Copyright © Andi Dawson
It was a cold and dark, lonely night. Jasper was walking home yet again from his crappy job at the local. Three years he'd been doing the same, walking to and from the Flaggin’ Lamb every weekend. He hated the job, the people, the lack of funds, but he'd no clue about what he wanted to do with his life; and his theory remained the same, why change if he didn't know what to change to.
So, he was walking home again, in the cold, the wind blowing through his head. However, this night was slightly different to most, he still didn't know what to change to, but he knew he had to change. Or at least, this night he had a reason for wanting to change, two reasons actually. The first reason was that he had finally reached the end of his tether with the job earlier that evening. After serving the hundredth gin and tonic to the bar’s saddest customer, he finally lost the will to carry on. The second reason was slightly more serious, slightly more urgent. After cashing up he had beaten the bar owner to death with a pool cue and stolen the week's takings.
He wasn't walking any faster than usual. In fact, he was so exhausted that even if he had felt the need to go faster he wouldn't have been able to. His brain wasn't working overtime; he was calm, collected and hungry. It was odd, he had just beaten Chloe to death, yet he wasn't worried or upset, he was just indifferent. At the time he had been quite shocked that he had reacted in such a way, especially as all she had said to him was "see you tomorrow night". He had never reacted that way before and she had been saying that every Saturday for three years.
The weight of the week's takings was making his journey home difficult and although he was tempted to just throw it over the hedge he decided to keep it. It was almost like he felt he had to keep it, otherwise beating Chloe to death would be seen as pointless if he was ever found out. At least keeping the money would give him a motive; otherwise people would just think he was a weirdo.
Finally, he arrived home and headed straight to the kitchen. Within a couple of minutes he had the radio on, a cup of tea made and the chip pan bubbling away on the cooker, his frozen chips waiting to be plunged into the hot oil. He always did this when he got home, tea and chips, a bit of a tradition. Tonight he thought he might even go as far as buttering a couple of rounds of bread, but his attention was drawn away from that decision. The radio blaring away in the corner suddenly brought him somewhere close to reality.
"Chloe Smethwick, owner of the Flaggin’ Lamb, has been taken to The Royal Hospital after a brutal attack at her bar. She managed to call for an ambulance before collapsing at the front door of the pub and is now in a critical condition."
The chip pan continued to bubble as Jasper listened to the rest of the report. Yet again he wasn't worried or upset, just confused. Before he had left the bar he had gone as far as checking Chloe's pulse, not to make sure that she was dead, but just out of curiosity; he’d seen it done so many times on television that he wanted to know if it was as easy as it looked. He was sure that he had felt nothing, although perhaps he had been unsuccessful in finding the precise location of the pulse, after all he was no expert.
After eating the chips, without bread as he really couldn't be bothered, he decided to turn the radio off. He finished his second cup of tea and turned all the plugs off in the kitchen before heading into the living room. It really needed to be decorated, the wallpaper was old and dirty and hadn't been changed for ten years; his mother had always liked it, but he hated it with a passion. It wasn't often that he let his mothers’ likes and dislikes bother him, it had been seven years since she'd died and he hadn't visited the grave since the funeral. Graveyards always made him feel silly, people sitting around talking to people who were dead and buried and couldn't possibly hear them; there was just no point.
Besides, he hadn't liked his mother when she was alive so it would have been hypocritical to have suddenly become the doting son after her death. She hadn't even left him anything in her will, the bloody bird sanctuary down the road had got everything, not that she had much to give. The house had been in his name since his father died, so at least she hadn't been able to do anything with that. For years he had watched her sit in her favourite chair, moaning and complaining about everything he did. After his father died she really went to town with the insults, “You're as useless as your father”, “You'll never amount to anything” and his personal favourite, “You're your father's son”. He had never figured out exactly what that last one meant and as he smothered her with her own pillow he hadn't thought to ask.
That was years ago though and quite frankly didn't bear thinking about now; her death had been from natural causes according to the coroner and who was he to argue. The thing that was on his mind at the moment was Chloe Smethwick. He was sure that she was dead when he left the bar. The fact that she had managed to phone for an ambulance and make it to the front door surprised him, especially as he was positive that he had broken several of her fingers, both her kneecaps and her skull. But, he had always thought of her as stubborn, so his initial surprise subsided and he began to get annoyed that her stubbornness had continued. He supposed that most other women would have lay down and died as expected after being beaten with the thick end of a pool cue, but not her.
His anger increased as he switched on the news and was greeted with an update on the story. The newsreader told of how the "kind-hearted woman" would have helped anyone; they even had interviews with a couple of the locals at the Flaggin’ Lamb. He switched the TV off just as Michael Warner, regular drinker and womanizer in the village, was saying how he "just couldn't believe that someone would do something like that to his bride-to-be". Before now half the village had slept with her and the other half had slagged her off, he had never expressed an opinion about her one way or the other, but many other people had. It was funny that they were all appearing on the local news now telling all and sundry that she was "friendly" and "adorable" and "always there when you needed her". But, Jasper didn't suppose that it would have been a great report if they had just interviewed the distressed wives whose husbands had shagged Chloe on a regular basis, or the children whose parents had split up because of her.
Eventually, after pacing the living room for what seemed like minutes, but was actually seconds, Jasper switched off all the plugs and went up to bed. He hated the decor in the hallway too, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The light wasn't working, so he walked in darkness into his bedroom and switched the bedside lamp on. The black bin liners that were piled on the floor were starting to smell and he knew it was about time that he cleared his room of all the junk. He wasn't obsessively tidy, but he liked to have a clean out every couple of weeks, just to make sure that nothing would dissuade any future visitors from entering his home. Not that he had invited anyone back for a few months, after the last visitor left in a hurry.
He sat on his bed, taking his shoes and socks off, thinking about his last visitor; a tall, blonde woman, with lovely hands. He couldn't remember her name now, but he knew that she would always remember his. He smirked as he imagined her looking in the mirror at the present he had given her and wondered if she would ever truly recover from the experience. The fact that the drugs he had given her hadn't knocked her out completely was a little perplexing, almost as perplexing as Chloe's survival, but at least she would never forget him. He hoped however, that she wouldn't remember every detail about him, such as where he lived, as that would be very annoying.
For a while he sat and daydreamed about the visitors he'd had before her, most of whom were hidden about the house. The ones that were in the bin liners on the floor of his room were the ones he didn't want to keep. He'd have to get rid of them soon, the stench was becoming unbearable and his bedroom was extremely messy. His favourite visitors were all around the house, there for him whenever he wanted them. Of course, most of them were unrecognizable now, but Jasper didn't really mind, as long as they were there to keep him company. They obviously couldn't hear him or respond to his questions as they were dead and carefully embalmed, but just having them there made him feel nice.
He knew that one day he would have to let them all go, their relatives would probably like to bury them after he was caught, which he knew he would be. He only hoped that he'd have the chance to have one more visitor before the police came for him. After the events at the Flaggin’ Lamb tonight he knew that he didn't have time to waste and as he continued to undress, he decided that he would have to go out very early in the morning.
The alarm disturbed Jasper's dream at five o’clock, a dream that he now could not remember. He dressed and removed the bin bags from his room before eating Cornflakes and drinking tea for breakfast. After staring at himself in the mirror by the front door for a couple of minutes, he grabbed his jacket and opened the door. The sun shone brightly and the wind that had whistled through his brain last night was gone. Birds chirped their morning song as he headed down the main street to the bus stop, he felt relaxed and happy for the first time in months. The thought of inviting a visitor home was all that filled his mind as he waited for the bus that would take him into town. The village was quiet as he waited, he knew that nobody would surface for at least another hour by which time he would be back in his house, hopefully accompanied by a visitor. He was beginning to get excited and a little nervous as he got on the bus; he thought he would possibly go out for dinner that evening if he were able to.
Seven minutes later he was off the bus and heading down to Almond Square, an area just out of the town centre where he knew that he would find someone. Turning the corner he saw a police car racing by, its sirens screaming; it was heading away from him and he felt at ease. The next corner provided him with exactly what he was hoping for, although she wasn't blonde as he liked, today he decided that he could cope with a brunette. His mother had been a brunette and he'd always avoided the colour before now, but he was attracted to her long legs and finger nails and as he approached her the usual rush of adrenaline pumped through his veins.
Eight minutes after first saying hello they were waiting for the bus together, he had given her is jacket to protect her against the cool morning breeze. Her dark hair was blowing about in the wind and he couldn't help notice that her red nail varnish was chipped, something which he would correct later. On the bus she attempted to hold his hand, at first he thought it was quite sweet, but then he saw the chipped varnish again and he had to decline. He began to think about his mother, possibly there were too many similarities between this girl and her; the hair colour, the red nails, the fact that she insisted on sitting so close to him. He hoped that he hadn't made a mistake inviting the brunette back to his home, but before he had chance to decide the bus came to a halt at his stop.
A short while later they were in the hallway of his home, Jasper was being a gent as usual and offering to hang her coat up for her; obviously it was his coat and it needed to be hung up, but he felt it was polite to ask. He ushered her into the living room, showing her to his mother's favourite chair, she sat down and he left the room to make drinks. The kettle boiled as he carefully measured out two heaped spoonfuls of his special powder, both of which he dropped into her cup. Moments later he returned to the living room, with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on his mother's favourite tray.
After setting the tray down on the occasional table, he sat on the floor in front of the seat and huddled up to her legs with his eyes closed. He remembered the times that he had done this; thought of the many women he had brought here since his mother had died. Her felt her reaching forward for her tea, heard her crunching a bourbon biscuit, felt the crumbs falling on his head, then waited; the cup dropped from her hand and smashed on the hearth. The special powder was quick and her limp body now lay silent behind him, her breathing was shallow and slow.
As he lifted her from the seat he realised that he hadn't even asked her name. That didn't seem to matter now though, as she was ready for him and he was ready for her. She was easy to carry upstairs and he placed her delicately on his mother's pristine bed. Seven years had passed since his mother had laid there, but it was still as clean and as well kept as when she'd been alive, the pillows still as fluffy. He pulled the curtains to and switched on the radio at the side of the bed; a report about Chloe disturbed his train of thought.
"Local bar owner, Chloe Smethwick, has regained consciousness after the viscous attack which has left her paralysed. So far police have been unable to establish a motive for the attack, although they believe it may have been a robbery gone wrong, as the weekly takings were missing. Chief Superintendent Burrows said earlier that they were hoping to speak to local barman, Jasper Serkin, about the attack, although he stressed that they did not think that he would be able to provide them with further information. Chief Superintendent Burrows also stated, 'Jasper was seen leaving the pub shortly after closing time and the call to the emergency services was not received until 12.45am. We merely want to speak to him to find out if he knew of anyone that would have a motive for the dreadful attack.' Police still remain confused over this obviously, unprovoked beating."
Jasper could not believe that they only wanted to talk to him about people who disliked Chloe, he could give them plenty of names, enough to keep their investigations going for months if not years. A smile spread across his face as he picked up his razor blade and sliced his left hand; he had done this so many times that he was devoid of any pain. Dipping his finger into the small pool of blood collecting in his cupped palm, he carefully smeared it across her lips, making it appear that she had lipstick on to match the colour of her nails. His hand continued to bleed as he reached into the chest of drawers for the nail varnish remover and ruby red varnish, he always liked to paint his visitors' nails with the same colour that his mother once wore. As always he completed the task quickly but perfectly, admiring his work while seeing to the cut on his blood-covered hand.
Removing his visitor’s clothes was a necessary task that he had mastered over the last seven years, he was able to dress her in his mother's favourite dress before noticing that she was beginning to come round from the effects of the special powder. He knew he would have to work quickly before feeling returned to her body and as he lay her down on the bed he lifted his razor blade for what he knew would be the final time. He had also perfected the task of cutting his initials into flesh, an art that he was very proud of, although he often wished that he had been given a shorter name. As a child he had been teased about his name, Jasper was bad enough, but add that to his middle names of Eric Simon Ulysses and finally his surname Serkin and he was a complete laughing stock.
As always the job was completed before his visitor awoke completely. Once awake, the screaming usually subsided after a few seconds and if not his mother’s pillow stifled it. On this occasion though, he decided that he wouldn't finish things quite so quickly, this was the last time he would ever have a visitor and he wanted it to last. He shushed her until she was calm and offered her a sip of water; she took it as he admired her nails once again. Looking down at her chest he noticed the blood was seeping through his mother's dress, this time he wouldn't have to wash it though. She followed his eyes and again began to scream, the only other sound throughout the house was the radio on the bedside table and loud knocks at the front door.
He reached across her for the pillow as several police officers stormed up the stairs, managing to place it over her face as she struggled for her life. It took all of his strength to stop her fighting as the last breath left her body; the blood from her chest now covered most of the bed. He made no attempt to protect himself as the officers broke through the door into his mother's room, he was on his knees waiting for them calmly as he had planned. She lay there motionless, the pillow still over her face, the initials on her chest clearly visible even though she was covered in blood. He smiled as he realised what his initials actually spelt out. The name that had caused him so much grief throughout his life now made him laugh. Jasper Eric Simon Ulysses Serkin, or J.E.S.U.S for short.
