When I See Fire, Page 3

  I felt like my eyelids had merely blinked when upon the wall before me was a perfect replica, eight metres high, and sixteen metres wide. Swirls and colours and lines and madness, stars were great whirling bright lines of yellow. Not just the actual colour they were, but all kinds of colours associated with the real colour, until the world swirled and blended into an astonishing painting. To replicate insanity requires insanity. He may be mad but boy can Leo paint, can I paint. The only part missing was the dark fluffy outline at the front left of the picture, which was left completely blank. The empty outline of the Cyprus bush.

  We then got back in the van and drove home. Leo will not kill again.

  Tossing and turning all night, I threw the pillow on the floor and picked it up again at least three times, before changing it for a fresh one of the bed in the spare room. It seems killing makes us sleep well.

  I gave up trying to sleep altogether at around 5AM, slowly got dressed, and watched some children’s nonsense on the TV, at 6:30 AM I could watch no more fearful that my mind would die of boredom. Subconscious worries that Leo might stop me from getting the help I need - from saving more lives than I want to imagine.

  The winter air chilled me to the bone, though I wore only jeans and t-shirt, with modern brown brogues. My legs moved slowly, my heel touching the tarmac a second or two before the rest of my foot joined it. Head pounding like a bombshell had exploded next to my ear in the bunker. That’s what I was going to do, I was leaving the safety of the bunker, battling through the madness of no-man’s land, and turning myself in as a POW. Each time my heel touched the pavement I expected Leo to take over, to torture me.

  I am always in control.

  Before I knew it I was at the reception for the Integrated Care Centre. Speech therapy. Hearing tests. Family planning. Cancer. Urine infection. STI. Mad men.

  The lady at the desk was beautiful, with short black hair and a pretty face, accompanied by a petite hour glass body. Her name tag read: Amy Wolf.

  My tongue almost stuttered over the words, “Hi, could I see Doctor Chowdry please?”

  “He is free until 9:30, would 7:30 be ok? Apologies for any inconvenience sir” spoke her soft cheery voice.

  Her brown eyes stared into mine.

  “o-ok that, that’s fine” damn my nervousness around women.

  She typed some letters into a computer screen, and I took a seat on the central long bench, made up of many silver chairs attached together like those in airports. Where do they think you are going?

  My head craned to the large flat screen in the corner; ironically the children’s TV programme I had escaped in my house was on repeat on the +1 channel. For some reason my thoughts never drifted towards Leo. I never questioned why he had let me get so far.

  Perhaps I was distracted by the Jewish family screaming in the corner. Yes some Jews can walk freely in public, the ones who have too many connections to be assassinated.

  No Jew was entitled to NHS healthcare, or any healthcare at all. There was only one reason Jews entered into NHS buildings. So that their unborn children could be disposed of.

  The gas chambers may have become extinct. They may not kill as many Jews, but they are treated exactly the same as they were seventy years ago. I really wish Hitler had pulled the trigger sooner in his bunker.

  I am so glad he did not. The Jews would walk free like they are as good as a stray dog, I cannot think of anything so vulgar. They belong nowhere. They are wanted by nobody. The fact that these vermin in the corner are allowed to live because of the crazed people they know who protect them is an outrage. I’m glad their species is so close to extinction that they are like an echo from the afterlife already. How that echo makes my ear drums ache.

  I cannot bear their tears much longer, surely it is time for my appointment by -

  “Mr Diavolo” announced a well-spoken recorded voice. About time.

  I followed the arrow on the wall labelled Dr. Chowdry down a long narrow corridor painted cream, with many light coloured doors along the walls. The lights lit up on the ceiling as I walked along.

  Finally I found the door with Chowdry’s name plate, placed my hand on the doorknob and turned.

  Dr. Chowdry was a very old man; I dearly hoped that Leo would leave him alone. His dark skin was garden to a large hedge beard, with sparse pieces of grey grass springing up from his scalp. Glasses poised at the end of his nose, he beckoned me to sit down opposite him. My eyes were always drawn to the posters, followed closely for some reason by the wooden ruler to measure height on the wall behind the door. It was screwed on in such a way that was obviously not calibrated correctly.

  “What’s the problem Leo?” he muttered in a strong Asian accent that was difficult to understand.

  Where to start?

  “I have a split personality disorder, or maybe Schizophrenia, and slight OCD”

  Well it seemed more productive than telling him I had killed a young man. I could hardly believe that Leo had let me tell him, I felt excited, verging on elated. A great pressure had been released from my stomach. My mind seemed clearer and conscience likewise.

  “Well, I’m glad we’ve sorted that out, medical over psychological , I’ll just write you a prescription for antihistamines, if that doesn’t help or you feel like the anxiety has come back, please come back so we can look at your options” with the last barely comprehend-ible words he placed the prescription in my hand.

  I am always in control.

  I threw the prescription in the silver bin on the way back to the lady at reception. Chowdry has clearly grown too old, even Leo could not transform my words into an anxiety problem. Very angry, but anxious, not one bit. Besides, when Leo does something if I think hard enough I can remember it. I can’t remember this.

  As I approached those beautiful eyes, my eyes were drawn away towards the television. The morning news was on, the one that’s supposed to get you ready for the day ahead. There had been another murder last night.

  The only way I’m going to catch this monster is if he walks through my door and confesses. Jack Spencer had awoken to the same guilty excitement as the morning of The Praying Hands murder. He had another conversation with the small boy in the elevator today, about why stealing is illegal. Jack was becoming more of a father to this child than he had intended.

  Jack had followed the post code to an abandoned mill in the Chaderton area, the bottom floor of which contained a very Interesting version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The painting itself was an almost exact replica.

  All apart from the shadow were the Cyprus bush should be, it was the same shape as the original bush, but there was something sinister about it.

  At a balcony on the opposite side of the room, up a collapsing rusted stair case, stood a bright light. The kind of bulb that could be used as a flood light. It lit up the painting through the semi-darkness.

  In front of the bright light stood a family of three, murdered. The father was tied upright to a scaffolding pole, hands tied together and held high above his head as though he was about to dive, facing the picture on the wall. His wife was on her knees, her arms raised and holding the body of the husband, as though she was begging him for help; the small child at her side clung to his mother terrified. They matched the Cyprus bush almost perfectly. Leo was a very good artist.

  Rufus Brown was poking and stroking the dead bodies like a drunkard stretching to get a touch of a stripper. He was twisting and twitching his head to get a better look.

  Looking at their injuries his rat like face was screwed up in disgust, yet he couldn’t take his eyes away. All three of their lips had been sown together with barbwire, and their ears half chewed off, the bottom half missing.

  The killer wanted to tell you something. He feels like he can’t tell you what he needs to, and even if he could, you are only half listening. Listen up Jack.

  Chapter 5

  Technology

  Do you want to know why Sam Morgan is dead? He is rep
laceable. He did not return my smile at the bus station, instead he offered only a look of distaste. How hard is it to smile back at a stranger? How difficult is it to be a civil human being? Is my image so offensive?

  A person’s self-image is their imagination creating a mental image of themselves, it is based on three simple perspectives: how you see yourself, how others see you, and how you think others see you. In general your self-image is affected most by childhood events, taunting and criticisms. Success also provokes a negative self-image; if you are accustomed to perfection, you seek perfection in yourself. Nobody is perfect. Some of us are just a lot closer to perfection than others. Leonidas, leader of the 300, must have seen himself as Hercules reincarnated. Churchill as an immovable concrete wall, in a trench coat. Hitler viewed himself as a god. I view myself as god’s right arm. You? You are merely a tiny ant that happens to share this world with herculean giants and concrete mountains. Your life is no more important than Sam Morgan’s.

  Hitler was right in wanting a superior race. If he had only lived a few years longer, or been born a few years later, he would have seen his dream out to the end. Instead these numbskulls are taking over his reins. It is like Mrs Brown trying to race in F1.

  Life expectancy in present times is the eighth wonder of the world. Throughout the eighteen hundreds it was around forty years of age, new born now are expected to live until at least eighty, with a third living until they are a hundred. Just imagine what Hitler could have caused with one hundred years of a healthy life. Perfection?

  Some say increased years is due to improved health care, sanitation, immunisations, clean running water and better nutrition. Sheep dung. It is because of WWII. It is because of evolution, and death of the weak. Harsh? No, just a truth you ants don’t want to hear.

  If people keep on living for longer and longer our resources will fail. Why not start again? Why not start a fresh?

  All the way home from the doctors it was not the murders that filled my mind. It was not even the beautiful receptionist. It was the fact that our life expectancy has increased so much. I could not help but wonder how long the children of today will live. Though of course perhaps living forever is not what we should desire, but living with a good quality of life, free from illness for as long as possible. I doubt few would say no to that.

  Then it hit me.

  Why would somebody kill a family of three? They are harming nobody, they were probably happy, and what reason did Leo have to kill them? What reason did Leo have to kill Sam Morgan?

  He will never let me get help. He will never stop killing. The only way I’m going to catch this monster is if I accidently turn us in. How do you cause an accident?

  Jack’s first task was to persuade Rufus back to the autopsy lab, all he had achieved was to put everyone on edge. Then Jack briefly inspected the wounds himself. This time there was blood, this time there was a lot of blood. He brought the people here alive. Just what was his message? What does Sam Morgan and a family of three have in common? Family perhaps? No this boy does not see people as people, he views them as materials, as animals.

  He has a van or truck, how else would he get the people and the scaffold pole here? He does not only admire art, he is a fine artist himself. Religion is not involved at all, this is not religion.

  Of course, he admires art. No save that for later, now is time to memorise this crime scene, pictures are all very good, but it’s not the same as being live at the scene. What we need is the ability to rebuild the crime scene. Through a combination of laser and computer technology, high-definition surveying (HDS) creates a virtual crime scene that allows investigators to manoeuvre every piece of evidence. We will never get funding for that. At least not for this murder, but for the next we will have HDS, we will have a slightly better chance of catching this boy.

  The forensics had been at the scene all day, the bodies had been moved into autopsy, ready for identification. Jack Spencer left the forensics team to it; they had a lot more hope of finding evidence than he did. He knew this boy better than that.

  Would you like to know what I look like? What I really look like, not just what I think or what Leonidas thinks but a none-bias description of our appearance? We are tall, about 6”4 by Leonidas’ estimates, with medium length brown wavy hair. I suppose we are quite attractive. Muscle clothed with grey suits, always a grey suit, unless home alone then the tie and blazer are dropped. Light stubble. Fire blue eyes. We would never be allowed into Berlin, but we are not so far from being part of a superior race.

  Jack Spencer is not so appealing, and he knows it, and he knows everybody else knows it. He is the type of man who’s muscle is hidden under a layer of fat, yet you can still tell their is muscle present. I suppose he would do well as a rugby player whereas we are more suited to boxing. His hair is also brown, though almost black, and combed over neatly to the side making his face look even rounder. His bushy eyebrows seem to somehow overhang his blue eyes. Underneath his knee length tweed trench coat slept blue trousers hugging brown brogues. Over his torso a finely checked white shirt complete with a plane red bow tie.

  His cigar was currently pointed at our doorstep, while his free hand stretched for the doorbell. The murder still lingered on Leonidas’ mind; let us see what he will do when confronted with the detective.

  The ringing of the bell grabbed my attention, causing me to sit bolt upright, I really wished they had caught me. I could have left finger prints, or left DNA from a small cut I had not found yet.

  “Good evening detective, please come in” my lips moved, because I made them move. Jack’s face was impossible to read. Years of poker perhaps. “Tea?”

  Jack Spencer put his cigar out on my wall and put it back in its silver case. He stroked his chin, and placed both hands in his pockets, causing his trench coat to fold behind his thick forearms. Then he replied. It’s a strange thing to wish for someone so rude to better you.

  Jack stood looking up at Leonidas. He was not used to looking up to people, though he now felt by taking his own time to respond he had regained control. He was a politician at heart, though he felt more like an army general. It was uncanny how similar to Churchill his voice sounded.

  “Sorry Leo, I need to get back to my family tonight”

  He has a family, this could be very interesting. I do hope he has children.

  “God knows what will happen if I work late again, I just need your permission to look through the security cameras at the Gallery?”

  I’m not sure if I feel relieved or enraged. Come on Jack, catch me. Leo had agreed before I had fully registered the question, he had allowed Jack to see the tapes at ten o’clock the following day. What did Jack want to look at the tapes for? He knew the killer was connected with art, but none of the paintings associated with the killings are on display in my gallery. 17th century life and death. 18th century portraiture and landscape. 19th century romanticism and the industrial revolution. Victorian life. 20th century to present day craft and design. In so many ways art tells us much about history, just as history has a vast effect on art. It tells you nothing about catching a killer.

  By the time I had finished my trail of thought Jack Spencer had vanished, along with his red TT. To say Sir Winston Churchill’s blood runs through his veins, I expected better from Jack.

  Are your wondering why I was so eager to let Spencer see the tapes? It is because he will want to see them again and again. Do you know who is almost never on tape? Leo Diavolo. We use the staff entrance; while Jack pours over the mass of public innocents, we will be able to come and go at our leisure. How much fun would it be to see how many suspects I can provide, without the finger once being pointed at myself?

  I hate technology. It really is making easier and easier methods for us to go backwards, towards cavemen with a keyboard. “We’ve all heard that a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters will eventually reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not tr
ue.” Robert Wilensky. Perhaps because of the internet this is not true, we all evolved from monkeys after all. What Jack is doing makes me sick. Crowdsourcing or “Big Brother” is code for invading privacy. How many pictures of you are there on your phone? And how many phones have you heard of being hacked? Big brother doesn’t seem so nosey anymore. Phone hacking that you have heard of is simply because of lazy phone company’s using general passwords for voicemail. What’s next? What’s the next step backwards? Computer hacking through social networks. That would be devastating. Facebook has already let six million email and phone numbers become vulnerable. Almost every electronic device has a social network app. Banks are trying to promote contactless payments using a sticker on your mobile phone. A hacking could lead to identity theft, bank robberies, even government records being corrupted (even more than they already are). You could be made guilty for something you never did. The world could be truly crazy. The world could have a little bit of Leo in it. The world could be a little bit better. Come on jack, try to catch me.

  Chapter 6

  Nighthawks

  Jack returned home that night certain that the CCTV would be the key to his success. Any thoughts of CCTV clips were dragged away from him by the introduction of an empty flat. Jack’s flat was not so dissimilar to Leonidas’ house, except with a “woman’s touch”. The wallpaper had the same bold print patterned flowers, but they were not bronze like inside Leo’s house, they were a multitude of colours. Glass vases filled with flowers where lamps should be, and everything just a little bit more expensive looking. Just as empty.

  On the dining table overlooking the river was a silver plate cover, with a small note written on thick paper using a calligraphy pen in black ink: