwell and surrounding area?”

Although this was necessary work, it could have waited a little while longer. The real reason for asking now was that Dan wanted to give Luke some respite but needed to delegate to him some legitimate work, so that Luke would not suspect his true motive. There would be plenty of photos to pour over later to detail every aspect of the scene. Dan also preferred to be alone when meeting people for the first time, as it was easier to build a connection and trust on a one-to-one basis. This seemed to be a win-win idea.

“Of course, Dan.” Luke replied, happy to leave the scene but not wanting to disappoint Dan or to leave his side, if he was needed or wanted, “If you are sure you don’t need me here to speak to Diana Laws?”

“No, Luke, you go.” Dan said encouragingly, “We need to check every angle as soon as possible. The timer has already been reset, and the clock is counting down to another month already. We have to act fast, and it is better if we split up for now. Let’s reconvene in, say, an hour or so?”

Dan did not like to be apart from Luke, but this was for his own good.

“Ok, Dan.” Luke said energetically, wanting to please Dan and suddenly finding his second-wind, “I will get straight on to it.”

Luke quickly disappeared back down the corridor, as Dan cautiously approached room 1502

Dan instinctively knocked on the bedroom door, out of politeness, before slowly opening it and entering.

Inside, there was a double bed backed up against the wall. Two bodies lay atop of the once cream blankets. One was wrapped in a, now familiar, plastic sheet; a new type of bedding for the unsuspecting victim.

Ejaculations of blood had sprayed all over and around the headboard, penetrating the porous, brushed-cotton padding. The bed clothes were soaked, with deep crimson stains spreading out across the entirety of the mattress, as it soaked up and swallowed the bitter juices of the stiffening lovers; the heat of their previous passion now lifeless and cold.

The other victim was not hidden, spread indecently naked on the bed, with a highly visible, thick cut channelling across the diagonal of his entire body. His arm was flayed out and hanging down over the end of the bed, without any support to protect it from gravity’s ceaseless drag. His torso was torn apart, with ivory-like ribs revealed and pointing upwards, to encage and display the neatly sliced organs within.

Dan had quite a robust constitution but the sight of this even tickled his gag reflexes, and left him retching. He had to turn away to regain control over this natural, human response. After a couple of seconds of deep-breathing, he regained his composure, and looked back towards the bed.

Standing over the bodies was another forensic agent. Dan assumed this must be Diana Laws, however, it was hard to tell as she was shielded from the outside world by her ubiquitous, plastic goggles and unisex, white coveralls. It could have been anyone.

Diana was peering down into the carcass, turning her head from side-to-side, bird-like, as though this was a normal sight. Dan wondered at her ability to do this. He squirmed some more, when she put her gloved finger in to the body, and started to poke around the fleshy interior. She was so deep in concentration that she had seemingly not noticed Dan’s arrival.

“Hello,” Dan said, quite loudly, keen to interrupt her macabre manipulations, “Might I have a quick word with you, please?”

Diana immediately stopped what she was doing, stood upright, and turned around. Much to Dan’s relief, her body was now acting as a wall between him and the corpse, so that he could no longer see the nauseating sight.

Diana pulled down her hood, and adeptly removed her goggles; her black hair falling gently on to her shoulders, and resting perfectly in place, as her honey-coloured eyes beamed keenly towards him. Smiling heartily, she reached out her svelte hand towards Dan. They could have been meeting at a social gathering, such was the warmth of her welcome.

“Ah, you must be Assistant Director Goodchild.” She said, taking his hand firmly and shaking it with rigour, much stronger than Dan had expected given her petite physique, “Diana Laws. Pleased to meet you. I was hoping you would call by.”

“Hello, Ms Laws”, Dan started.

“No, no, please call me Diana. And might I call you Dan? I believe that is your first name. I just can’t abide unnecessary formalities.”

Dan noticed that Diana spoke hurriedly, with an almost exuberant tone.

“That’s fine with me.” Dan paused briefly, to give emphasis to the fact he was following her request, “Diana.”

“Well Dan,” she continued without waiting for any questions, “We have quite a mess here. Seems like this poor, old chap didn’t stand a chance. Well he wouldn’t really, given that he was lying down.”

Diana suddenly let out a quick, little, repeating laugh; like the trills and squeaks a dolphin sometimes happily whistles out.

“Sorry. That was probably inappropriate in the circumstances. Really, though, Dan, if you didn’t laugh you would cry. And that would be no good. It could contaminate the scene.”

Dan nodded to show he was on side. While he did think that humour was out of place, he was not a judgmental person, and acknowledged that it might be necessary in certain professions to keep you sane; not that this tactic had ever worked for Dan but then he was not naturally witty, so it was not something he had ever deployed to help himself.

Diana did not pause for breath but there was something engaging about her.

“So, we have a male, approximately 28 years old,” Diana immediately resumed talking, “A large laceration across the length of the chest, probably made by a razor-sharp blade of about a half-inch in thickness. It cut cleanly through the ribs. Carved several organs. Heart, liver, lungs. At least death would have been pretty much instantaneous. It was pretty much the same for the female, except she was a bit older, about 42, my age. Naughty lady.”

Diana gave Dan a cheeky smile, which spoke more than words could ever do about how she was clearly impressed by the final deeds of this unknown woman.

“Well, at least she died having one last bit of fun. Or who knows, maybe they were in love. Or married. Although I find that highly unlikely, given they are in a hotel room having sex. Unless they are newlyweds, of course. Oh no, it might be their honeymoon.” Diana looked genuinely sad at this train of thought.

“Diana,” Dan brought her back to focus, “What about the others, how were they killed? Were they all the same?”

“Oh no. Well, actually, some were, but there were a lot of different killing methods used.” Diana was back to her cheery self, easily distracted from her temporary gloom, “Some were poisoned by gas, others shot, there were electrocutions, stabbings. Oh, and one person was speared. I mean, how do you even get into a place like this carrying such a thing? You name it. It is quite a list. I am chronicling it all in careful detail. There will be photos and detailed descriptions. I just need to finish up here, and then get it all down off my dictation machine. It will likely be sometime tomorrow, as I am planning on working through the night on this one.”

At last, Diana stopped for breath, and gave Dan another opportunity to speak.

“Do we have any eye witnesses? Were all of the guests on this floor killed?”, Dan thought he should get in all of his questions in one go, given it may be some time before Diana allowed him to speak again, so he continued, “Is there any helpful evidence?”

“No, they were all dead when the discovery was made. Apparently, the fire brigade had rushed in, locating the alarm which had been triggered, and found this instead. Can you imagine? What a shock. From my initial inspections, I would venture that most of them would have died quickly. That’s one thing at least but it leaves you no one to talk to, I’m afraid. Unless you know a spiritualist of course, my dear?”

Diana gave another little laugh but noticed the serious look on Dan’s face, and so she went on to provide some more answers, “There is very little forensic evidence that we can see so far but, of course, it is early days and we will have to cross-check the DNA against samples from all of the victims and hotel staff, not to mention previous guests. I did find some small pieces of steel from the insides of our Romeo here, and have sent it off for examination. It might be nothing but I suspect it came from the killer’s weapon. Unless he is a sword swallower, of course!”

Diana placed her hands in the small of her spine and leant back, with a loud crack, she sighed in relief, and carried on, “Sorry about that. Too much bending over, and not in a good way.” Another chortle, but she did not pause, “Realistically, given the high occupancy of this place, there are going to be thousands of differing prints, and we don’t expect to find anything; it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Our best chance will come from checking over the bodies to see what else, if anything, we can find.”

Dan was not a defeatist but it seemed highly unlikely that the forensic investigation would help them to catch Pulcinella. This killer was meticulously careful, leaving no useful trace at any of the previous scenes, and it seemed like this one would be no different. Of course, they had to check, and they might get a lucky break. Maybe that piece of steel would prove useful. Perhaps the surveillance footage would reveal something. Dan doubted it, but held on to a thread of hope.

“Oh, and I expect you have already seen the sermon written in blood? On the wall outside room 1514?” Diana could tell from Dan’s face that he had not yet seen it, “Well, I guess that’s your next port of call Dan. I had better get on here in any event. I will make sure to let you know immediately if I find anything significant, otherwise my full report will be with you soon, but not today. You should get some rest, you know. You look tired, what with those dark shadows hanging under your pretty eyes. Either that, Dan, or you have a side-line in boxing.” Diana looked him up and down, chuckling cheerily at the absurdity of the suggestion, and turned back to her work.

“Ok, well thanks Diana. I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow. I will leave my card for you, just by your bag. Call me anytime.”

“Uh-huh. Bye Dan,” Diana said, giving a brief wave of her hand, with her back to him. Dan had clearly been dismissed, so he moved on.

As promised, Dan found Pulcinella’s next message outside room 1514. How could he have missed it before? He had walked right past here. And then he remembered he had been talking to Luke at the time, and sending him on his way. Dan chided himself. He needed to maintain his focus.

Dan framed the bloody words in the screen of his phone, and took a picture. He could analyse the words later with Luke, and immediately sent it by instant messenger to the rest of the team.

The task force back at base received all of the same information which Dan was privy too. It was an impressive bunch of professionals, all with their own, differing expertise, coming together with the common aim of stopping Pulcinella; Dan and Luke were only one limb of this well-fed hydra.

Dan took some comfort in the fact that their unit had also been unable to find any leads, so far. It suggested that any distraction from Luke had been minimal, and had not prevented him from missing anything. Overall, Luke’s support was a definite overall gain, at least as far as Dan was concerned.

The team had not found any hidden meanings in the messages. Nor had they found any clues to the killer’s true identity; they only had the moniker ‘Pulcinella’. None of this was surprising to Dan. The messages were not meant to be riddles, rather warnings to the public at large. They had to be short and obvious to have maximum impact. This one was no different.

Luke caught up with Dan back in the lobby. Luke described how there was no footage from the surveillance cameras; all of them had seemingly malfunctioned at the same time, and were blind during the time of the killings. No one had noticed this until now. There was also no other camera in the immediate area, and the public cameras in the nearby streets were not primed for detailed viewing; being manually controllable, with the ability to zoom as and when needed but no such request had been made that night, and so they only maintained a helicopter view of pinprick-sized people.

“I spoke with the Manager of the hotel,” Luke continued his debrief to Dan, “and he confirmed that the hotel is now in lockdown and closed until further notice, with all reservations cancelled for at least the next week. However, they have allocated rooms for us all, seeing as how everyone will be working through the night, and will need some shut-eye. We have adjacent suites, and I have already taken our luggage up to our rooms. They figured we would need large rooms to sprawl out in, and thought we should have the best given we will likely be here the longest amount of time.”

Dan felt uneasy about staying in the hotel but could not deny it was convenient, and certainly much nicer than the recent motels they had stayed in. It was also past Midnight now, and Dan knew that both he and Luke needed to rest, they were both physically and emotionally exhausted; and they had some time before any evidence would come back to them, so now was an opportune moment to do so. Still, echoes from the recent murders resonated in his mind, and who knew what spectres might haunt the corridors tonight. At least Luke would be next door.

Luke awoke to a knock on his door. He had been in a deep sleep, and was startled. At first, he thought he was back in his one-bedroom apartment, that his tomcat had maybe knocked over the empty vase on his kitchen windowsill. A harder banging sound shortly followed. Luke came to his senses, and sat up, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the time shown on the bottom of the hotel television. It was nine-thirty. He had slept for seven hours straight. That was a record for recent times; lately he found himself stirring throughout the night with little proper sleep.

Luke had taken a quick shower before he went to bed, and found himself cocooned naked in a duvet. The sunlight streamed through a crack in the curtains, casting a prism of light on the otherwise colourless cover. The sounds of the traffic below and hubbub of everyday life drifted upwards, somewhat muted by the double-glazing, into his suite. Another knock.

“Luke?” Dan called out, “Luke, are you awake? It’s Dan.”

“Yeah, Dan. I’m coming. Give me a second.”

Luke grabbed his nearly-dry bath sheet and wrapped it tightly around his waist. He opened the door.

“Morning, Dan. Come on in. I must have slept through.”

Dan was standing in his usual attire; casual tan chinos, worn leather brogues, white shirt, with slightly rolled up sleeves, revealing his extra-hairy arms, and antique-looking watch. He was holding two cups of coffee and a brown bag, with small grease marks already seeping through. The smell of slightly-charred bacon drifted into the room.

Dan blushed deeply as he looked at Luke’s washboard stomach and abs, with his dark, chest curls leading down neatly to his waist, and on beneath the towel, to reappear on his muscular, tanned legs. This was how Dan would have imagined an ancient Greek athlete. Come forward Chionis, Diagoras, Milo, and claim your prize. Dan was momentarily lost in history.

“Dan? Dan.” Luke said, noticing that Dan had zoned-out, “Are you ok?”

“Oh, what was that? Sorry, Luke, I just had a sudden thought about the case. I have brought us some breakfast. I hope you are hungry?”

“Thanks, Dan. I’m famished. Let me quickly put some clothes on, and I will be right with you.”

“Yes, of course,” Dan said, somewhat relieved but also a little disappointed, “I will just go and sit by the window. Hurry up though, it will already be going cold.”

Dan knew that he shouldn’t be thinking of Luke that way, not only was he his subordinate but, more importantly, they were caught up in a terrible tragedy, and in the midst of death and chaos all around them; unfortunately, nature will always have her way, and there was no controlling his feelings and urges for Luke.

“I didn’t know whether you would want sauce on your bacon bagel, so I brought both red and brown. Oh, I also got some mayo and mustard. You just never know, what with your peculiar tastes.”

“Thanks Dan,” Luke called from the bedroom, as he hurried to get dressed, “Of course, it has to be brown sauce every day!”

Luke came over to Dan, and sat opposite him. Luke noticed a large brown package on the couch, in the lounge area.

“Are they the photos from Diana?” Luke asked, nodding towards the parcel.

“Yes. It’s all there but, trust me, you will want to eat first before you take a look.” Dan shook his head, “It is pretty gruesome stuff.”

Luke’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he needed to eat and urging him to get on with it. He tore the corner off the brown sauce sachet, and squirted it liberally all over the bagel, before taking a big mouthful. It tasted so good. Dan was eating slowly, and seemed to over-labour each mouthful, chewing slowly. Dan smiled at Luke, and gave a little chuckle. Luke smiled back, but not knowing why.

“What you grinning at, Dan?” Luke said, enjoying this calm moment together; he imagined doing this every day, and smiled some more.

“You’ve got some sauce on your chin,” Dan said, pointing generally towards Luke’s square jawline.

Luke started rubbing in completely the wrong place.

“There. Is it off now?”

“No, it’s still there.” Dan said, subconsciously capturing this light moment in his mind, to replay later.

“Can you get it off for me please?”

Dan reached across, and gently rubbed the stain from Luke’s soft bristles; a tender moment, in tough times.

“There you go, messy!” Dan said, wiping his hand on a paper napkin.

They quickly finished off their food, and moved over to the couch to review the documentation which Diana had provided. Dan had already gone through it before he came to see Luke, so knew exactly what waited within. He had also ensured that his team had been sent electronic copies.

Now everyone was studying the recent victims of Pulcinella. All naked and unnaturally posed, perfectly still for the camera. There was no dignity afforded to the dead. Their once carefully hidden frames now involuntarily exposed to the intrusive world; small endowments, horrific scars, thin legs, large bellies, broken noses, hairy toes, seen by all. All so irrelevant in the scheme of things, and all paling into insignificance, unnoticed, when contrasted to the wounds now scarring their bodies.

Luke took out the photos, and started going through them. Dan looked on over his shoulder. So many corpses, all in glorious, high definition to reveal every last detail; with close-ups of the most macabre elements. So many lives extinguished in a calm and calculated manner, with few signs of any struggle or panic. Indeed, some of the dead would have looked almost peaceful if it were not for the black scorch marks on their temples where they had been electrocuted, or the cut marks, where some sharp steel had penetrated deep within.

They spent a good part of the day discussing, and listing, all the various forms of execution, looking for similarities or a pattern, but there was no singular commonality or discernible rationale in the choice; except, whether ripping, slitting, stabbing, slicing, shooting, spearing, shocking, or gassing, they were all effective in bringing about a quick death. The killer was not doing this for fun, or to torment and torture. He was ruthlessly efficient, and his only motive seemed to be to kill as many people as possible to garner maximum attention, to reproach humanity, and spread his nefarious preaching.

Other than the photographs, and a summary of the causes of death, there was no further information available at that time. Diana had told Dan that it would take a good while to receive any lab analyses but, again, she would let him know as soon as she received any more news. All of the forensic work performed to-date had drawn blanks at every turn, so Dan was not hopeful.

The staff were all interviewed that day by local officers, to see if they knew anything, and also to check whether they had any ideas as to how the surveillance was offline and the guest room doors disabled. If it had not been for the previous murders, the staff may well have found themselves under closer scrutiny but Dan knew the likelihood of their involvement was minimal; this killer was too clever to defecate on their own doorstep. As expected, the interviews had revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

Dan checked in with headquarters. The team was reviewing hours and hours of historic footage from the hotel and surrounding areas to see whether there was any evidence that may be helpful to the investigation; but this was a tortuous task that was likely to prove unhelpful, as there was no giant red arrow hovering above the criminal to distinguish them from thousands of faces which, after prolonged viewing, easily blurred together into one analogous mass. The might of the computers might help with the process but they were not yet smart enough to spot a killer. There was nothing so far.

The team had, however, discovered a theatrical troupe which specialised in performing the almost extinct Commedia dell’Arte routines, from which Pulcinella birthed, but they were currently in Alaska, and all present and accounted for far-away from any crime scene. A brief excitement which had led to a dead-end.

Nothing new which could help them had come out of the day. It was like chasing a shadow. Dan felt exasperated, and really did not know what to do next. His head hurt, and he felt nauseous from the tormenting thoughts, coupled with the continuing pressure on him from Director Downton to actually make a breakthrough, and find the killer. This case was consuming his every waking moment, and could be his downfall if he was not careful. It could also bring down Luke, and that would be even worse for Dan.

There was nothing more that they could do today, while they awaited further news from Diana. It was getting late, and the night had drawn in already. They had been working on this case for months now, all day, every day, without any real respite. They needed a break, even if only for a couple of hours.

Dan searched on his smart phone for local movie houses. There was one only a couple of blocks away; an old-fashioned, retro-cinema playing classic films. It seemed that nowadays you had the massive multiplexes, playing all of the franchise blockbusters at top-dollar prices for an immersive experience, or quaint little cinemas playing old movies that cost them next-to-nothing to screen.

Dan thought that this could be just the distraction they could be looking for, although there was no choice in what they could see. Dan winced a little when he saw that ‘Dirty Dancing’ was showing; a personal favourite of his, but he was unsure how Luke would feel about a corny dance movie.

Happily, Luke had seemed genuinely delighted at the idea. His whole being immediately lit up, and he insisted that he didn’t mind what they went to see. Luke was happy just to get to escape reality for a short while.

“So, Dan,” Luke started, as soon as they were outside the hotel, “What is this movie we are going to see? I hope it isn’t a horror. I’m not sure that I could cope with that given everything that is going on around us.”

“Nope. No, horror. Although, I’m not sure what genre you like. You might find it equally as disturbing!” Dan laughed nervously, anxious about Luke’s reaction to the situation they found themselves in; going to see a romantic movie, just the two of them. It could have been a date.

“Well, I’ve never heard of this ‘Dirty Dancing’. Then again, song and dance movies wouldn’t normally be my first choice but, tonight, anything will do. It’s nice for us to get out, and forget about the world. I think my brain would have exploded if we stayed in that hotel any longer.”

“Ah, Luke,” Dan sighed, “It’s a classic. Maybe you are just too young. I can’t believe you haven’t seen it. I thought everyone had.”

“Well, not me! I prefer my action movies. Give me a decent car chase, and I’m in Heaven.”

Dan started to worry that this might be a mistake. Luke would sit bored throughout, and probably leave, disgusted, thinking it some trap to get into his affections. He might as well confess that he knew every line of the script, and shout out, “I’m gay, and have always loved Patrick Swayze.” At least that would be truthful and upfront.

“Look,” Dan began, “Even if it is not your genre, just think of it as brain candy. Nothing deep or serious, just a bit of fun. You can switch off and relax. And, I will buy you plenty of popcorn and ice cream.”

Luke smiled from ear-to-ear, “Now you’re talking, Dan. I’ll hold you to that! Oh, and maybe we can get some pick-and-mix, and a large soda?”

Luke spoke quickly like an excited child, and started to walk briskly in eager anticipation of the treats which lay ahead. Dan shook his head, and smiled. What was he thinking bringing Luke out to see this film? He really didn’t know.

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” Dan said, suddenly starting to get cold feet. “We could just grab a burger or something?”

“No, Dan. This is going to be great!” Luke said, approaching the ticket box.

The sign above them looked like something from the 1960’s, with a white lightboard, and horizontal black rails holding the red letters of the movie name in place; large bulbs illuminating the rectangular frame, and casting a soft glow on the main feature. It was so retro-cool that it could be new. Or maybe it was just very old, and kept in good condition. It was hard to say. Dan didn’t really care, he was just happy to see the gleam in Luke’s dark eyes as he stared up at it.

They bought an extra-large tub of caramel popcorn, and coupled it with the ‘mega-soda’; their hands looked so small set against the confectionary cartons, that they could have been in a land of giants.

The cinema screen was moderately sized, but there was no one else in the auditorium, so they sat right in the middle seats, with a perfect view, and no one else around to spoil the experience.

“Are these seats ok, Luke? Can you see alright from here?” Dan said, keen to ensure Luke was as comfortable as he could be. He felt instantly stupid when he realised what he had said. Of course, Luke could see ok. Dan had to tone down his eagerness to please. It was blindingly obvious.

“The seats are perfect, thank you, Dan.” Luke said softly, appreciating Dan’s concern, and resisting the opportunity to tease him. “Do you have everything you want?” Luke said, equally keen to make Dan happy.

“Yes, thanks Luke.” Dan was content just being there with Luke. He needed nothing more.

The lights dimmed slowly, and then there was deafening silence as they waited for the movie to start. No coughs, or loud movements from any crowd to help. Luke let out a little chuckle, breaking the awkward silence. Dan jokingly shushed him, and then laughed too.

It was not long before the music echoed loudly around the room; so many catchy tunes that would stick in their heads, and remain there for years to come.

Dan was envious of Luke seeing this movie for the first time; it was special to him but he could not recall the first time he had seen it.

It was the same as most important moments in your life, Dan thought, you don’t recognise or appreciate them while they are happening, and later you only have memories to take you back but the original magic is gone, and cannot be replicated, no matter how hard you try.

Still, it was always nice and comforting to see a familiar friend, and Dan felt instantly relaxed. His mind calmed, as he settled in for the film, next to Luke.

Dan watched Luke’s face out of the corner of his eye. In fact, Dan probably watched Luke more than the movie. He noticed that Luke was smiling throughout, and did not take his eyes away from the screen.

At one point, they both reached for the popcorn at the same time, and their fingers touched. It happened just as the on-screen couple became intimate for the first time. Dan pulled his hand away speedily, as though he had just received an electric shock. Luke just laughed but Dan was not sure why.

In the shadows, Dan noticed that Luke’s knee was so close to his that they were nearly touching. He let it linger there but resisted the temptation to move it nearer, hoping that Luke would take the lead. Dan’s breathing became shallow with anticipation but his expectation was left unrequited.

The constant closeness, without connection, was unbearable. Dan just wanted to let go, and touch Luke, but he knew that he must not do that. It could destroy their friendship, not to mention lead to his dismissal from the FBI, and a possible criminal prosecution against him. So, he held back his urges, and tried to reconnect with the movie.

At the end, Luke turned to Dan. He was smiling broadly.

“I loved it, Dan. I can see why it is a classic.” He chortled, “Mind you, I feel a bit sick from eating all of that popcorn.”

Dan looked at the empty bucket with astonishment. Although there were some golden corn puffs randomly scattered on the carpeted floor around them, having slipped through loose fingers, or dropped from over-piled handfuls, Luke had managed to get through the whole lot.

“I’m not surprised, Luke! Where do you put it all?”

Dan laughed, as Luke melodramatically groaned, and held on to his stomach with both hands, and gave it a jiggle. For the first time in months, neither Dan nor Luke thought about Pulcinella. They were happy in the moment, enjoying being together.

Dan leant against the wall, in the corner of the lobby, as Luke went to the toilet. He looked at his phone. Nothing.

Luke came out of the nearby door, and started strutting towards Dan, doing a little dance, wiggling his hips, moving his shoulders and head from side to side, and beckoning to him with his curling, index finger. Dan recognised the film finale.

“Nobody puts Assistant Director Dan in the corner.” Luke said, smirking, with a twinkle in his eye.

Dan blushed but was secretly delighted by this act. Luke did not want to embarrass Dan, and so immediately spoke to obviate any awkwardness.

“Thank you for tonight, Dan. It was exactly what I needed.”

“Me too, Luke. Me too.”

And then Dan’s phone rang, as if on cue, and the outside world came rushing back in to end the moment. Dan recognised this was a special time, and tried desperately to hold on to it, ignoring the call. The phone rang again.

“Hello Diana. No, no. You’re not disturbing me at all. I told you to call any time.”

Luke came closer to listen in, their cheeks nearly touching. Diana’s high-pitched voice came squawking out of the speaker.

“So, the steel remnants that I retrieved from our Romeo. The ones I mentioned to you. Well, it turns out that it is a rare Damascus steel. The metallurgist tells me that the techniques used to compose this grade could only come from a limited number of sources, and it is pretty uncommon. He’s not sure if it is a modern piece, or something older. It’s going to take some time to analyse fully, and then track down the suppliers, and owners, but this is a lead, Dan, and a good one at that! You can save the thanks for later. I am emailing you through the report.”

“That’s great, Diana. Thank you.”

“That’s my pleasure, Dan. Oh, and by the way, I have asked to be allocated full-time to the team working on the Pulcinella murders. So, you haven’t got rid of me yet!”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Diana. You have been a great help so far. If you find anything else …”

“Yes, I know,” Diana said, cutting him off, “Call me straight away. Will do. Speak later.”

Dan and Luke grinned.

“We’ve got a lead, Luke. At last! This could be the break we need.”

ELEVEN

A tired house stares out across a bleak garden, watching and waiting for something to come. It feels an evil lurking, moving slowly towards it.

The grass on its front lawn is browned and dying; even the weeds look sick from their efforts to escape the hard, dry soil.

An aged swing creaks and contorts in the winter breeze, shedding rust flakes with each sway, wishing for the snow to come to hide its shameful excretions.

Remains of roses, which had climbed boldly around the front door in the summer, hang dead and faded, ready to drop. Old, perennial Marigold plants have withered and buried their roots deep into the ground to hide away, waiting for sunnier times. Nothing else grows nearby, except thistles and thorns from plants bearing dark fruits or poisonous berries.

An orange light glows dimly through the old casement window, as the embers in the fireplace ignite, and continue their fight to warm the cold interior.

A man in his early fifties kneels by the large mantlepiece, his bones sore from resting on the stone hearth, blowing life into the infant flames, whose golden tones contrast starkly against the obsidian coals from which they birthed.

Simon stands behind him, with his hands on his slender hips, glaring at the back of a thick head of dark brown hair. His tall frame looming large over his father, casting the shadow of an impatient giant on the exposed brick wall.

“I really don’t see what the issue is, Dad. You will be out. You are always out, with the cows, in the shed, milking. And even when you are in, you just sleep.”

No answer. Simon knew how to provoke a response.

“Jeff. Did you hear me? Jeff?”

His dad hated being called by his first name. It reminded him of being told off by his authoritarian parents. It also felt cold and impersonal when used by his son. Simon reasoned that sometimes landing a low-blow was necessary.

At heart Jeff was a decent man who just never made it work with people, always preferring the uncomplicated company of the farm animals. He freely admitted this, and it was a hard truth to hear for an over-emotional son.

Jeff stood up slowly, knees creaking, and started to walk away from Simon, the dirt on his green wellington boots licking at the floor as he moved. He turned around and glanced at Simon.

Simon looked at his face, his dad was looking old and his deep blue eyes pierced right through him, but there was a flicker of love in them. Or at least Simon hoped that he could see love; maybe it was only his over-active imagination.

Jeff ran his dirty hands through his matted hair and sighed. The canyons of his forehead deepened. The rivers of dirt seemingly engrained in them only served to emphasise their depths.

“I guess I will be in the shed calving most of the night. Ok. You can have your party.”

“Really?”

Simon was genuinely surprised, having expected a battle, and defeat. Pushing to have a dozen people around to stay in the house on a Saturday night was really just a try on. He never thought his dad would agree.

In truth, Simon was not sure that he wanted permission. He was not a natural socialite, and the thought of hosting a party was unappealingly stressful. There was also the fact that he had few friends, so was not sure who to invite or whether anyone would actually turn up. But he was determined to change his situation. No one was going to do it for him. He needed to make an effort if he was ever to get out of his lonely rut. He was 21 now, and could not wait any longer.

“Are you sure, Dad?”

Simon urgently wanted him to change his mind. He was ready to give in gracefully but still be able to console himself that at least he had tried.

“Simon, I know you want this. It’s fine.”

And with this final decision still ringing in the air, his dad set off for work. Simon watched him walk over the grey-gravelled yard at the back of the house, past the window, and on to the farm buildings.

Simon remembered how as a child he would sit on the kitchen bench and stare through the window, anxiously waiting for his dad to come back home from the parlour. Worrying something might have happened. Nothing did, but he always thought it would.

Really, it was Simon that should have been concerned. If anything was going to happen it would have been in that house, not outside it.

It was common knowledge that the farm house had been built atop an ancient burial ground; and this was the truth, not just some horror story made up to scare him, he had seen the old plans. Investigated journals at the library. And, of course, checked various internet sites with the assistance of his sage adviser, ‘Google’.

However, Simon had only found this out following a series of unexplained happenings. The large chest cabinet in the dining area, housing hundreds of relic plates and dusty glasses, which took two or three people to move, shifted nightly; not significantly, yet enough to be noticed, with changing indents in the carpet. The thick velvet curtains in the living room occasionally took flight; lifting to a right angle without any natural agitation. Drafts sealed away. The water system was heated by the fire, without a thermostat to stop it from over-heating. The boiling bath water would produce a fog of thick steam. And yet the bathroom would turn icy cold in an instant before quickly returning to its hot-humidity. Bangs, knocks, and strange smells were common. Shadows roamed the bedrooms upstairs, not harming anyone but present and seen. Occasionally touching.

The catalyst for Simon’s research came due to the feelings he had, less tangible or physical, yet as striking as any other ghostly event. For no reason, he would feel fits of rage, or sadness, or joy. They came and went, fleeting fancies playing with his emotion. Of course, this could have been symptoms of puberty and growing up but Simon was convinced it was something more. He felt his very being fade into the background during such moments.

This was another reason not to invite guests to stay; Simon did not want to present the spirits with any more playthings to torment.

Simon set about preparing for the party, pushing aside any thoughts of the unholy house. He set up a social media group on his phone, and typed out the invite:

“Hi everyone! Party at mine this Saturday. Food and drink provided. You can stay over, but please bring a sleeping bag. Luxury not included. RSVP.”

Simon’s smart phone reported that most of his invitees had read his message. He watched the screen, anxiously awaiting a reply. No one commented for a good ten minutes. Simon began to fear the worst, that no one would be interested in his party, but then Molly replied:

“Awesome Si. I will be there. I will bring a couple of friends too. Trust that’s ok but let me know if not. Look forward to seeing you soon.”

Molly was the most popular person in the group. She was a traditional beauty, with long blond hair and over-large blue eyes, but was also smart, witty and generally personable, with a kind soul and infectious laugh. This guaranteed her success in any social circle, and people swarmed around her. Now that Molly had agreed to come everyone else was sure to follow.

Simon thought about the time when he had first met Molly. It was only a couple of years back but it now seemed like ages ago.

Their college had arranged a trip for their graduating students to go to Dublin, allowing them a chance to commemorate finishing their exams. For many, it was also a good opportunity to mark their eighteenth birthdays, and there was much excitement about the chance to get away alone, without any parents, to celebrate.

Simon had always been somewhat of a loner, lurking in the background of college life, and didn’t know anyone that well. The thought of going abroad and spending a month with the people in his class filled him with anxiety. So much so that, despite wishing he had the courage to go, he reached the decision that he would stay at home. When he casually mentioned it to his dad, he was met with an unexpected reaction. His dad was not a forceful character but, for some reason, he set out to persuade Simon that he should go. The force of his dad’s conviction surprised Simon and, eventually, he acquiesced. Simon did not want to disappoint his dad and, deep inside, he knew that he would regret it if he did not go.

The accommodation was a number of rooms in a youth hostel. Fortunately, they were all single rooms, so there was no sharing; although there were communal showers and toilets. It seemed an acceptable compromise. At least Simon would not have to worry how he looked in his sleep or what humiliating noises might escape him in the night. He would also have a place to hide-away; his own small sanctuary.

The room was actually quite nice, with a relatively large single bed, decent mattress, and a wash basin, which was disproportionately large compared to the size of the room. The walls were cream, and the floor was varnished wood. There was a little bedside table and a lamp.

Simon had just been admiring the room and thinking he would have an early night, when he heard a loud rapping on his door. Simon had arrived a few days after most of the others, as he had taken a later flight to benefit from a cheaper mid-week price, and so he could not think who might be calling on him. At first, Simon even thought that the ghouls from his home might have followed him to Dublin, but then he heard Molly’s voice calling out.

“Hey Si. Si! Come on. We are all going to Flynn’s, they are having a Saint Patrick’s Day party.”

“Err, no thanks Molly,” Simon replied hesitantly, standing close to the door but not opening it, “I’m fine.”

Simon had not really spoken to Molly before but easily recognised her golden tones.

“Si! I won’t take no for an answer.” Molly said forcefully, knocking again on the door, “We are all going. You have to come.”

Simon really did not have an excuse not to go, and did not have time to think of one, so he reluctantly agreed.

“Great!” Molly said, sounding genuinely pleased, “See you there!”

Little did Simon know that this decision to attend would end in the deaths of his as yet unknown friends. Or maybe it was all preordained, so this outcome was inevitable. From Simon’s first gasp of air as he screamed out of his mother’s womb, this would all happen. Perhaps destiny is real, and there is no defying her. The movie of Simon’s life had already been cast, scripted, and made. It could not be changed.

It was exactly the type of situation which Simon dreaded. Flynn’s Bar was full. People crowded beside the bar, pushed together in the middle of the room, and stood overly close to any seat, glaring at the occupants, hoping that they would leave. The edges of the room were lined with drinkers leaning against the walls. There was no space at all.

Simon pressed in as best he could, and stood on his tip-toes, still near the entrance, scanning the bar for a friendly face. He could see nothing except a sea of heads; differing colours and styles, bobbing up and down, excitedly moving to the over-loud background music.

Several people pushed past him. The desperate searching, coupled with his inability to move due to the crowd, exaggerated itself in Simon’s mind. It was excruciating. He thought about turning around and leaving, but he didn’t. Instead he slowly made his way to the bar, and waited in line for a beer. This reduced his feelings of awkwardness, as he now at least looked to have a purpose.

While waiting for his drink, Simon saw a couple of people he recognised. They sat alongside one another on a bench. It was over-crowded already; red faces and smiles, nervous laughter bellowing out from alcohol-fuelled farce. Simon eventually was served, and gingerly took his beer over to them; he smiled at the person at the end of the bench, and somehow managed to sit down, perched precariously on the edge of the hard, wooden seat.

He gulped down his strong beer for courage. It wasn’t that Simon wanted to be unsociable, he just didn’t know how to start a conversation. Small-talk was a skill that he did not have. How do you just start talking to a random person? Social engagement was an unsolvable puzzle that muddled Simon’s mind.

As he was looking at the side of a pretty, ginger-haired girl’s freckled face, about to make his grand entrance with a simple hello, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and looked around.

“Hey, Si!”  Molly said cheerily, “I’m pleased to see you made it. Do you mind if I try to squeeze in here beside you?”

Simon wasn’t sure why Molly would want to sit next to him, or why she was being so nice. Maybe she had no money, and wanted him to buy her drinks. Or maybe she wanted to toy with him in front of her friends to rouse laughter at his expense. Perhaps she was just a nice person. Frankly, he did not care. He was just happy that someone had spoken to him.

A surge of relief broke over him as his nervous anxiety drifted away. He felt the beginning of a sense of belonging simply from sitting next to someone he vaguely knew, and could have some sort of conversation with.

“Yes, of course, Molly. Here, let me make some space for you.”

He stammered a little as he spoke, and spilt a little of his pint, as he pushed it along to make room.

Molly immediately started talking, quickly engaging most of the people sitting around them, even those she didn’t know. She hardly seemed to stop to breathe. The inconsequential words all blurred together into a popular monologue.

Simon continuously sipped at his beer, a reasonable excuse for not interjecting Molly’s flow. The sweet-tasting beer streamed down his throat as quickly as her voice flooded the air.

He watched those around him and carefully smiled when they did, laughed at the right time, and nodded furiously with any statement that seemed to require affirmation. This became an easy act for Simon as intoxication took hold of him.

Maybe he was enjoying himself, certainly the stories seemed more entertaining as the night went on. Or maybe it was simply the relief of not having actively to make conversation himself.

Others were not so fortunate in forming new connections and, as the night wore on, people around the table started to disperse, leaving a little more room to move.

Simon noticed that a number of people were now heading upstairs towards the source of the music, heralding the raucous St Patrick’s day celebrations. The pied-piper played loudly to entice the inebriated mice to come and dance to his tune.

Molly factually informed him that they would be going to this disco later. No questioning or discussion, it was simply going to happen. Simon was ok with this; although he hated dancing, the beer had numbed any nerves, and the seeds of self-belief had started to germinate in his boozy soils.

The bar doors opened with a crash, such was the force of entry, shortly followed by loud laughter and excited, high-pitched chatter.

Molly’s head turned sharply. She clearly recognised the voices. Her eyes lit up with an authentic sparkle for the first time that night. She jumped up from the bench, and waved fanatically at the newcomers.

“Hey Vaughn, Carl, over here!” Molly shouted.

Simon turned around in the direction Molly was looking and saw two young men, with their arms draped over each other, smiling widely, walking confidently towards them.

They had a similar appearance, except one was taller, more muscular and serious looking, with a traditionally handsome, angular face, whereas the other had softer features with large, carefree eyes. Both had dark, thick hair brushed out at the front, with deer-brown eyes and tanned skin. Simon inhaled deeply, bracing himself for their arrival.

The tall one looked at Molly for a moment before kissing her tenderly on both cheeks. Simon was well known by his family for being observant, seeing things that others wouldn’t, and it was immediately obvious to him that this was more than a friendship.

Simon was slow to notice that his companion was holding out his hand to him, too busy watching Molly. Simon took it, careful not to shake it too hard, noticing that he was thin-wristed, with an over-sized leather bracelet snaking around it.

“Hello! I’m Carl.”

Simon took in his face. Eyes looking up at him, wide and hopeful. Long, delicate eyelashes. Lips thinned due to the width of his smile. Chubby cheeks. A cute, little, button nose. Clean shaven. He liked him immediately.

“And you are?” Carl asked, after a slight pause.

Simon realised that he was still holding Carl’s warm hand but had not responded. Hopefully, Carl would simply think that the alcohol had dumbed his reactions; which was partly true.

“Sorry.” Simon quickly replied, “I’m Simon. Nice to meet you, Carl, was it?”

Simon recalled that the young man’s name was Carl but did not want to come across as being overly interested. Protectionism guarded Simon’s soul, just in case it might be exposed to some future pain that might be avoided through caution.

“That’s right.” Carl said, shaking Simon’s hand fervently again, before releasing it and pointing to the man still looking at Molly, “And this is my older brother, Vaughn.”

Vaughn turned away from Molly, briefly, and shook Simon’s hand firmly.

“Pleased to meet you Vaughn. I’m Simon.”

In the dim lights of the bar, shadows airbrushed out imperfections; Vaughn looked movie-star handsome.

Simon always felt uncomfortable around attractive men not only due to his feeling inferior but also from his conscious need to conceal his inner desires which might be readily revealed by a reddening of his face, or a sweaty palm. Simon was sure he felt a bead of sweat on his brow, and looked away.

Of course, Molly would not permit any awkward silences.

“Oh, no one calls him Simon. It’s Si.” Molly said, as though she had known Simon her whole life, and they were the very best of friends.

The truth was that all of his family called him Simon, and he didn’t really have any friends. Now, it was time for a rebirth. A change. It felt special to have a nickname, even if it was only a shortened version of his name, and Simon liked it. He was happy to be “Si”.

“Well, Si, how old are you my friend?” Carl asked.

“I recently turned 18.” Simon said, in a matter-of-fact way.

“Ah, so you are old enough to have a drink then.” Carl quickly picked up on an easy prompt, “What can I get you? Another beer?”

“Sure. Thanks Carl.”

“There is a price though. You have to come to the bar with me to help me carry the drinks,” Carl continued without waiting for an answer, “Molly, the usual? Vaughn, beer-submarine?”

Both casually nodded, already having sat back down, facing each other. They started talking, unintentionally excluding Carl and Simon through their closeness.

“Well, Si, it looks like it is down to me and you.” Carl said, focusing his attention on Simon, “Let’s leave these two to it.”

Simon rested his arms on the bar. The polished wood was sticky from all of the alcoholic overflows; the lava-like foam spewing over from the head of the various beers on tap, and slowly flowing down the cold pint glasses to leave the bar re-surfaced. He worried that his new shirt might be stained but his thoughts quickly moved on, as he was keen to re-engage with Carl.

Simon struggled to think of what to say. He desperately wanted to be funny or interesting. Frustration built up inside him, and the longer he left the silence, the worse it seemed to feel. Not that Carl seemed to notice, as he stood on the steel bar that skirted around the bar, to gain extra height to help him get noticed by the bartender.

“So, how old are you Carl?”

Simon figured that he could not be criticised for this question, as it was the same one that Carl had used.

Carl quickly looked across to Simon and flashed him a smile, revealing his ridiculously white teeth.

“Guess, Si. Go on, guess.”

Simon knew this was a dangerous game. It was always safest to guess lower than you think. Simon had reckoned that Carl was a little bit older than him, but not much.

“I would say you are the same age as me, so I will guess that you are 18.”

“Oh, I love you already.” Carl said, squeezing Simon’s hand tightly and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Simon was not used to affection, and suddenly looked serious. Even this small gesture sent confusing tingles running through his body. Maybe Carl was gay too, and liked Simon. Simon immediately pushed such thoughts out of his drunken mind. He knew better than to hope for such things. Disappointment had always followed in the past.

Carl did not notice Simon’s reaction. He was too busy following the bartender with his eyes; summoning every ounce of charm and charisma to try to attract his attention to get a drink. The effort he was putting into it was as though he was courting the love of his life. The bartender walked past him again, choosing a pretty, young girl instead. Unfortunately, in the hierarchy of bar clientele, Carl was not high up on this occasion. If Simon was serving, he would have been his first choice.

Carl returned to the conversation.

“22, my friend. 22. Ancient compared to you, eh Simon?”

Simon was genuinely surprised. Carl did not look that much older.

“And Vaughn is 24, even older than the both of us!” Carl said, laughing.

Simon didn’t know what to say. He genuinely did not care how old they were. It was only a conversation piece but now Carl was somehow suggesting it might be an issue. Simon needn’t have worried, Carl had already moved on.

“So, Si, would you like to try a beer submarine too, the same as me and Vaughn?”

Simon had no idea what a beer submarine was, in the context of a drink, but did not want to show his ignorance or disappoint Carl. He nodded, over enthusiastically. Carl laughed. It was the right answer, of course.

Nearly everyone else had been served and the bartender, at last, came over. Carl disguised his frustration at the long wait, not wanting to lose his turn and only too aware of the ultimate power of the bartender; no matter how rich or powerful you are, the bartender will serve you only when they are ready to do so, and there is nothing you can do about it.

“Three beer submarines and a Mojito please my good fellow.”

For some reason, Carl ordered in an over-the-top English accent. The bartender just looked at him and rolled his eyes. Carl looked at Simon and grinned, mischievously.

The bartender placed three large glasses in front of them and filled them nearly to the top with beer. He took three shot glasses and poured Sambuca into them. Then, carefully, he placed each of the shot glasses into the pints of beer. The shot glass sunk to the bottom, and the concoction started to fizz, as the alcohols comingled angrily together.

“And there it is, my friend, a beer submarine.” Carl said, watching the beer bubbles race from the bottom to the top of the glass, like a diver racing for the surface of the sea, having run out of air.

Simon felt his stomach churn. Just looking at this drink made him feel nauseous but there was no going back. His pride simply would not permit it.

Simon glanced over to Molly and Vaughn, who were still deep in conversation. It looked pretty intense. Carl followed Simon’s gaze.

“Why don’t we have a quick drink here before going back?” Carl ventured, “Just you and me? It looks pretty heavy going over there.”

Simon quickly agreed. Carl hadn’t paid yet, and the bartender had been agonising over the finish of the Mojito, as though he was the ultimate cocktail impresario, so they still had time to order more drinks.

Carl did not ask what Simon wanted to drink, and just ordered.

“Can we get two shots of Tequila on the side,” Carl called over the bar, “while we wait for you to finish the Mojito? Good man.”

The bartender poured out the golden liquor, and placed a salt-shaker with two wedges of lime on a small plate next to them.

Simon scrunched up his face and looked quizzically at the display. He had pretty basic tastes, and really only drank beer. Tequila was new to him. Carl immediately noticed and offered up some words of encouragement.

“Bottoms up old chap.”

Simon went to take the shot glass to drink.

“Woah.” Carl said, taking hold of Simon’s wrist to stop him from drinking. Simon looked at Carl quizzically.

“You need to have the salt first, my friend.” Carl explained, as though this should be obvious. However, it became quickly apparent to Carl that Simon had no idea what he was talking about, as Simon stared blankly towards him, eyebrows a little raised.

“Ok. I will help you.” Carl offered, “Give me your hand.”

Simon hesitated but did as he was told. Carl gently licked the soft rim between Simon’s thumb and forefinger. It was probably the most sexual thing anyone had ever done to Simon but he didn’t flinch. His heart beat faster as his breathing quickened, turning into short, sharp gasps.

“What, what are you doing?” Simon stammered, feeling some sort of protest was necessary, as this was not normal behaviour.

“Don’t worry, Si, this isn’t some kind of foreplay.” Carl said, chuckling to himself.

Still holding Simon’s hand, Carl poured salt along the sticky rim of saliva. He then did the same thing to his own hand. Simon did not take his eyes off him, watching Carl’s wet, pink tongue shape an arc for the salt. Whatever game this was, Simon liked it already.

Simon noticed some of the salt spill on to the bar. That was bad luck. He couldn’t risk it, and picked some of it up between his thumb and forefinger and threw it over his left shoulder to ward off the devil. A silly superstition learnt from his grandma, and adhered to ever since. It was Carl’s turn to look puzzled but he simply shrugged his shoulders and carried on.

“Now then, are you ready? You lick the salt, down the shot, and then quickly suck hard on the lime. Let’s intertwine our arms to do it. You know, like a bride and groom might to at a wedding toast. It makes it more fun!”

Carl’s energy was so infectious, Simon hung on his every word and was ready to do whatever he said.

“After three,” Carl began, “One, two, three, go!”

Simon licked the salt, at first enjoying the thought of tracing Carl’s earlier presence, but the salty shock soon made him recoil. He winced and screwed up his face, then quickly tried to wash it away with the tequila. It was so sharp that it made his face contort even more. He sucked hard on the lime, which just served to make him cough due to its bitterness. Gasping, swallowing, choking.

Simon realised his eyes had been shut throughout the whole process. He opened them. Carl was staring back at him, laughing hysterically; Carl’s eyes oozed honey-gold tones of pleasure, and Simon soon found himself joining in with the laughter.

The bar tender watched on with bored eyes, having seen this routine hundreds of times before, waiting. When they had finished, he handed over the mojito, and set it alongside the other drinks. He passed an oversized, foam-made top-hat to Simon. It was black, with a gold belt buckle and a large, green shamrock painted on it, as well as the name of a well-known, local drinks sponsor.

“What is this for?” Simon asked, admiring the garish article.

Carl answered, as the bar tender just walked away to a prettier companion, “It’s a promotion. We get it free because we bought so many drinks.”

Carl took the hat, placing it firmly on Simon’s head. It fitted perfectly.

“There. It looks lovely!” Carl said, “Now help me get these drinks over to those two lovebirds.”

Carl put his arm over Simon’s shoulder, and led him back over to the table.

Molly and Vaughn broke from their trance-like state, as they noticed their companions approaching. They turned to Simon and Carl, and looked happy to see them return with the drinks.

The rest of the night was somewhat of a blur to Simon. He remembered Carl turning and twirling him on the dance floor, knocking his hat off each time, quickly forgotten and to be repeated each time, as Molly and Vaughn danced in a closer embrace nearby. There was a flashback to all four of them later joining in synchronised dance routines to loud pop songs, each of them now wearing a top-hat, and many photographs; desperately trying to preserve forever this moment of pure joy. Repeated proclamations of new, forever friendships. And, finally, staring down for hours at a small pool of water in a white, porcelain toilet bowl; with the smell of bleach rising up, enticing the onset of a migraine, as the many beer submarines resurfaced from the acidic depths of his stomach.

From then on, the four of them became an inseparable clique. An easy set of compatible permutations. Molly and Simon readily found amusing small-talk as the brothers bickered with one another. Carl and Simon’s tactile tom-foolery balanced the serious huddles of Molly and Vaughn. And Simon and Vaughn found an unexpected connection, with Vaughn looking out for the youngest in the group, acting as his protector. Likewise, Carl treated Molly like his younger sister, pick, fetching and carrying after her, and constantly acting like a fool to make her laugh. It just worked, and they were happy together.

The inevitable departure loomed over them, and their final week together was a somewhat sombre affair, with many sad smiles and elongated embraces. No one wanted to leave, and the thought of their imminent separation was deeply painful.

Simon suspected the relationship between Molly and Vaughn was closer than they let on. This was confirmed to him when he and Molly said their goodbyes to Carl and Vaughn at the airport. Molly held everything in until they were out of the sight of the boys, and then she let it all go. She sobbed uncontrollably, devastated.

Molly confessed all to Simon. She was, of course, in love with Vaughn but it couldn’t work. They were from different worlds. It could only be a holiday romance.

Simon tried to console her; it was necessarily half-hearted, as he was struggling with his own emotions, and the feeling of loss he felt from leaving Carl. Not that anything physical had happened, he didn’t even know if Carl was gay, but there was something special between them. A rare connection. At last it felt as if Simon’s lonely days were over and, at least, he had found a true relationship. He felt for the first time that he was capable of being loved, in whatever manner, for being himself.

The tears of a clown are some of the hardest to bear, being alien and unexpected. Carl’s big brown eyes welled up heavily as he forced a last smile, and said goodbye to Simon. Simon had been unable to speak and had simply hugged Carl with all of his might, not wanting to let go. No gradual separation or drifting apart. It was such a definitive end. Simon thought he heard Carl crying as he turned the corner, and wanted to run back to him. But he didn’t, that would have been too big a gesture for Simon, too much of a risk; he still regretted it to this day.

That was in the past. On their return home, Molly had tried to stay in touch with Simon, but it wasn’t the same without the phantom threads which held the four of them together as a group. Molly had stopped calling Simon as often, met with him infrequently, and now they only sent the occasional message to each other on social media.

Not that this was all Molly’s fault. Simon had also let their relationship fade. Small-talk could only take them so far, and the less they saw of each other, the harder sustaining conversations became. It therefore came as somewhat of a surprise that Molly was so supportive of his party. It almost felt like the first time they met, with Molly taking the lead to make Simon feel wanted, included. Simon dared to think that the party might yield the same life-changing surprises that happened on that first night in Dublin; he hoped to meet someone as special as Carl, although he did not really believe that was possible.

Simon had spent hours cleaning on the day of the party. He was determined that the house would look its best, and not cause him any embarrassment. He had scrubbed the kitchen so hard that even his hands smelt of disinfectant.

But some things still disappointed. Simon had hoovered the living room twice but even now the cream sheepskin rug, which lay in front of the fire, held a slightly yellowish hue, looking like the colour of some cheap vanilla ice-cream. The guns hanging above the fireplace remained covered in dust, Simon fearing to touch the loaded weapons. The smell of manure from the farm hung cloyingly in the air, no matter how much air freshener he sprayed.

Simon had given less attention to the upstairs rooms, figuring that anyone going up there would either pass out in an alcoholic stupor or be more interested in a passionate coupling than the cobwebs in the lightshades. Simon also did not like being upstairs alone, even in daylight, as he always felt like he was being watched.

There was so much alcohol in the house that Simon ventured that he might be able to open his own bar. He lined up all of the bottles on the scratched surface of the old sideboard. Perfectly aligned, the glass regiments stood stiffly to attention; an alcoholic army ready to infiltrate and delight young brains.

Simon could not cook, and certainly could not cater for a party. Instead, he had persuaded the local pizzeria, which was over 10 miles away, to deliver to the farm. Given the size of the order, the owner had agreed. Of course, Simon could not be sure how many people would turn up, but he felt pretty certain that he had ordered enough. If anything, he had bought too much, and would likely be eating pizza for the next week.

Mandy and Max were the first to arrive; the terrible twins. Although one of them was a boy and the other a girl, they sported the same, short spikey hair style and tended to wear similar outfits; when they did, you really could not tell them apart.

They delighted in toying with people. It was not uncommon for Max to pretend to be Mandy, and vice-versa. The elven-like twins loved to confuse and play with the emotions of their prey. They didn’t take it too far, just quick kisses, sexy dances and groping hugs, but their poor partners never knew what was happening to them until it was too late. And then they were tormented further by the twins’ mirthful teasing. If it all went wrong, they would never be left alone, as they had each other. Mirror images and personalities, the best friend you could ever wish for.

Max and Mandy were happy dating either boys or girls themselves, so they were quite happy to play this game. They were very open about their sexuality; gender was irrelevant, and they did not have a type. Instead, it was all down to confidence and charisma. Needless to say, Simon had never drawn their attention but they were attracted to Molly, and would take any opportunity to be within her social sphere. And they both liked to drink and party.

They had each brought someone. A muscular, handsome looking, older guy with a shiny bald head and lengthy, well-shaped beard, accompanied Mandy. Whereas Max’s partner was a svelte woman with large dark curls, tied back with a red bandana, who was wearing a polka-dot yellow dress and large Audrey Hepburn-styled sunglasses. The twins had already agreed with each other to swap half-way through the night, unconscionably, without telling them. Everyone looks the same in the dark, a mouth is a mouth, so hopefully they wouldn’t mind, even if they did find out.

Following in behind the twins came the girls’ hockey team, and the baseball boys. Simon had not invited them but they were most welcome, and would certainly elevate the status of his party. Molly must be behind this. Simon relaxed.

The alcohol flowed, as more and more strangers came through his door. Simon stood idly by saying a quick hello, ignored by most, as they pushed on through the growing crowd to get a drink. He recognised a few people, some of whom had been on the trip to Ireland, who stopped briefly to have a quick chat but there seemed little genuine interest.

This was a mistake, Simon thought as he watched his everyday living space become polluted by a sea of unknown faces. He had never felt lonelier. The camaraderie and friendships between the others only highlighted how he had no one.

Simon moved over to the sideboard and took a large plastic cup; he filled it with beer, and then poured some sambuca into the top. It swirled it around but the spirit did not sink to the bottom or mix well. Nevertheless, he downed it and thought back to happier times.

Through the noise, Simon heard a familiar voice.

“Excuse me. Sorry! Oh, hello! Nice to see you, catch up later? Coming through. Sorry.”

He looked over and saw Molly coming towards him, making her way through the crowd, smiling broadly. She grabbed Simon, and hugged him warmly before kissing him on both cheeks. She looked around at the crowd, and then back at Simon.

“It’s so nice to see you, Si.” Molly said genuinely, “I hope you don’t mind that I invited one or two more people along? It’s just that it is Saturday night, and this is such a cool venue. A rave on a remote farm! And I have a special surprise for you.”

Molly sounded so excited. Her eyes sparkled, as she stared at Simon intensely. And then Simon saw them coming through the door. His heart leaped. He forgot everything else, and forced his way through the baseball giants towards them, calling out.

“Carl! Vaughn! Carl!” Simon shouted out, almost desperately.

Simon didn’t realise it, but there were tears ploughing down his face. Any anguish immediately evaporated to be replaced by utter happiness. Carl grabbed Simon and held him, his warm cheek pressing against Simon’s. Carl pushed Simon back to get a proper look at him, as if double-checking he was real.

“So, my friend,” Carl said, also with tears in his eyes, “I heard that you were throwing a party and, well, I thought it would be rude to miss it.”

Carl hugged Simon again. Vaughn pulled them apart, and gave Simon an over-strong bear-hug.

“Look at you, Si.” Vaughn said, holding his shoulders, “So old-looking now, and even more handsome. Don’t you agree, Carl?”

“Of course,” Carl replied enthusiastically, “but then he was always the prettiest of the four of us.”

“Hey, watch it.” Molly intervened, giving Carl a gentle punch on the arm. Carl recoiled in an exaggerated fashion, as though she had hit him a lot harder.

“Si, are you ok?” Carl asked, concerned, noticing that tears were still flowing freely over Simon’s face.

“Yes. Yes! More than ok. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you!” Simon said, rubbing his eyes, “I have missed you all so much.”

Simon suddenly found himself open with his emotions but he just couldn’t hold back how pleased he was, and how much this meant to him. They all made cooing noises before hugging and kissing him, in a group huddle. It was as if they had never been apart.

“So, shall we wash away those tears with some beer submarines?” Carl asked, raising one eyebrow in a suggestive manner, “Come on, Si, let’s get this party started.”

Carl pulled Simon away from Molly and Vaughn, who were now holding hands. They grabbed some cans, the bottle of sambuca, and various glasses, and headed over to a small corner of the room, so that they could catch-up properly. Simon looked back to see Molly put her arms around Vaughn’s neck, and kiss him.

They sat close to each other. Carl put his arm around Simon. Simon momentarily worried what other people might think but then lost any inhibition, he was just so pleased to have Carl back in his life, and his presence emboldened him. It was like a dream.

They started by reminiscing about the good old times in Ireland. How special it had been. Simon remembered it all, having imprinted his time in Dublin into his mind, like a stamp in soft wax. He replayed his happiest moments over and over again, terrified of forgetting his time with Carl.

They then turned to the present. It turned out that Simon did not have a great deal to tell Carl, as he had done very little other than mope around the farm trying to find himself, whatever that meant. Simon mentioned how he and Molly had drifted apart. How it had not been the same without Carl and Vaughn.

Of course, Carl had not had the same issue with Vaughn, as they were brothers, but he described how Vaughn had become like a different person on his return to the States. He had become a shadow of himself, spending most of his time smoking weed in his small apartment, only leaving to collect the essentials from the nearby corner shop.

Carl tried everything to help Vaughn, but Vaughn’s deep sadness had dulled his soul and lethargy was his new queen, reigning over him and letting him waste away. Vaughn looked terminally ill; sunken face, dark shadows under bloodshot eyes, unshaven face, straggly, long hair.

Carl knew that Vaughn’s separation from Molly was the cause of his decline. Vaughn’s pride prevented him from calling Molly, but that did not stop Carl. When Molly had heard about Vaughn’s state, she apparently burst into tears on the phone and promised that she would be there as soon as she could.

Vaughn had flown into a rage when Carl had confessed what he had done, but it acted as the exact catalyst for change that Vaughn needed. It was as if he had suddenly awoken from a bad dream. Seeing himself properly in the mirror for the first time in so many weeks; it shocked him. He had immediately gone into overdrive to find himself again, to retrieve the Vaughn that Molly had last seen, and loved.

Carl had stood smiling in the background, watching as Molly and Vaughn were reunited at the airport. After that, they swore to one another never to be parted again. The star-crossed lovers reunited for a ‘happy-ever-after’ ending.

“So, why were they not just open about their relationship when we were in Ireland, Carl?” Simon asked, “Why all of the secrets? It was not as if you and I didn’t really know what was happening. It was pretty obvious.”

“Well, it turns out that Molly actually had a long-term boyfriend at the time. Vaughn knew about it, and told Molly that she should just tell him the truth. Molly agreed, but wanted to do it face to face. She thought he deserved at least that much, as they were childhood sweethearts.”

Simon fell silent, waiting for Carl to continue, as if listening to some sort of radio soap opera.

“But when Molly returned home, she just allowed things to continue as though Dublin had never happened, and she had never met Vaughn. Molly told us that she just couldn’t. It was too hard. Then when I told her about Vaughn, the urgency of the situation jolted her out of inertia, and crystallised her feelings for Vaughn. Everything is out in the open now, and Molly and Vaughn are free to be together.”

Simon thought carefully about what to say next. He knew Molly was a decent person, and sometimes fate takes decisions out of your hands, no matter what hurt it causes to others; Destiny will have her way.

“I’m surprised that Molly would do that.” Simon said, watching Carl carefully for any reaction, “Then again, the way I see it is that she had no choice. You can’t change the way you feel about someone. And sometimes those feelings are so overwhelming that you are powerless to resist them. I am a strong believer in fate. What will be, will be.”

“I will drink to that,” Carl said, raising his glass, “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of and, at the end of the day, if you care about someone you will support them. And we will stand by Vaughn and Molly.”

Simon hadn’t known that Molly had a boyfriend, and wondered whether he was taking this position because it was convenient. Was he really going to spoil the night by having some moral outrage at Molly and Vaughn’s actions? After all, they could have waited and done the honourable thing of letting Molly break up with her boyfriend first before they took things further. No, he wasn’t. For the first time in months, Simon felt happy, and he wasn’t going to do anything that might risk that feeling. Anyway, who was he to judge?

Simon also had a flash-thought about what Molly did with her boyfriend before she broke up with him; was she still sleeping with him? Still pretending? Maybe she would never have changed anything if Carl had not telephoned her to plead on Vaughn’s behalf. What does that say about her love for Vaughn?

Carl smiled at Simon, as these thoughts were going through Simon’s head. Carl’s natural warmth positively radiated from him. Simon felt his lonely heart start to thaw, having been released by Carl from its icy prison, and he started to feel happiness again; the potential onslaught of depression averted just in time.

What was interesting to Simon was that he now clearly realised that his feelings for Carl were purely platonic. Simon felt no sexual desire for him. Yes, he had everything that Simon would have looked for in a boyfriend, but that physical spark just wasn’t there. Maybe Simon had subconsciously subdued it because he knew Carl had showed no interest in him that way. And yet there was love, and perhaps this was a higher feeling than a mere physical attraction or passion.

If Carl was going to be a permanent feature in his life, which Simon sincerely hoped he would be, then Simon knew it was time for him to tell Carl everything. To be open about his sexuality. Either Carl would accept it or not. Either way, Simon would know where he stood, and their relationship could take the path it was supposed to.

Emboldened by the drink, Simon decided to tell Carl straight away. Carpe diem and all of that; except, Simon had never seized the day. What had Pulcinella warned people? Live now before it was too late. It seemed like sound advice, albeit the message could have been better delivered. Simon had done nothing before but now he would. There would be no more hidden feelings or unseen tears. Enough was enough.

Perhaps he was being hard on himself, Simon thought. Sometimes you just need time to deal with things. Not everyone can be out and proud immediately. A seed of doubt about people’s reactions is planted at a young age and can quickly grow into a towering oak, which takes a strong axe of courage to cut it down. But now was the time for the first strike at that tree stump.

Simon’s palms became sweaty. He felt nauseous as feelings of excitement mixed with sheer terror, or perhaps it was just the alcohol. A serious look fell across his face, as he turned to look at Carl. Carl could tell that a serious discussion was on its way, and gave Simon his full attention.

“Carl, I have something that I need to tell you about me. I probably should have told you straight away but I just couldn’t. Carl, I’m gay.”

Carl simply smiled, turned towards Simon, and held him for a moment.

“Si, I think I already knew that my friend. Thank you for telling me. And, you know, that I love you exactly the same. Right?”

Simon felt a surge of relief. He took a drink to wet his dry throat.

“You already knew? How come? I’m not that camp acting, am I? Not that there is anything wrong with that, it’s just I thought no one would know.”

“No, Si, you’re not camp” Carl said grinning, “However, you are not, how should I put it, very discrete when it comes to checking out guys. I can see your eyes you know? Also, you never talk about girls or show any interest whatsoever when a beautiful woman walks past you. Whereas, when a handsome guy comes your way, you swivel your head around so fast I worry your neck might snap!”

Carl chuckled and put his arm around Simon.

“I haven’t seen you check out any girls either, Carl,” Simon said defensively.

Simon realised that everyone probably knew he was gay, and was annoyed at himself for being so obvious about his shallow, physical longings.

Of course, that explained why Molly was so relaxed around him, and their relationship was so easy; they didn’t need to peacock around one another.

Simon had almost forgotten his retort, taking another drink, until he realised that Carl was answering him.

“Not to you I don’t. I didn’t want to put you in a position where you might feel you needed to join in, which could have led to a situation where our friendship turned on long discussions about false fancies. I knew you would tell me sooner or later. When you were ready.”

Simon suddenly felt guilt and sadness wash over him. He should have told Carl sooner. He should have realised that Carl was someone to confide in. But secrets become harder to share as time passes; the act of revelation becomes a giant in your mind, compelling you to keep quiet out of fear of rejection or abuse.

Simon had not wanted to risk losing the closeness that he and Carl enjoyed, but perhaps you have to risk destroying a relationship with the truth in order to make it stronger; just like some plants need to be cut back in order to re-grow stronger in sunnier climes.

Now they both could be open with each other. Just fully be themselves.

“Si, you are like family to me.” Carl continued, “I love you, and will always be there for you. I am proud that you had the courage to come out to me. Honoured that you told me first. It will change nothing between us, except I suspect we will now be bombarding each other with a running commentary on who we find hot!”

Serious enough to convey sincerely his feelings, yet equally capable of returning the mood to a lighter tone; this was typical Carl.

Buoyed by the levity he felt from at last telling someone his deepest secret, and the effects from the beer submarine, Simon decided to play a prank on Carl. This was not his usual style, but he also wanted to break any residual tension, and assure Carl of his platonic feelings.

“But Carl, I like you.” Simon said quietly, “I thought you realised.”

Carl’s face went white, and he looked genuinely shocked. His eyes flitted back and forth as he searched for words.

“I mean, I’m flattered Si, but …”

An infrequently seen, impish grin crossed Simon’s face, as he burst out laughing.

“Why you little …” Carl said, smiling broadly.

Carl grabbed Simon playfully around the neck, and started gently knuckling his head.

“Well, you should!” Carl pretended to be hurt, “Why not? After all, I am handsome, funny, modest. You could have meant it. I am not so stupid, am I? Maybe I am.”

Carl groaned, looking at the empty bottles littering the floor around them.

“Come on, Si, let’s get another drink.”

Simon hadn’t noticed but, while he was talking with Carl, people had slowly left the main room, and there were only a few people left sitting around the fire.

Simon had prepared the fire earlier, before anyone arrived. Logs sat atop kindling which lay on a bed of old newspapers. Simon lit the paper with a long cook’s match. He blew on it for a few seconds, and watched as the new-born flames devoured the paper, ignited the kindling, and started licking at the coal with their scorching, yellow tongues.

The back door was open, as the party had moved outside, and the cold night air had drifted in. The music grew louder, as one of the revellers had turned up their favourite song. Simon and Carl looked on.

Solar lighting gently lit the pathway from the backyard to the farm buildings in the distance, and the road alongside it. In the orangey glow, numerous bodies snaked along the path, identities lost in the shadows.

There was a relaxing hubbub of contented chatter. Bodies gyrated slowly in the lamplight to the music, warmed by alcohol’s tightening embrace. Others sat nearby on the grassy verges. Some couples had moved further out, and could just be seen merging together; the twinkling celestials high above encouraging young lovers to come together under their watchful eyes.

Near the end of the path, the cheerleaders’ shadowy shapes contorted and curled in time with the chill-out tunes; arms reaching to the heavens, pleated skirts swaying slowly in perfect rhythm with the gentle breeze. Lost in the moment, and hypnotised by the effects of innocent-sounding spirits and cocktails.

Molly skipped over towards Simon, just as his mobile phone started to ring. Simon took the call, making apologetic faces at Molly.

“I see. Right. Well that’s difficult for me. I can’t drive, as I have been drinking.”

Molly was trying to listen in, and whispered out to him.

“What is going on, Si?” Molly asked.

“Can you hold the line a second please? I just need to see if anyone here can help. Thanks.”

Simon turned to Molly.

“It’s the pizza place. Their driver has called in sick and they can’t deliver our food.”

“I can go, Si.” Molly offered, “To be honest, I could do with a little me-time. I have a lot on my mind, and need to figure a couple of things out.”

“Are you sure? I thought you’d been knocking back the gin and tonics?”

“No. That’s my little trick. It’s just sparkling water, ice cubes and a slice of lemon, to make people believe that I am drinking. I need to keep a clear head tonight. Really, I would like to go.”

Simon went back on the phone, and spoke again with the pizza shop owner.

“My friend Molly will come over to collect it. I hope we’ll get a discount for the inconvenience. Yes, that sounds fair. She’ll be there in about half-an-hour. Ok, thanks. Goodbye.”

Simon passed over some money to Molly, and gave her a quick hug. It was like old times.

“Thanks Molly. I owe you one. Heck, I owe you a million! It’s probably best if you park up front when you get back, just so we can get the food inside quickly. Give me a call if there are any problems.”

Molly smiled, nodded, and walked off down the path. Just as she had gone from sight, Carl came bounding out of the house and down the track, dragging Vaughn behind him.

“Hey, Si! There you are!”

Carl suddenly noticed the outside crowd, and the merriment surrounding them.

“Wow, look at all the people. This party is awesome.”

Carl grabbed Simon by the waist and started dancing with him, slowly and sexily. Some of the guys standing nearby looked across towards them, more due to the noise Carl was making than the act.

Still, it was enough encouragement for Carl’s mischievousness. He quickly put his arms around Simon’s neck and gave him a quick peck on the mouth. He laughed, touched Simon’s cheek with his hand, and then bobbed back down the path, dancing in time to the music.

Carl had decided to leave Vaughn and Si to have a moment together. It felt important to do so and, even in his inebriated state, he knew it was a conversation best left to the two of them.

Carl was in high spirits. The old gang were back together at last. He had been reunited with his beloved sidekick, Si. Vaughn was his cheery, carefree self again. Everything was going to be alright. Another drink to celebrate was definitely in order.

Sitting on the floor next to the dwindling stockpile of drinks, Carl saw two teenagers chattering. They looked identical, with spikey blond hair, blue eyes, pointed faces and long, lean bodies. Except, one had underscored her eyes with glittery aquamarine eyeshadow, and had painted her mouth with a shocking-pink lipstick. They wore the same white t-shirts, with a big love heart with the “1980’s” written into the middle of it, and ice-blue, ripped jeans.

They had not noticed Carl yet, so he sat down at the head of the nearby wooden dining table. He looked over to them, leaning against the wall. They did not stop talking. He coughed loudly to get their attention. A deliberately unsubtle introduction.

Carl barked loudly again when they looked at him, suddenly embarrassed, and trying to make it look like he really did have a cough, to disguise how blatant he had been in trying to get their attention.

Mandy and Max quickly looked Carl up and down, before turning to one another with a knowing look. The game was on. He was worth their attention, at least for a short while.

The twins had agreed to mess with people tonight, just to amuse themselves. Max had put on some make-up, and Mandy deliberately deepened her voice. They were now pretending to be each other. Having already toyed with their original dates, and lost interest, a new play-thing was welcome.

“You had better have a drink to cure that cough.” Mandy said with a gruff voice, as Max smiled sweetly at Carl.

Well, at least it had worked. Carl smiled back at them, and nodded.

“I think that is good advice, my good fellow. Do you both care to join me?”

Carl’s ridiculous sounding English accent had returned. He sometimes did this when he was nervous and trying to come across as confident, worried to reveal his true self so early.

Carl followed them with his eyes, as they both approached him from either side, like a pack of predators might circle around their prey. Mandy poured some drinks, as Max ran his fingers across Carl’s shoulders seductively. Carl shifted in his seat, unnerved by such a direct approach. It also tickled him, and made the hairs on his neck stand up.

Max reached over Carl’s shoulder, hugging him from behind, and downed the shot of vodka poured out by his sister. Toying with his emotions, like some louche lover, Max gently kissed his temple, leaving a pink lipstick stain on the vein throbbing gently underneath Carl’s skin. They both then floated away and sat back down against the wall, smiling to themselves.

Carl realised that he hadn’t breathed for some time, and gulped in the air. He then took another mouthful of his drink, and tried to think of unpleasant thoughts to quieten his arousal.

“There is more where that came from, if you’d like?” Max whispered sensuously, submissively lowering his head, and fluttering his eyelashes.

Carl was confused but thought to himself there was nothing wrong with a bit of drunken fun; nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that.

“Well, yes, I think I would like that. A lot. Yes, that sounds good.” Carl replied.

The twins chuckled, fixing him with their impish stares.

“What are you laughing at?” Carl asked, paranoia creeping in.

“Oh, nothing. Just you have lipstick on the side of your face.” Mandy said in her false, bass tones. “Come over here. I will get it off for you, buddy.”

Carl knelt down between the two of them, as Mandy rubbed away the outline of her brother’s lips. Max started kissing him again. Over and over.

“Oh dear! More mess for you to clean. And some more. And more.” Max said, teasingly.

Carl blushed, and the lipstick stains were lost in the deep red tones of his embarrassment. He turned and quickly sat back down at the table, to hide his growing interest.

“Excuse me lover. I just need to powder my nose.” Max said, before heading off to the bathroom.

Max returned swiftly, having washed his face to remove any make-up. The twins looked at Carl with identical, innocent faces. Carl was confused and squinted at them to try to discern the difference.

They spoke together, with one voice. Rehearsed lines, performed on numerous previous occasions.

“So, which one of us do you like now?”

“Do you like me?” Mandy said, in a monotone.

“Or, do you prefer me?” Max asked, in the same voice.

The twins thought this hysterical, and rolled around in the floor in laughter, revelling at the shocked look on Carl’s face.

Carl’s mind raced, and he sat silent for a while. This really had thrown him. Undoubtedly, he had felt an attraction towards the androgynous-looking twins. Did the minimal cosmetics really make such a difference? He had never really questioned his sexuality before but he could not deny that he felt an allure towards the twins.

Now wasn’t the time or place for such thoughts. He needed to get back to Si and Vaughn. He picked up his drink and stepped over Max and Mandy, who were still on the floor, wiping away their tears of laughter.

The guys who had been watching Simon and Carl kiss, made a whooping noise and clapped in approval. Simon could have killed Carl for doing that. At the same time, it was a strong statement and, as Carl had anticipated, showed that most young people nowadays are a lot more relaxed about sexuality. It really was a different era.

Vaughn stood looking at Simon.

“So, I guess we have a few things to catch-up on Si?”

“I suspect not, Vaughn. If I know Carl, he has already told you I’m gay.”

“He did. And, as I know Carl, I bet that he has already told you everything about me and Molly.”

“Yes, and I am so happy for you two, Vaughn.”

“Thanks Si, that means a lot to me. I was worried that you would think less of us, seeing as how Molly had a boyfriend when we were seeing each other in Ireland.”

“Vaughn, you and Molly are my friends and I will be there for you no matter what.” Simon paused briefly, before continuing, “Are you ok with me being … you know, gay?”

Simon found it hard to say aloud and almost whispered it. After all, Vaughn was only the second person he had told directly.

“Of course, Si. As you said, we stick together no matter what. I also kind of knew you were gay. Molly did too.”

“You too! I really need to stop dancing so flamboyantly to Madonna!”

They both hugged each other tightly. More whoops came from nearby. They laughed, and moved apart.

As he stepped back from Vaughn, some movement in the distance caught Simon’s attention. Something was approaching the cheerleaders dancing at the end of the path. Two, focused red beams of light coming from an outline figure, just visible in the darkness. Simon’s first thought was that the newcomer to the party must be using some sort of laser pens. And then the girls suddenly dropped to the ground.

“Vaughn! Vaughn, look! What is happening?”

It was not Pulcinella’s intention to be at the farm that night. Its target had been a sell-out indie concert in a nearby nightclub with a 250-person capacity. When the gig had been cancelled on the day of the performance, Pulcinella had been forced to make an urgent recalculation.

Wicked chance gave it the opportunity to overhear a conversation between two youths who were talking excitedly about a party at a nearby, isolated farm. They spoke of hundreds of people attending but this was only a turn-of-phrase. Pulcinella did not know this, and activated the alternative venue.

It now realised that there were only 43 people within the immediate vicinity. It would have to suffice for this month.

Unbeknown to Simon, Pulcinella was the first person to arrive for his party; it had arrived several hours before the others, silently mapping out all of the buildings, signal points, entrances and exits, hazards, resources, electrical equipment, and surveillance devices.

A nearby walker’s dog had barked at it, but this was the only warning anyone had of Pulcinella’s presence. Its plastic hues modifying intermittently from varying shades of purple to black to camouflage itself in the darkness of night. It was stalking low, invisible, like a tiger in the Savannah watching its prey, and waiting.

The house seemed to know that its deadly comrade had arrived, at last; the lights illuminated the interior, and its windows twinkled in delight.

Pulcinella calculated that it could easily shut down the area, and kill everyone in the immediate vicinity. Total success was assured at nightfall, and so Pulcinella waited for its reliable accomplice to arrive. It then immediately stirred from its dormant state, and walked towards its first victim of the night.

In the dairy parlour, two rows of cows stood either side of a sunken, narrow, concrete passageway.

Simon’s father walked down it, checking the measuring gauges as he went, as mechanical compressions steadily sucked out the cows’ milk from their reddened udders. The white juices shot through thick plastic tubes; funnelled away to the adjoining room, holding various storage tanks.

The cows mooed in accompaniment to the repeating, rhythmic sounds of the machines. They accepted this invasion and indignity in return for unlimited feed, which steadily filtered into the chrome troughs alongside the edge of the wall.

Simon’s father wore an oversized, plastic green apron; this was his body shield against the manure splatters which intermittently rained down on him from the over-full cows standing above. It was soiled and stunk of manure but at least it kept his navy overalls relatively clean.

Systematically, he started to remove the suckers from each teat of the cow at the front of the row. He knew every cow by heart due to the differing shapes and colours of their hides. This was number 98, with a heart-like white patch at the top of its left leg. She brayed in relief at being released from the greedy device, which now hung down like a metal chandelier; thick, steel canisters suspended by thick, black tubes. It almost looked pretty as the spot lights on the ceiling shone on to it.

The cows knew this routine and started to stamp impatiently, demanding to be seen to next. Tails swished. Hooves pounded on concrete; many novices had received broken bones and bad bruises as a result of such feckless footfall. Not Simon’s father, he was a stalwart of the farm and had spent many years engaged in milking cows. Much more time than he had ever spent with his family. He had never really been motivated to try anything different but still held on to his private dreams.

He noticed that number 75 was trying to steal food from number 115, and reached over to direct her head back into her own feeding trough. He thought it typical of animal behaviour; despite having its own unlimited feed, it wanted more. People were no different; always coveting what others have, never satisfied with their own lot.

Pulcinella entered the area unnoticed, any noise covered by the baying cow choir. It noted the thin channel would be difficult to move down quickly, with its inhospitable dimensions, tangles of pipes, and maze of monitors. The knuckle gun activated, the target easily within range. Simon’s father looked up, sensing something, and then felt a deep pain in his heart.

He slumped to the ground, ripping off the suckers from a nearby cow to try to stop his fall, but there was no energy in his limbs to hold on. Milk poured out and started to race down the channel. Blood poured out of Simon’s father, creating a stream of pink milkshake. The cows continued to call out to be set free, not noticing or caring that their keeper was dead. Pulcinella logged the death and moved on apace towards the house.

Pulcinella slowed down as it approached the dimly-lit path leading to the house. It could not dim the solar lights, as they were not connected to an electrical system, so it changed its flesh tone to match the colour of the night; a purply-black hue glistened over its plastic body, its chameleon-like flesh hiding it from the nearby revellers. Except its red eyes stared out of its body, surveying the territory, moving back and forth, like some sort of ominous lighthouse.

Pulcinella had verified that the majority of people in the area were situated on or around this path, and, from this position, it could quickly dispatch several rounds of muffled ammunition without attracting too much attention to its presence. With a perfect aim assured every time, it quickly felled 15 people.

After that, Pulcinella had to move quickly. It sent its systems into overdrive and transformed into a mechanical maelstrom.

Easton sat on the damp grass. He couldn’t see what he was sitting on and hoped for the best, his heavy frame flattening the area around him. He grabbed a beer and rested back on his elbows, watching Candice and Melisandre dance on the nearby path.

Easton was pleased to relax. He was physically exhausted from too much training, in preparation for the big game. The coach wanted to get the best out of them, and worked them hard. Easton wondered whether it was really necessary but the coach had a string of successes to her name, so maybe she did know best.

The beer disappeared too quickly. Easton did not have to bother to try to engage in conversation, he was naturally popular. Maybe it was his lack of interest in others that kept them coming back to him, the ‘treat them mean, keep them keen’ philosophy certainly worked for Easton. And the more popular you become, the more people want you to like them. There had been an exponential surge in his appeal.

He sat with a group now around him, part of a long conversation in which he hadn’t said a word. Easton gave the occasional nod or smile but his only focus was the beer, and trying to zone out for a while.

Candice and Melisandre seemed to be having a great time; dancing for themselves and just enjoying the music, reaching up to the heavens under the spotlight of the moon and stars, enhanced by the gentle up-lighting lining the path. Their musical motions were delicately hypnotic to Easton, not in a sexual way but rather like watching a pendulum or metronome swinging back and forth in perpetual motion.

Easton started to unwind and he felt his body relax, as a faint fuzziness started to soothe his murderous mind. Easton closed his eyes and began to forget the pressure on him to win the forthcoming baseball match.

Easton heard a commotion. Screams and shouts quickly silenced. He opened his eyes and looked around, he saw dead bodies on the ground next to him; ripped open, and slashed apart, in some kind of machete mayhem. Easton couldn’t take it in. He wondered whether maybe his drink had been spiked with a fierce hallucinogenic. And then he noticed a tall figure towering above him. Glowing red eyes stared down, emotionless. Easton felt impotent with fear. Steel pierced through his ribs, leaving him breathless. Easton’s heart murmured timidly. He lay still, helpless and defeated. He was not dead but almost. Pulcinella automatically calculated that the wound would prove fatal, and quickly moved on.

Dancing divas fell gracelessly as its blades cut neatly through their crepe-paper skin, leaving them in bloody tatters on the ground. Splashes of red adorning their new, designer rags.

The firm abdomens of the sports team offered no protection against razor-sharp steel. They ripped open just as easily as any other flesh. Pulcinella was unimpressed by beautiful bodies, they were merely numbers to it, indistinguishable from one another.

Couples kissing in the dark found their hidden embraces rudely interrupted, as skulls were crushed together, leaving them limp on the grass; pressing, heavily together much sooner than they had anticipated. It didn’t care about ending the lives of young lovers. It simply did not compute.

It continued down the path towards Simon, Vaughn, and Carl, who had just re-joined them, having seen the climax of their conversation.

“Where is Molly?” Vaughn shouted, with a desperation in his voice.

“She, she’s gone to get the food. I told her to come back in the front door. She could arrive any minute.” Simon stuttered, shock taking hold, as he stared ahead seeing everything but not understanding anything.

“I have to go and warn her, Si. You and Carl get out of here. Quickly, run!”

“No, we have to stick together, Vaughn. I can’t leave you. I don’t want to.” Carl said sobbing, as if regressing to become a little boy again.

Simon’s heart felt a heavy sadness. He knew these could be the last words that the brothers spoke to one another.

“Listen to me Carl. You have to run and don’t look back. Please, I beg you. I love you little brother. Never forget that. Si, take him, please.”

Simon’s mind raced. Where to go? What to do? He had no idea. All he knew was that he had to get away with Carl now. His mind then caught up with him. His dad. Simon had to warn him. And he would probably know what to do. He always did.

“Carl, let’s go. Carl! Now!” Simon yelled.

Carl did not reply, still looking at his brother. Simon gave Vaughn a knowing nod, grabbed Carl firmly by the wrist, and pulled him away. They sprinted together into the darkness, veering off the path, and on towards the dairy. With a brief sideways glance, Simon saw a tall, dark figure spinning around with such speed and ferocity, polished blades glinting in the flecks of illumination from the solar lights. Bodies falling all around. Screams filling the night air.

They had not been noticed, or so Simon thought. Of course, he was wrong. Pulcinella’s focus on killing did not distract from its surveillance operations, and their every move had been logged.

Pulcinella observed the men running in different directions. It could not take the risk of the one approaching the house reaching his destination, and warning those within. However, he was too far from its rifle range to guarantee a definite kill.

A quick calculation. Pulcinella raised its right limb. A thick, silver arrow levered up from its forearm. It held it for a moment, aiming. The arrow shot forward with rocket-like propulsion, whistling through the air towards its target. It plunged, with ease, into the back of the man’s skull, which almost exploded from the force. Vaughn hit the concrete path dead; his handsome face now unrecognisable from the devastating assault.

It then charged forward to the house. On entering it saw several people in the kitchen area, and quickly disposed of them, before moving them aside to clear its passage.

In the living area, it saw two people huddled together, resting against the wall. They stared back at it, elven features framed in fear. Pulcinella was not interested in any similarity between the two, did not care for any theological discussion on sexuality. It simply ended their lives with two tiny bullets. Max and Mandy slumped onto one another, conjoined in a pool of blood. The fire crackled nearby with glee.

Pulcinella moved through the rest of the house swiftly, finishing off a young man near the front door, who was trying to get out and failing due to his alcohol-muddled brain; he fell alongside the entrance, and Pulcinella dragged him aside to get up the stairs.

A girl wearing skimpy grey cotton shorts and a yellow vest-top stopped in the middle of the staircase. She turned to run back up the stairs, but her jelly-legs could barely move, and any cry for help was stopped by a fierce blow to her back. Pulcinella pushed past on to the bedrooms, where it quickly dispatched a couple, who were heavy petting on Simon’s bed. The virgin blood spilt on the white duvet, prematurely ending their first sexual experience.

The house was pleased to receive new souls to walk eternally within its walls. Its hunger sated. The temperature dropped even lower.

Pulcinella’s radar revealed that a car was approaching with one person inside. It was about 10 minutes away. Otherwise there were only two people moving in the area, and they were heading for the parlour. They had stopped. It turned, and sped towards them.

“Si, I don’t think I can go on. I need a rest, please. Look, it is nowhere to be seen. We made it.” Carl pleaded for respite.

Exhausted due to his general lack of fitness, Carl reprimanded himself for not having exercised more but, really, who would suspect he would ever have to run for his life from a relentless killer? Nevertheless, Carl thought that he should have looked after himself, if nothing more to delay the inevitable screams of the sirens, who eventually come to take us all away. Every time Carl heard an ambulance’s cry, it sent shivers down his spine.

“Carl, we have to keep moving. We need to get to my dad.”

“How much further is it, Si?”

“Not far.” Simon said, encouragingly, “We have to run through the barn up there, across the courtyard, and he will be in the opposite building.”

“Oh my god! Si, look. Run! Now! I mean it, run!”

Simon looked back towards the farm house, and saw movement, two red searchlights were flashing and moving steadfastly towards them. The killer had seen them.

Simon and Carl were both running to the barn. Inside, it was pitch black, except for a shard of moonlight. Immediately to the right of the entrance was a ladder, leading up to the hay loft. Simon stopped and turned towards it, realising that they could not outrun their pursuer, and their only hope was to hide.

“Carl, quick, up here!”

Carl nodded in agreement, and beckoned for Simon to go up first. They moved quickly up the rickety, old ladder and lay down facing one another, covering themselves in a blanket of hay. Carl held Simon’s hand tightly. He could feel his warm breath on his face. It had the sweet smell of liquor. They breathed quietly, not daring to move.

Simon’s mind was full of furious thoughts, all of which were fighting to be heard. He was going to die. He had never told his dad that he loved him. That he knew everything he had done was for him. His father would never know the real Simon; the loving, over-emotional gay son desperate to be loved unconditionally. He had never had sex or experienced romantic intimacy. His preassigned cosmic lover had not found him.

Simon whispered a prayer, the first in many years, “Please God get us through this.”

Simon wasn’t sure that he believed in the existence of a god, and had never really believed that he would ever die anyway. He thought life was only a dream or perhaps some kind of advanced virtual reality game which would never end. It could all be false, after all he could only remember having lived once, so who could say for certain that one day he would cease to be? And when he closed his eyes and tried to imagine not existing at all, well, it was just beyond his comprehension. No, it was easier to believe that it would never happen.

Heavy steps echoed on the stone floor of the barn. Simon started to shake uncontrollably. He squeezed his eyes close, trying desperately to shut everything out. Little did Simon know that there was no escape from Pulcinella. It heard every word. Could see and track every movement. Could sense their heat signatures, and locate them precisely.

Pulcinella stood under the rotten wood forming the base of the hay loft, directly underneath where Simon and Carl were lying. Its arm transformed into a long, metal spear, almost like a lance. Pulcinella plunged it upwards with force, easily ripping through the wood, and the body above.

Simon felt Carl jut upwards, and then back down.

Pulcinella repeated the motion, forcing its metal rod through Simon’s torso, and heaving it back out.

Penetrated by cold steel, leaving nothing but agonising pain and a flurry of blood, the reality of the situation flooded Simon’s brains. The dam had burst and panic gushed out. His eyes flitted back and forth, desperately. Tears poured out of him. Not now, not yet. It was too soon. He had only just managed to be true to himself.

Simon felt cold fingers intertwine with his. Simon stared forward. The moonlight caught Carl’s face and he could see those familiar deep-brown eyes staring back at him. They looked almost peaceful.

Carl managed a whisper.

“I hope we meet in the next life, Si.”

Carl’s grip loosened but his eyes continued to stare straight at Simon.

“No, Carl. Don’t leave me. Please. I’m so scared.”

Simon suddenly felt freezing cold, and overwhelmingly tired. Everything in his body was shutting down. Time to die, he thought sadly. And, somehow, the certainty and acceptance that this was it, brought some inner peace and calmness. Maybe everything would be ok. He would see if there was more on the other side. The answer to the greatest mystery was about to be revealed. It was his turn to know. He closed his eyes for the last time, and let go.

The yellow hay was soaked by their blood, which was seeping steadily through the cracks and dripping down onto the floor below.

Pulcinella registered the two deaths, and then returned quickly back to the farm house, where someone was about to enter the front door.

Molly had been so excited to be with Vaughn again. She tingled all over every time that she was near to him. At the same time, the past few days had been emotionally exhausting, and she felt that she had no time to catch her breath; Molly just wanted a little time to herself to gather her thoughts, and compose her emotions. The fantasy had turned to reality and she needed to get her head around this.

Their relationship was forged in a different time and place. Having Vaughn here with her now, in her home town amongst people she had known her whole life, was alien to her, surreal. At the same time, her emotions surged positively with genuine feelings of joy and love.

Given the efforts that Vaughn had made to be with her, there was no way that she could have asked him for some space or to slow down. And, selfishly, Molly did not want to do anything that could possibly damage their relationship. She just needed her brain to process everything more quickly.

Maybe she should say nothing and just go with the flow, but that would be so unlike her. Molly liked to think things through carefully. People who knew her complained that she would agonise over decisions, almost obsessively, and Molly acknowledged this to herself.

If they continued at break-neck speed, without rationalising what they were doing and planning for the future, they could crash and burn, and that could destroy them both. Although, when two worlds collide, they normally reform into something bigger and better; disaster by design, leaving a trail of destruction but leading to the creation of a beautiful new world.

Molly drove on at speed, as all of these thoughts were racing equally as fast through her tired mind.

Vaughn had been an unexpected arrival in her life. Molly had no desire or intention to meet anyone in Ireland. After all, she was still dating her childhood sweetheart. But when she first saw Vaughn, everything changed. It was like something out of a movie. Their eyes had met in a restaurant near their hostel, on her first night in Ireland, and they had then kept each other in their sights the whole evening. An indescribable allure, a gravitational attraction. There was nothing she could do.

The morning after the first time they had slept together, Molly had gone to the bathroom, and wept. How could she do this to her boyfriend? What sort of woman was she? Molly expected more from herself but felt out of control and could not fight her feelings for Vaughn. She imagined her grandma in the clouds looking down on her disappointedly; she cried some more. And then she started laughing, realising how pathetic she must look, and feeling, for the first time in her life, giddy with happiness. This was meant to be. Maybe it was fate or perhaps her meeting Vaughn was part of some grand design. Whatever it was, Molly had never felt this way before, and was not prepared to lose him.

Thinking back to their time in Dublin reminded Molly just how much she loved Vaughn and, suddenly, any doubts she had evaporated. Something in her mind just clicked. This drive was exactly what she had needed. To hell with it all. Molly knew she was ready to give in completely to her feelings, and let their love boil over. Bring it on.

A sense of relief passed over Molly. This calmness told her that she had made the right decision. Molly wanted to be back with Vaughn as soon as possible. To be held in his strong arms, to feel his soft bristle on her cheeks, to look into his soulful eyes and tell him she loved him, now and forever. Molly smiled at the thought and pressed her foot down on the accelerator.

Molly couldn’t help but fantasise about a wedding by the sea, three little children running by her side, a cottage in the country surrounded by fields, and joy and laughter, for ever more; a medley of prescient dreams. Molly laughed to herself. Now who was going too fast. She reminded herself that it was probably best to take one day at a time.

The little red Mini coped admirably with the uneven tread of the private, gravel road that led to the farm. She slowed down a little, worried that the tower of pizza boxes may fall over. The smell of hot cheese and various meaty toppings was suffocating. Molly opened her window, concerned that no amount of air freshener would ever get rid of the heady scents of tuna mixed with pepperoni. First world problems, she thought, as she finally approached the front of the house.

Molly pulled up and got out of the car, empty-handed. The party must be in full swing by now but she would have to get a couple of volunteers to help bring in the pizzas.

Out of habit, Molly locked the door and two beeps sounded to confirm the car’s safety. A hoot from a nearby owl sounded in reply, warning her to stay away.

The rusted hinges of the black, wrought-iron gate, screeched, as she prised it open. Heading towards the front door, a shiver went down her spine. Maybe it was the cooling night air, the eerie look of the old farm house, or something else. Molly rubbed her exposed arms to try to warm them, as goose bumps scattered all over them, screaming out that something was wrong.

Molly could hear music playing loudly in the distance. Everyone must be out back, she thought. One of her favourite tracks from the 1980’s was playing. The upbeat melody called her on. It heightened her emotions further and she did a little dance, as she skipped along the red-pebbled path leading to the house.

On opening the door, the music suddenly stopped. They must be changing the song, she thought. The silence was deafening. There was no noise at all, no talking, laughter or movement. It was almost as though she was attending her own surprise party, and everyone was waiting to jump out. Maybe this was some kind of prank, Molly thought.

The living room lights were turned off but the fire was dancing fiercely in its pit, emitting a hellish glow to brighten its surroundings. Molly moved instinctively towards its warmth. Something was not right. The music had not restarted. There was still no noise. And the lights were all out.

Molly’s breath quickened, as she started to feel scared. She looked in all directions but was unable to see around the corner to the dining area, or through the door to the kitchen.

“This is not funny you guys. Come on. Come out now. Honestly, enough is enough.”

Molly spoke loudly to break the silence and to embolden herself.

“Well, ok, we can play this game if you like but your pizzas are getting cold. Guys?”

Still nothing. Molly tried not to panic but suddenly felt vulnerable and afraid. She tried to re-assure herself that everything was fine. She would go outside and find Vaughn, waiting for her with a drink in-hand. Si and Carl would be fooling around. The music system must be broken.

And then out of the darkness, Molly saw two glowing red eyes moving towards her from the kitchen area. She stood perfectly still. This sight was new to Molly but she had read in the news of a similar experience, and knew what was likely to happen next. It was everyone’s new, worst nightmare. Pulcinella was here.

Molly knew about all of the people brutally executed by Pulcinella but had never thought anything like that would ever befall her. Just like any sad news story, it happens to someone else. The tragedy is seen on a piece of paper or on a screen, comfortably distant, almost unreal. But now it was happening to Molly. It would be her face in the press, her death people would read about.

Molly prayed that Vaughn had escaped but knew somewhere deep-down that he hadn’t. He would not have left her. Molly felt fury course through her veins. How dare Pulcinella take him away from her? How could he cruelly kill so many people? Well, not her. She would not die. Not tonight.

Molly recalled Si’s stories about his father. How he always prepared for the worst; a garage full of tinned foods and bottled water; gallons of oil and numerous batteries in the storehouse; weapons at-hand and loaded in case of any intrusion. Si had complained how he even kept two loaded shot guns above the fireplace in case of a home invasion. The weapons were right next to her.

“Well, it looks like your father was right after all, Si.” Molly said quietly, grabbing one of the guns and holding it out in front of herself, waiting.

The shadowy form of Pulcinella was now standing in front of Molly. Sharp steel limbs extended from its various limbs, gleaming with flashes of orange and yellow from the spectating firelight, and darted forward towards her.

Molly held Pulcinella in her sight and did not hesitate to pull the trigger.

It grabbed her hair, ripping part of it out, as she fell backwards from the force of the powerful weapon, and hit her head on the mantlepiece.

Dazed and confused, with a loud ringing in her ears from the shot, Molly opened her eyes.

Pulcinella was on the ground right by her, in front of the fire.

Molly scrambled up with fright, and immediately took down the second shot gun. She aimed it at point blank range at its back, and fired again.

Pulcinella did not move. It was motionless.

Molly threw down the gun and ran out of the back door into the cold night air.

The reality of it all hit her, and she stumbled to the ground next to Vaughn’s body.

Rows of mutilated bodies surrounding her, littering the path ahead.

Molly screamed out at the sky, over and over again, like a crazed, wild beast. She dropped on to Vaughn’s back, and let the darkness take her.

TWELVE

Dan and Luke sped up the dirt track leading to the farm. The car tyres sucked up and spat out the gravel from the old, dirt road as they raced past fallow fields and broken fences.

They happened to already be close to the farm when the call came in. Bernie had remembered her lost key; the makeshift weapon which she used to try to fend off Pulcinella near the cable car station. It now acted as a spy for the FBI, silently transmitting a traceable signal to those searching for it but unknown to all others, including Pulcinella. The chip was not sufficiently high-tech to permit discovery but enough to provide its location within a 50 kilometre radius. The team had immediately started a high-surveillance operation in the area, and increased significantly their presence. Naturally, Dan and Luke had set up base within the area, helping in the search, hoping to track and locate Pulcinella, as they awaited further news about the steel analysis from Diana.

Dan and Luke had a lucky break, rolled a six, and were staying coincidentally close to the farm in a small home-stay. However, sometimes a high-roll of a dice might belie good-luck; you find out that you are playing ‘Snakes and Ladders’, and are trapped in the jaws of a viper about to suffer a perilous descent.

The headlights’ main beam blinded the road ahead. They slammed on the breaks, as a girl came running towards them, screaming and waving her hands frantically above her head, for them to stop. They were the first on the scene. The local law enforcement officers had not yet arrived from town.

The girl’s blond hair was modernised by bright red streaks; the coagulating blood had stiffened and spiked certain strands of hair, leaving it looking styled for a rave. A patch of hair was missing, leaving a bloody blotch, which was slowly growing and spreading out in all directions. Her arms and legs looked painfully white, with hues of blue, flailing out of her tiny pink t-shirt and overly short denim skirt. She was out of breath and panting hard, standing with her hands on her slim hips, shivering, and bending over to try to catch her breath.

Dan thought how pretty she would look if she were in a more presentable condition, and unsullied by some bloody rage; not glamourous like a model, but the classic ‘girl next door’ look. Not that she was his type, of course, but the mind immediately identifies and appreciates beauty, even in moments of tragedy and crisis.

“Help me! Please! You have to help me!” The girl shrieked, her voice quivering violently, “I think they are all dead! All of them. Dead.”

Her voice trailed off, and she broke down in a fit of emotion. She was sobbing uncontrollably and struggling to breath. The shock of what had happened was beginning to sink in. Dan knew he needed to get her to calm down.

“What’s your name, honey?” Dan asked, gentle in his questioning, as though speaking to a lost child.

“Molly.” She said, quietly.

“Look, Molly, I want you to sit in the car with Agent Harrison, while I go into the house to check to see what has happened. Ok, Molly?”

Molly nodded. Dan turned to Luke, whose face was framed perfectly in the glare of the headlights, beautifully illuminated from behind like some celestial being. An anxious looking and concerned god.

“Dan, you can’t go in there alone. It might not be safe. We don’t know that the killer is dead. We know nothing.” Luke said, almost pleadingly, in a hushed tone so that Molly wouldn’t hear him.

“Luke, Molly told dispatch that she took down the intruder with a shot gun. That she fired, until he didn’t move. No one could survive multiple, close-range shot gun rounds. No one. Don’t worry, I will be fine. But I am worried about Molly. You need to keep her talking and look after her, while we wait for the local services to arrive. They will be here soon.”

Molly could hear everything. Her pain seemed to be changing, and turning in to anger.

“He’s dead alright. I left him in the main room, by the fire, and just ran. I had to get away. I couldn’t stay in that house.”

“Thanks Molly,” Dan said, “Now, please jump into the car. We need to keep you warm. Agent Harrison, could you join her?”

“Dan, I really think that I should go in there with you.” Luke urged, his raw emotion coming to the surface, no longer caring about rank or position, his only concern being for Dan.

“I’ll be fine Agent Harrison. You wait here for back up with Molly.”

“But I …”

“Agent Harrison, that is a direct order.”

Dan hated to pull rank on Luke, but Molly was listening and he had to maintain an air of officialdom between them. He also did not have time to argue the point with Luke.

Of course, he would have preferred Luke to join him but Molly could not be left alone. Dan was also not prepared to put Luke in danger. He was about to confront a demon. Even if dead, there could be residual risks or scenes so shocking that Luke could be scarred for life from seeing them. Dan’s urge to protect Luke was overwhelming now; intuitively, he knew that this was the right thing to do.

Luke put his arm around Molly to steady and support her, as he helped her into the back of the car. Dan watched as Luke got in beside Molly, and wrapped a blanket around her. He gave Luke a wistful, almost sad, smile, and a nod. He then turned and ran as fast as he could towards the house.

As Dan approached the house, he could not help but notice its threatening aspect. It was the stuff of nightmares. The lights were on in the bedrooms, and the two windows glowed yellow like cats’ eyes, watching and daring him to approach. The large, red door was wide open and protruded from the structure, tongue-like, ready to lick and swallow him whole.

Dan steeled himself, as he jumped up the two steps at the main entrance. He did not hesitate, there could be survivors in need of help. As Dan entered, in the dim lighting, he did not see the body lying sprawled on the floor blocking the way forward. He fell heavily over it, and felt a familiar twinge in his lower back. He could not afford to seize up now. There was a wetness on his knees, and Dan wondered if he had somehow injured himself worse than he had thought. Looking down, he saw that he was kneeling in a pool of blood and it was seeping through his trousers, leaving stains that would never come out.

Dan got up quickly, embarrassed and relieved that Luke was not there with him to see this. The young man was lying on his back, with his head turned to the side, one arm outstretched. A large deep red circle was in the centre of the body; it was clearly the result of a violent attack. Dan felt for a pulse by pressing his middle and fore fingers on the soft flesh of the man’s neck. Nothing. He was dead.

Dan felt incredibly sad. This young man had his whole life before him but now every hope and dream had been snuffed out. It was too soon for him. Dan pushed these thoughts out of his mind. He had to focus and press on. Remorse would have to wait.

The passageway offered two choices. A closed door, leading to the downstairs rooms. Or a flight of stairs leading steeply up into darkness. Molly had said the killer was in the main living room, so Dan moved towards the door. He paused for a moment. Should he open it quickly and charge in or try to creep in without being heard. Dan tried to remember what he was taught in training but that was a long time ago and, anyway, did not extend to situations such as this.

Dan breathed in deeply through his nose, recalling that this is supposed to help you to calm down. His heart was pounding fast and loud. Facing the tall door, he took hold of the steel handle. A final shiver ran down his spine. His hairs bristled. And then he burst in.

“FBI. Don’t move!”

Dan’s voice filled the room, which was glowing oranges and reds, with shadows from the fierce fire dancing on the white walls. The torched wood crackled, as though laughing at him. Otherwise, the room was ominously silent and still.

Dan looked quickly around in all directions. Gun drawn, arms outstretched in a taught triangle shape, and pointed forward.

The room was a large open plan area, L-shaped, with a feature fireplace, surrounded by a mishmash of sofas and seats. It had an area coming off it, around the corner, which Dan could not see into, as the light from the fire did not extend that far.

In front of the large mantlepiece, which was struggling to restrain the roaring fire, burning so strongly and trying to escape, was an elongated figure. Draped in black, head and body faced down on the furry rug, arms and legs stretching out. There was no sound or movement whatsoever. No cries for help. No heaving chest struggling for breath. No limbs beckoning for support. Nothing.

Dan moved slowly forward. He aimed his gun at the body, ready for any reanimation. He gently tapped it with his foot.

“Hello. Can you hear me? Hello! FBI.”

There was no movement or response. Dan knelt down beside the corpse. He immediately noticed how tall this man was, and how the blackness of his long raincoat was only matched by the unnatural pitch black of his bristly hair. Every other feature was cloaked.

Dan felt again for a pulse. The skin felt incredibly cold, even though it was in front of the fire. It was also firm and rigid. Dan was no scientist, and knew little about the effects of death on the body, but there was no sign of life that he could discern. All clear. He had to see if there were any survivors.

Looking around, he saw a light switch, and turned it on. He looked towards the hidden corner area and could see two legs sticking out. Dan moved quickly.

Another two bodies; identical-looking teenagers with blond spikey hair. Their heads were resting against one another, temples touching and conjoined, eyes closed. There was no blood that he could see but they were clearly dead.

Sitting at the head of a dining table was an older boy, head slumped down, arms resting on the table. Dan gently lifted his chin, to see his face; a bullet hole marked the boy’s forehead, exiting through the back of his skull. The blood dripped from the wound, running red rivers down the front of his canary-yellow tank top, embellishing it to create some kind of deathly bespoke fashion.

Dan moved through another door, and into the kitchen. The back door was open and beating gently back and forth against the wall, blowing in the gentle night breeze; like a distant warning drum. There was a strong cleaning smell, like some sort of disinfectant.

Four bodies were heaped on top of one another against the back of the kitchen, propped up by the cheap, laminate units. It could almost be a drinking game; a pile-on top of each other, or a drunken dare. Arms and legs spread out everywhere like some sort of hybrid squid, having pumped out the last of its red ink, squirting splatters of blood all around the tiled floor and bleach-sprayed surfaces in a vain, last defence against an unstoppable predator.

A large, square chest freezer stood sternly against the side wall, humming a gentle electric lullaby to preserve its frozen contents’ deep sleep. Dan braced himself, having seen too many scary movies, and certain this would have someone locked inside, but the lid opened readily and revealed only various meat products, all with yellow stickers showing they had been reduced in price for a quick sale.

Dan closed the back door, to stop the constant banging, which kept giving him a fright every time it made contact, as he was so focused on his search. Outside would have to wait, he needed to check upstairs first. Dan moved back towards the main room.

“Dan, you ok?” Luke asked urgently.

Dan jumped with shock, and let out a loud gasp.

“Geez, Luke, you gave me such a fright! Shouldn’t you be in the car with Molly?”

“No, it’s fine Dan. The local sheriff has arrived and is with her now. The paramedics should get here in the next ten minutes or so. And a forensics team is about 20 minutes out.”

Luke scanned around the room, his eyes settling on the body in front of the fire, which could be seen clearly now the lights were on.

“So, this is our guy, Pulcinella, eh? He sure is tall.”

“Yes, I think so. He is exactly where Molly said that he would be. I’ve checked for a pulse, and there was nothing. She did well.”

Luke moved forward towards Pulcinella.

“I want to see what this maniac looks like. Can I turn him over?”

“Sure. I haven’t had a chance yet. There are so many bodies, Luke. They are all so young. Listen, I haven’t been upstairs yet, so I better get on and check out the area. We also need to look outside, as the back door was open and it could be that others managed to escape. You’ve got your gloves on, right? We’ve got to be careful not to contaminate any evidence.”

“Yes, Dan, already on.” Luke said, wriggling his latex-covered fingers, to prove it.

Dan walked towards Luke and they crossed paths in the middle of the room, looking at one another as they did so; an intense look of relief. This horror story was now over.

Dan wanted to stay with Luke but he needed to concentrate, and make sure that there was no one left alive.

Luke stared at the body in the glow of the fire. The long, black coat was thigh length and there were what looked like black trousers beneath it. There were no shoes and the feet looked black; in the moment, Luke thought they must be covered in soot or dirt.

“Well you certainly dress like a creepy executioner.” Luke said aloud, talking to himself to stave off any fear and to break the silence, “Now let’s see what you look like.”

Luke rolled the body over. It was extremely heavy, and took all of his might. Luke recoiled in shock. It was his turn for a fright this time.

Instead of a face, Luke saw a leather mask. Its main feature was a razor-sharp hooked beak-like nose. It reminded Luke of the old plague-masks used by doctors of the time. It seemed hand sown, with thick cream stitching visible at the edges, almost like an old-fashioned baseball catcher’s glove.

From beneath the mask, there was nothing but dark shadows. The killer’s eyes were closed, and the eyelids were painted black. His face and neck were also covered in some sort of black paint or covering. A terrifying visage. A vicious raven.

Luke looked back down the body, to see it in its full form, head and all. What a sight to behold. And then it suddenly dawned on Luke. There was no blood. If Molly had shot him several times, where was the blood? He turned to look back at Pulcinella’s face, and froze. Two glowing red eyes were watching him. Luke immediately shouted as loud as he could, “Dan!”

Pulcinella moved quietly but forcefully, grasping Luke by the throat to stop any further call for help. His throat was constricted in a vice-like grip. It tightened quickly.

Luke knew he had no time to think and had to act, or his throat would be crushed. He reached for his electric taser, and pressed it into Pulcinella’s face.

The strong voltage was enough to shock Pulcinella into releasing Luke. Only a second of inaction but enough for Luke to move away quickly, scrambling along the floor towards the door.

Pulcinella stood up. Its tall, slender figure reaching up close to the ceiling, coat flailing, encouraged by the fiery air behind it. Still and silent, staring at Luke.

“Luke, what is it? Are you ok?” Dan shouted, approaching the room.

Dan fell quiet, as he stood in the doorway, with the masked monster directly in front of him.

Pulcinella raised its knuckles in their direction, intent on shooting them with its hidden guns. There was a grinding noise, a whirring, but nothing happened. The weapons were jammed and inoperable. Molly’s shots had caused some damage to Pulcinella’s systems. It momentarily paused. Recalibrating. Slower.

Suddenly, it charged at Dan, a long steel knife extended from its fingers. Dan stood frozen to the spot, with no time left to react.

“No!” Luke shouted out.

There was a blur of movement.

Luke’s voice refocused Dan’s attention, and he shot Pulcinella in the head. It had no effect, and Pulcinella continued its charge forwards.

Luke could not let this happen. He threw himself between Dan and the robot. The dagger sliced through Luke, as Pulcinella fell forward, its programming pushing for a final kill. They both fell heavily on to the floor.

Dan quickly discharged his gun over and over again in Pulcinella’s face. False flesh fell away, as the camouflaging system faltered, revealing the white plastic beneath.

And then the red lights blinked out for the last time.

“Luke!” Dan called out desperately.

Luke looked pale. Blood was streaming out of his side, as he tried to cover the wound.

“No! No. Luke, hold on. Please.”

Dan took off his jacket and pressed it hard against the wound.

Luke could only manage a whisper, “It’s alright, Dan.”

“Why did you do that, Luke?”

Dan’s voice was quivering with emotion. His eyes started to glaze over with tears. He struggled to breathe, as he stared intently into Luke’s dark eyes.

“Don’t you know, Dan?” Luke said, searching Dan’s eyes and forcing a smile.

He pressed his hands over Dan’s.

Dan said nothing but continued to stare into Luke’s dilating eyes.

He couldn’t believe this. Of course, he had dreamt of this moment but now, just as this wished for revelation was made, it was all going to be taken away from him.

It was too much, any strength dissipated, and his tears flowed freely. Luke suddenly looked calm. Serene. He let out a sigh and his head dropped; the embracing hands slipped away.

“No! Luke! Luke! Please, please don’t leave me. Luke! Stay with me.”

Hearing the shots, the sheriff ran in.

“Jesus! What has happened here?”

“Get an ambulance now!” Dan shouted.

“We already have one on the way, sir. It’s just coming up the road now.”

“Go and get the medics, please. Bring them straight here. Now! Please!”

The sheriff saw the wild desperation in Dan’s eyes, and ran off to get help.

Dan turned back to Luke. His arms were numb from applying pressure. His muscles screamed out in pain. He would not let go.

“Luke! Luke!” Dan cried out, “I’m not ready to let you go. Do you hear me? Please don’t die. Hold on.”

Dan moved closer and leant his forehead gently against Luke’s.

“I need you, Luke. I don’t think I can go on without you. I should have said something. Should have told you sooner. I love you, Luke. I love you.” Dan said, in a gentle whisper, voice shaking, as his tears flowed freely.

Time stood still as a toxic cocktail of emotion flooded Dan’s mind. He felt immense pain at seeing Luke’s unmoving body but guilt also added its bitter flavour. Dan was to blame for this. He should never have let Luke stay involved. Dan had compromised himself and his duty; worse he had allowed his selfish gene to take command, and now Luke was dying in his arms, and there was nothing that he could do about it. Overwhelming grief mixed with self-admonishment. Tears ploughed down Dan’s dry skin, as his whole body shook uncontrollably with emotion.

Strong arms tried to force Dan away. He clung-on with all of his might but was overpowered. Luke was torn from him, put on a stretcher, and rushed off.

Dan sat still only for a moment, numb and in shock. But a stronger power quickly took control of him. He jumped up and ran after Luke. He had to be with him no matter what. It could not end like this.

THIRTEEN

The live streaming video ended abruptly, following the clash of Dan’s bullet strikes, in a storm of blacks and greys, frazzling the screen. Dominic had watched it all happen through the camera lenses in Pulcinella’s eyes. Powerless to assist his creation, he could do nothing other than shout at the screen and will it on to succeed. To kill the agents. At least it had put up a gallant fight, and seemingly claimed one last victim.

Dominic knew that the sacrifice was for the greater good but he had hoped that Pulcinella would not be defeated; that it would somehow fight on for years to come like a legendary titan. After all, it was his first and favourite creation, and like mothers sending their sons to war he could do nothing but believe it would return to him unharmed.

Dominic put his head in his hands, the grief tearing into him, like a major earthquake ripping apart the earth across a major fault line. It was the same feeling he had experienced as a boy when his grandfather had broken his beloved porcelain piece. But this emotion was greater. It was pure rage.

Dominic stood up quickly, his chair clattering behind him, screaming aloud and throwing violently any nearby object on the floor or against the wall, choosing ones which would have the maximum effect; clattering, crashing, smashing, shattering.

The door to the side of his office opened. He froze in mid-motion, holding a computer monitor aloft, ready to trash it on the concrete floor.

“What is all this racket?” A middle-aged lady dressed elegantly in black approached him, picking up the cord of the monitor, and twirling the plug around slowly in a relaxed motion. Her dark hair was covered by an Audrey Hepburn style hat, with black netting obscuring her face.

“Diana? Is that you?” Dominic asked, tilting his head to try to see under the veil. Although her voice was unmistakable, he wanted to be certain.

“You always were so melodramatic, brother.” She said, taking off the hat, smiling broadly at Dominic.

“What are you doing here?” Dominic sounded angry, “I have not seen you for years and, now, all of a sudden you decide to show up.”

“Oh silly Dommy,” Diana replied, as though this was the most pathetic question she had ever heard.

Diana liked to use her pet name ‘Dommy’ for Dominic. She pronounced it ‘dummy’; it was so potently belittling that she immediately felt empowered.

Diana continued softly, “Do you think this is a coincidence? That I just happen to turn up at your fun factory by chance? Really, you should know me better than that, Dommy.”

Diana moved closer, bending in and putting her mouth close to his ear, “No Dommy, I know everything. Of course, I do. You know that nothing gets past me and, frankly, my dear, it is a good job for you.”

She turned away from him, looking around the computer terminal area, and touching random objects, which she knew Dominic would hate her to do. It had the desired effect, Dominic was becoming agitated, and angry.

“Get off my stuff Diana, will you? You have no business being here, coming into my home.”

“Our home, Dommy. Our home. I’m not dead yet, and it was left to the both of us, remember?”

“Well, still, this is my equipment. You have no right to touch it.”

Diana moved away from the bench, back towards the centre of the room. Dominic leant against the wall, as far away from Diana as he could get, scowling at her.

“Don’t worry, Dommy. I am not here to spoil your fun, or to mess with your toys. I am actually here to help you.”

“What do you mean, to help me?”

“Oh, Dommy. You can be so stupid. I mean if you are going to create a killing machine, you ought to at least be careful about what materials you use to make it with. I mean Damascus steel? Very ornate and rather beautiful, but also easily identifiable and readily traceable.”

Dominic suddenly thought about Pulcinella’s remains. The technology might also be detectable. He had taken all possible precautions, and been meticulous in his efforts, but Pulcinella was formed from so many parts, all with differing supply chains and payment transactions. He could not account for every possibility, or permutation. A fortuitous thread of evidence may lead the FBI through the maze, and happily guide them to the puppet master, Dominic.

Who knew what resources the FBI could use to find him? If Diana had worked it out then surely the FBI would do the same? Dominic tried to calm himself. Even if they did discover some traitorous evidence, it would take time to trace him. He still had a day or two, at least, to make plans and move on.

“So, I get no thanks?” Diana asked, moving back towards him, like a cat might toy with its prey.

“It’s too late. You’re too late. It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?” Diana paused for a second, “Oh, they have somehow stopped your robot, have they?”

“Yes, Diana. It’s broken. Those FBI agents got in the way, and took a gun to it. It’s not invincible, you know.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Dommy,” Diana said slowly, pronouncing each word with false sadness in her voice, on the verge of mocking his emotions.

“Well, at least it took one of them out with it.” Dominic said, grinning.

“Oh, really? Which one?” Diana asked, casually interested, “The cute one with curly hair, or the older one with the middle-aged spread?”

“The curly haired one.”

“That’s a shame. I quite liked him. Oh well, never mind. Anyway, Dommy, if traces of steel brought me to your door, I hate to think what the FBI will discover in the scrap metal left behind. And it would not be good to tarnish our family’s reputation. Not, of course, that I would be directly implicated, given my change of identity, but I would hate it for Mummy and Daddy.”

“Yes, Diana, I am not stupid you know? I have already thought about that. I know what I have to do.”

“Well, I guess I could always help you to disappear. I mean, isn’t that what family is for? To help each other out when needed.”

“I don’t remember you ever being there for me before, Diana.”

“Well, you have piqued my interest this time, Dommy. Who knew you had it in you? I, for one, had almost given up hope. I even suspected you were adopted but maybe we are related after all.”

“I forgot how funny you are, Diana.” Dominic said sarcastically, “Listen, we need to start clearing this place out now, and fast.”

“Oh, Dommy. We don’t have time for that. Look, they will soon find out it was you and, when they do, they will crawl all over this place.” Diana inspected her hands, “No, I think a good old-fashioned bonfire is in order. We just need plenty of oil and a couple of little matches.”

Dominic considered this. It would destroy all of the evidence, if they did it properly. And all of his real work was stored electronically, and hidden away so securely that even the most proficient hackers would take months to de-code it.

This first stage, although it ended sooner than Dominic would have liked, was a success. Pulcinella had killed hundreds of people, and the messages it left behind had captivated the public’s attention. But this was only the beginning. The first part of his master plan. Dominic had only started to spread his gospel. Now it was time for widespread disaster by his design. Mass killings, the likes of which no one had ever seen before. Then the world would listen. He would make humanity change their ways. Make them better; deserving of life. Dominic vowed he would succeed. Nothing could stop him. Not now.

“Ok, Diana,” Dominic said, as he walked to the end of the room, and opened a large steel door, “We’ll follow your plan but I have to do something first.”

A row of robots waited patiently. Red eyes glowing, ready. All moulded to murder for Dominic. The glare from their artificial lights reflected in Diana’s delighted eyes.

“Oh, Dommy. You are a clever boy!” Diana purred, placing her arm around his shoulder.

“Well even an idiot, Diana, knows that twenty killers are better than one. Pulcinella was just a trial. Now it is time for the main event. Fear is the most powerful teacher, and I will use it to make sure that every human being on the planet hears my words, and learns their lesson.”

Dominic activated each of his creations in turn, and watched with Diana as the troupe of killer androids stole away together into the night, to terrorise and massacre the helpless, unsuspecting masses. The worst was yet to come.