You’re kidding me… Jago Jones had modelled his whole shtick on a collection of writings that he didn’t even truly understand. This man had evaded the best criminal minds in the country for two years and he didn’t even have any literary critical analysis?
‘Anyway, we’re getting off-topic. I know what you’re going to ask me – you’re going to try and understand me because you’re obsessed with me and I’d love to say I had some traumatic childhood, Mummy didn’t love me or I had some horrendous thing happen to me. But the worst thing that happened to me was breaking my arm when I was fourteen.’
I felt my hands ever so slightly beginning to tremble; the adrenaline was finally getting to me, so I shoved them into my pockets as casually as I could, squishing that green bit of fabric again in my hand. A thick droplet of sweat glided from the back of my neck and traced a slow, tantalising path down my spine beneath my top. I glanced around Sabroso, noticing how the café was growing quieter and quieter as the few other patrons began to head home for the night; it was getting late. The overly eager waiter had slipped back inside just as I caught a flash of blue moving towards us. Jago didn’t seem to notice; he was too busy talking about himself.
‘Because, of course, there have been others,’ he went on. ‘I’ve known I wasn’t like most people since I was a lad, I imagine you have too, and that some people would assume there was something wrong with us. Look…’
He jerked his head down and then leaned forward, cupping a hand around his mouth in a mock whisper to hide our conversation.
‘… there are some parks and sandpits in Cheltenham you probably wouldn’t want to go digging around, let’s put it that way.’
But then he straightened back up, his voice sincere,confessional. ‘I really did try to go straight, you know? I really did. But, my word…’
He fell silent as the waiter, looking suitably harried, returned with our tea.
‘… You know how hard it is to make it as a journalist. That’s when I realised, I needed something big if I was going to make my name. And people love serial killers. Crazy, right? Nuts. No matter how many pieces I did on war crimes, climate change or one-eyed cats, my editors just didn’t care, and I thought after a while, well… why have I been trying to repress my talent? God loves a trier.’
‘And let me guess, because some people denied you a good story in the past, one that you think would have given you a big break, you decided to off them?’ I remarked as I tried to wipe away some sweat from my neck that I hoped he wouldn’t notice.
Jago cocked his head as if he was a little impressed. I had figured that out as he lifted the pot and poured tea into the two mismatched cups, perfectly in keeping with the quaint, quirky charm of the establishment.
‘They denied the truth to the world, I think there’s no greater sin than that. They denied me a story, so I made them one. Their deaths right wrongs.’
‘Keep telling yourself that, Jago, but we both know you did it for the likes,’ I remarked, unimpressed. ‘You did it because you enjoyed it and gave yourself a motive to make yourself feel better. Those people died for press coverage.’
‘Specifically, my press coverage – that’s important,’ Jago replied, placing his index finger to his chest in a way I think I’d seen a toddler do when claiming ownership of a train set as he took a sip of his tea. I simply watched the steam dance and drift off the surface of mine, I fear my hand would quiver uncontrollably if I tried to pick it up. ‘I mean, come on, hearts in boxes, it doesn’t get more gruesome than that. Urgh, I mean, you know what I can’t stand? The smell. The smell of…’
‘That sickly, sweet rotting smell?’ I responded, while he still hunted for the right description. I’d known that scent all too wellfor the past year or so. He extended a finger towards me, as if I’d just scored a point.
‘And look, I’d love to say I was wrong, but with every person that ended up dead, the more views, the more reads we got. People loved that shit. Do you know how much ad revenue we made, Ruth? It basically paid for the new office in New York.’
‘And yet, no one remembers the victims?’ I said quietly. ‘No one can remember their names. Canyoueven remember?’
‘Oh, let me guess, you’re a killer with values? Well, la-dee-dah,’ Jago said, his voice dripping with disgusting mockery before blowing a frustrated rasp forcefully through his lips. ‘I saw your messages. You were killing because you wanted to be like me. Because youknewyou were like me. So don’t even try. I mean, Ruth, this is what you need to understand. I killed people and I wrote the stories. But it was still every single tabloid, every news channel.Good Morning Britaineven had a whole segment on it every single morning with a risk factor depending on what borough you were in. People were entertained by it. People enjoyed it. And you’re really going to deny me that? If people didn’t lap up the first one as much as they did, I would never have killed any more than that.’
I fought to keep the wrath and ferocity I was feeling from showing on my face. My gut was searing with a supernova kind of rage. For a brief moment, I wondered if I could take the knife from his pocket and kill him right then and there, but I knew he’d see me coming a mile away. There was no way I’d survive the ordeal.
‘You know we spoke, right?’ I said, my voice more fragile than I wanted it to sound. ‘Do you remember that night? The night you killed Greta.’
Jago’s eyes narrowed, a painfully slow, very deliberate squint, as though rifling yet again through a thick rolodex of memories he didn’t care enough to keep at the forefront of his mind. He tilted his head, almost recalling, but didn’t answer.
I saw the barista start cleaning her various tools, which was not a good sign.
‘Sorry, guys,’ the waiter said as he came over to the table. ‘Don’t want to rush you, but we’re closing a bit earlier tonight because of the TellTale Killer and the police guidelines. We’re sending people home in pairs. Sorry.’
Shit.
The panic was coiling tight in my throat. I needed to keep Jago talking to me, I needed time, needed… something. Anything.
‘You don’t remember at all, do you?’ I asked him, recapturing my previous train of thought.
Jago just laughed callously.
‘I’m sorry, Ruth, I can’t say I do. I don’t know about you, but it’s all very murky when I kill someone. Do you not feel like that? You don’t get that rush of emotion, that hit of adrenaline? That feeling is just…’ He faltered, and even as a journalist he knew he didn’t have a good enough command of the English language to articulate it. ‘What, you don’t get that?’
‘Oh, I really do, gives me a massive lady boner,’ I replied, hoping he wouldn’t start to see the cracks in my lie. ‘If the feeling was so amazing then why did you even stop two years ago?’ I asked.
‘Because,’ Jago said, elongating the vowels, as he savoured another sip of tea on his tongue. ‘Because when old Greta found out about my endeavours, I couldn’t keep going until I knew for certain that no one else knew. So, I had to tone down the whole TellTale shtick.’
