I remember very clearly thinking that I was going to die. I had once read somewhere that fresh water was far less buoyant than salt water or that used in swimming pools. I was facing my final end. I thought of Mary Ann Cotton, swinging. I thought of Ted Bundy strapped to Old Sparky. I pictured the lethal injection closing the eyes of John Wayne Gacy. I thought about how no one would write a book about me. I would just be dead. Forgotten. No one would even remember that I had existed.
As if in response to my thoughts, I abandoned my barrel and swam to Jono. I gripped his outstretched hand, my fingers twisting in his. It’s incredible the impressions we have in extreme moments, for despite the peril of our present situation, I noticed that Jono had been eating hot cross buns. Even though they were now dripping wet, his hands were sticky with molten syrup and the ripe sultana smell lingered on his breath.
My cousin had drifted farther away. Everyone on shore was shouting. I didn’t make a sound. I only focused on my fingers. On Mary Ann Cotton. On Ted Bundy. I maneuvered my grip so that Jono and I were no longer holding hands but, rather, our fingers interlinked as if we were about to play a game of Mercy. I watched Jono’s face. I could see he was tiring. Panting. Snot hung from one of his nostrils. His big lips flapped. He’d sink like a fat stone. The thought gave me a tingle that, being only twelve, I’d never felt before. I gripped his hand as tightly as I could and I pushed.
Down.
As hard as I could.
Jono gasped and vanished. I pushed more. Stretching every muscle. Below, I could feel Jono fighting to be free. I would not let go. A hardpleasure electrified me, pulsing from my fingers to my toes. I grunted. The guttural sound from the back of my own throat only made me push harder.
The other boys were shouting, their voices echoing off the stone of the quarry. They’d realized Jono had gone under. Voices were everywhere. The plank, freed from Jono’s weight, easily supported me. Jono was now below me, his fat fingers desperately clawing at my hand and inner thighs, gouging my flesh. The water was so deep. So cold. If Jono had only had the sense to pull me down, instead of trying to push up, I’d have had to let go. Stupid boy. Evolution at work. After another moment, I felt a juddering and then Jono’s hand relaxed, flopping against me. I stayed there for a moment, enjoying the way his fingers felt between my legs. When I could truly stay afloat no longer, I let Jono go and swam slowly to shore. I was barely able to mask the satiation radiating from my face, from my body, for the whole world to see.
I lay on the hot shale, panting, watching a wisp of cloud floating overhead. As I basked in the bosom of the warm quarry, I felt, for the first time in my short life, true joy. I thought of what I’d just become and what lay before me still. Look at me, Mary Ann. Look at me, Ted. Look at me, Jeffrey. Look at me, Mr. Gacy. I am on my way to becoming you, and more. I’ll be everything you couldn’t be—alive and free.
Some men who’d been working near by had arrived on the scene and now swam out to the wreckage in hope of finding Jono. Gordie sat weeping. My cousin yelled to the men to keep looking. More adults arrived. I saw Jono’s mother on the shore and I stood to go and give her the bad news but a large man intercepted me and piggy-backed me home.
The headlines were wonderful. I remember cutting them out and taking them to show Bobby, who was confined to his bed and puked water for a week. He mourned his friend terribly and felt, I think, guilty for what had happened. Jono’s equally milky mother visited Bobby daily, sang hymns and placed a framed picture of Jono by my cousin’s bed.
“There’s nowt as queer as folk,” my uncle sighed when the woman had departed. He was a man of few words.
Following the trip to the quarry that summer, a lightness came over me that lasted for months. Each night in bed, I felt Jono’s fingers clinging to me. Some nights, I clawed at my own legs in my sleep. In the daytime, I began to hum. Sweet little tunes as I went about my business.
No one noticed my new-found joy except Bobby’s mother, who began to reach for his hand whenever I was close by. I realized that if I wanted to pursue my newly discovered passion, I would have to take care to educate myself and become the best version of myself that I could be. Fortunately for you, my natural talent, coupled with tenacity and grit, meant that I went beyond my own wildest dreams.
I became the best, and that entitles me to bestow my sagacity on whomever I choose. And I choose to help you become the best serial killer thatyoucan be. Assuming that you’re not entirely stupid, you will experience some success if you follow my guidance. I’ll also let you get to know me more personally. I’ll tell you all about Sarah, Sean, Amy, Betty and Melanie, and a few more besides. I hope you’re as excited as I am to get going. Remember to take notes and to take breaks. Have a KitKat. Drink lots of water. This is going to be a real page-turner. The juiciest bits are coming right up.
Chapter Three
Sam’s desk is clean and clear, which means someone has been told to ready it for her return. New log-ins have been written neatly on a Post-it adhered to the bottom of her monitor and when she opens the top drawer she finds a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and another note, sayingWelcome back, Samantha. The use of her full name suggests that whoever Harry asked to write it is new to the floor. Her trainee, perhaps. There’s a brand-new work phone for her, which she turns on and finds fully charged and ready to use.
Sam sits back in her chair and takes in her surroundings. This room was the center of Past Sam’s world—herraison d’être, the place she felt most alive. Now, Present Sam notices the cheap carpet, the battered binders that have overflowed from shelves, on to the floor. A room so loud that she can barely hear herself think. Not everyone here is police, many of them are civilian indexers who type away all day long, their fingers flying at an unholy speed for barely a living wage.
Sam takes in the whiteboards that are scattered all around theroom. Writing is scrawled in various colors. In the center of one board, Sam sees a photograph of a beautiful redheaded child. Her heart skips and she swallows hard. Charlotte Mathers. It must be. Her face printed on a piece of A4 that’s already curling at the corner. The girl doesn’t even look fourteen years old; maybe closer to twelve. All chubby cheeks and freckles. Just a baby, really. Sam pulls her eyes away. Sniffs. But she can’t help but look back at Charlotte, and her mouth floods with the taste of salt. She closes her eyes and takes deep breaths. She can feel glances from her colleagues, but no one comes near and she suddenly misses Anna deeply. She misses Past Sam more. Her chest begins to tighten and she holds her head in her hands.
“So young,” Sam whispers quietly to herself. “So lovely.”
“Why, thank you.”
A voice from behind makes Sam turn in her chair. She finds herself confronted by a flawless, smiling face. He puts her in mind of those cookie-cutter-perfect young men that used to be splashed across the cover ofSmash Hitsmagazine and swooned over. From his stylish boat shoes to his boy-band curtains and everything in between, he is polished and groomed to model standards. He grins at his own joke as Sam rises gracelessly to her feet.
“My new TDC, I presume?” She’s pleased to register the surprise in his blue eyes when her long bones bring her up to his level. She straightens to her full six-foot height.
“Yes, indeed,” he beams and offers a hand, which Sam ignores. “Adam Taylor, your Trainee Detective Constable, reporting for duty. I’m new on this floor,” he says, eyeing their surroundings like a child at a fairground. “I’ve never been in the Holmes Room before. Wow, this place is incredible. I’ve just come over from the Community Safety Unit. This is my second placement as part of the new entry program. I’ve heard a lot about—”
“Ma’am,” she interrupts.
“Pardon?” Taylor asks, in his perfect RP, his smile beginning to falter.
“You need to sayma’am,” Sam says. “Reporting for duty,ma’am. Or better yet, a simpleYes, ma’am. I’ve no need for your verbosity, Taylor. Nor your personal history. Nor your bad jokes.”
A crimson flush creeps up the young man’s smooth throat. Sam’s never enjoyed pulling rank or chastising people before, but something about his ill-timed quip and too-easy smile has sent heat through her.
“In fact,” she continues, stepping deliberately into his personal space, “I’ve no need of anything from you right now, Taylor, save your tea-making skills—which I hope are up to standard? No sugar. A little milk. Most importantly, a clean cup, washed by your own, beautifully manicured hands.”
Taylor’s jaw slackens and he stares unbelievingly at Sam, who stares right back. After a moment, he straightens, closes his mouth and sucks in a breath.
“Yes. Of course. Tea. Yes,” he stammers.
