The Killer Inside Read Free Page B

newspapers . That she kills these people where everyone can see, five victims since Halloween. That they’ll catch her soon now that everyone knows who to look for.
    Think how idiotic my favourite detective will feel when he does find this killer. Imagine his confusion. Watch his reputation plummet as he makes the same mistakes as before, only this time in the mirror.
    When my body folds in half for the thousandth and final time, my upper abdominal muscles burning and cramping beneath the thin layer of fat on my stomach, I am thankful.
    When I stand on my hands, resting my feet high above me against the walls until my shoulders burn in the same way as my gut, I imagine a time as a young child when I would hang upside down and try to pick up pins with my eyelashes. And I am thankful.
    When I immerse myself in the tepid water of the bathtub and hold my breath for as long as possible, or practise writing and drawing with my other hand, when I fill my time inside with these activities, these acts of deliberate practice, I am thankful. Thankful to Celeste Varrick and those like her who pursue and live out their desires, who are not afraid to stalk that which they hunger for. Because the muggings and the stabbings and the domestic disputes only serve to blur at the edges of memory.
    You have made him forget.
    You have made them all forget.
    And I thank you for that.
    Now, I wait.
    Each morning, as another pillowcase of letters and drawings and poems arrives for me, I read, I peruse, I decipher. Some of the words have fallen to the page from the mouths of wicked tongues, while others ooze on to the paper from a yearning heart. God still pleads for my remorse, offering forgiveness in its place. But I am waiting for something more specific, something familiar.
    I wait for Audrey.
    I know that she has not forgotten me; she’s the only one. She is not allowed. She wouldn’t just leave me here to rot. She knows better than that. She is the one that survived. She may not be so lucky next time.
    I do not see her mark on any of the anonymous scribblings today. I do not detect her scent hidden discreetly beneath the flap of an envelope. I can wait. I still have time. Ineed time. To hone my thoughts and movements, to strengthen my body and my mind. To get ready.
    I haven’t finished. Not yet.
    I can’t switch this off.

January
    September 2009
    Hampstead, London
    It’s over. We’ve found Celeste Varrick. Another case closed. Another killer off the streets of London.
    But none of this matters because I am back at my house, standing in the doorway of the lounge. The light is off, there are crime scene photos and musings pinned to the wall.
    And my sister is standing in the corner.
    Cathy is here.
    She is still ten years old.
    I’ve been awake for what feels like days and I’ve only recently been through the final emotional triumphs and failings of completing another high-profile case. I know this isn’t happening. I know she is not real. But I can’t stop looking at her.
    She is facing the wall with her hands over her eyes, but I know it is her. I recognise those curls that she inherited from Mother, that pale blue dress with the white polka dots she loved so much. Her head is bobbing up and down as though she is counting.
    I’ve forgotten my purpose. I am supposed to be finding my sister. Everything I do should lead me closer to her. She is more lost than I am.
    And I know what this will look like later in the debrief. It will look like a breakdown. Like I do not have the capacity to perform my work duties to the appropriate standard. Couple that with the altercation with Murphy that saw me holding him up against a wall by his throat, and the result is inevitable.
    I won’t tell Chief Inspector Markam exactly what I saw, that’s not his business. And I will explain to him that it must show that I am not completely insane to bring it up rationally with him and I know how crazy it sounds but I am dealing with it ; I know the things