Chapter 1- Page 1 of 2

Jon Spicer looked around what used to be his weight training room and sighed. Bare plaster walls faced him, exposed surfaces still raw from where he’d scrubbed at them with sand paper. The carpet was completely hidden by dustsheets that stretched from skirting board to skirting board. In the corner the steam machine looked like the victim of a clumsy shave, scraps of dry wallpaper stuck all over it.

He started peeling apart last week’s local paper, separating the pages and laying them across the small table in the middle of the room. Immediately his eyes were snagged by the front page headline, the words registering even as he tried to look away.

‘THE BUTCHER OF BELLE VUE STRIKES AGAIN’

Quickly he flipped the page over, but it was too late. The horrific details of his latest case came streaming into the last place on earth he wanted them: their nursery.
The latest victim, Carol Miller, had been a midwife at Stepping Hill hospital. Good looking, her strong facial features complimented by a curvy, full figure. The sort of woman his Dad would innocently refer to in his strong Lancashire accent as ‘proper breeding material’. And, in his own way, he would have been right. She’d given birth to a thick set baby the year before. Jon had watched as the infant had drained an entire bottle of milk without pausing for breath, blissfully unaware of the tears streaming down the face of his grandmother above him. Jon sat with his tongue frozen in his mouth, thanking God the bereavement counsellor had come with him to inform the woman that her only child was dead. The councillor kept up a soothing murmur, the actual words of secondary importance to the comforting tone in her voice.

‘What will become of our Davey?’ the woman had suddenly gasped. ‘His father’s not around and I’m not well. What will become of him when I’m gone?’

The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she started sobbing again. Jon could feel her looking at him and he kept his eyes fixed on the counsellor, willing her to break the silence with an answer. Say something, he pleaded in his head, because if you don’t I’m going to fucking cry.

Angrily he stepped over to the doorway and picked up the paint tray and decorating implements. He banged them down on the table, then placed the tin of paint next to the tray. Getting his blunt nails under the lid, he began to pull, increasing the force until the pain in his fingers got too much. ‘Bastard,’ he cursed, glaring at the tin like it was trying to insult him. He glanced around for a suitable tool, spotting the scraper lying next to the steam machine. Only able to fit the corner of its blade under the lid’s rim, he began to cautiously increase the downward pressure. The seal broke suddenly with a pop and the scraper’s blade jerked upwards, gouging into his thumb. Pain shot through his hand and he drew the tool back, ready to slash the side of the tin in retaliation.

* * * * * * *

home / next page >> / << Previous page