Daggers Drawn

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing Danuta Reah

The girl jogged up the path, her legs gleaming below the cut-off shorts. In the moonlight, her shadow danced between her feet as she ran through the gate and onto the road.

He’d watched her before. Within the hour, she would be back.

And tonight was the night.

The moon was shining through his bedroom window, cold and remote. He held the knife up so the pale light caught the blade. It was flat, it could almost be dull, but the edge glinted. The tip curved slightly upwards. The bolster — he’d been studying knives, so he knew what each part was called — fitted seamlessly into the handle which was wrapped with a leather thong to give the best grip.

It was a thing of beauty.

He lifted it in his hand — hefted it, that’s what you did with a knife — trying to test the balance, but he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. It didn’t matter. It was a good knife. The balance would be right. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. His late mother’s cat watched him from its place on the window-sill. It was thin and bedraggled. His mother used to spoil it, but he was teaching it a few hard lessons.

His breath quickened with excitement but he needed to be cool. He needed to keep his head.

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing says:

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing says that successful serial killers are intelligent and well-informed, so he always looked up the words he didn’t know like ‘soubriquet’, ‘disaffected’, and ‘painstaking’. He was a bit disappointed with the definition of painstaking. It had sounded more interesting than it actually was, but he mustn’t let himself get bogged down in minor issues. He had to remain focused on the task.

And the task was now. Tonight. He had an hour to complete his preparations. He began his checklist.

The weapon.

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing said:

Your weapon is your true friend. You must know it and understand it, so when the time comes, it will do your bidding.

He took the knife out of his pocket and stood upright in front of the mirror, holding the blade over the palm of his left hand. That’s what you did when you were going to make an oath. He’d seen it on TV. You drew the blade across your palm and then shared the blood. His blood would be on the knife when he — did all the things he planned to do. He would share his blood.

With her.

He admired himself in the mirror for a moment longer. The serial killer. Then he took a deep breath and drew the knife across the exposed flesh.

There was a clatter as the knife hit the floor. He doubled over, tucking his hand between his legs, his face screwed up. Shit. Shit! He hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, he hadn’t expected his knife, to hurt him. And despite the pain there wasn’t much to see. The cut wasn’t deep. It was a red line with a few beads of blood welling up.

He squeezed it, and the beads became a trickle that stopped as soon as he stopped squeezing. Still, blood was blood. He picked up the knife and returned it to his pocket.

Back to the checklist.

Weapon.

Tick.

Practice.

The Dummies’ Guide said a lot about the importance of practising, of familiarising yourself with the rituals of killing.

Successful serial killers never flinch at the crucial point.

He was a bit upset at the accusation he might flinch, but in fact, the book — The Book — was right. The first cat — he’d done his first cat before he read The Book, and he had flinched. A bit. After a few more, he didn’t flinch at all. His gaze moved to his mother’s cat hunched on the window-sill. He’d been saving it up for the real thing.

Tonight.

For years, he’d been a dreamer, a pathetic wannabe who read about the heroes and tried to pretend he was one of them — one who hadn’t actually started yet. But who would. Who had he thought he was kidding?

And then he found the book. He’d found it online, through one of his forums.

He spent a lot of time on forums. There was the one about his heroes, the greatest serial killers. That was good. And the one about The Manson Family — they weren’t true serial killers, he realised that now. But they were cool, everyone agreed they were cool.

And then he’d found the Meet-Up space, Dying for a Chat.

That was pretty hardcore — or so he’d thought. At first. You had to be invited, and there was security and passwords and different levels. After he found it and got accepted, he’d spent night after night on the site, talking and sharing, stories and images — oh, the images — until the small hours. He’d really believed, then, that they were people like him, people who understood. He’d called himself Killer, and they had names like Candyman and Hunter.

But after a while, it wasn’t enough anymore. Everyone talked a lot, everyone had stories, but no one really did anything. One of them, who called himself Cannibal, actually said how he’d eaten someone’s liver with what he called favour beans and a nice Chianti, and another had an icon that made the fefefefe noise. Cannibal probably thought that fava beans was just another name for Heinz. And that Chianti was a kind of lager.

He’d looked up fava beans — and Chianti — later that night.

He was learning. He was improving himself.

Gradually he’d come to understand that none of these people were the real deal, but he’d hung around anyway. There was nothing else. Until the day he posted about the cat. His first cat. Some of them had actually criticised him. Criticised. Him. That’s not cool, Killer, Candyman said. Cannibal actually blocked him.

Pathetic.

He almost gave up on the forum then, but the cat post was the one that did it. Shortly after, he saw the private message box flashing at the bottom right of his screen. That was interesting in itself because he hadn’t turned messaging on. But there it was.

It was from someone called Karma. Karma used an icon like two tombstones, which was cool, and the message was short and to the point: Killer. Your name is tragic. Check out this link.

At first, it made him angry. His name was tragic, was it? What kind of stupid name was Karma? Some kind of sex book, wasn’t it? A bit of politeness wouldn’t have hurt. It didn’t cost anything.

But real serial killers weren’t polite. And somehow Karma had bypassed all the site security to make contact.

That was cool. So he clicked on the link.

At first, it looked like a bust. Karma, whoever he was with his pathetic name, was making fun of him. It was a site selling honey, of all things. Expensive jars of honey.

But later the same day, Karma got in touch again. Before you sign up, read the Terms and Conditions carefully. Very carefully. So he did, pages of them until he found the secret link. And that...

That was the real thing.

There were pictures. Videos. Sound files.

He spent a long time with those, especially the videos.

And that was where he found the link to The Book. The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing. At first, he was angry. It was like the writer was making fun of him. Dummies’ Guide. But that was just camouflage. The Book explained it. Serial killers need to wear camouflage — not really, he understood once he’d read a bit more. Serial killers had to hide in the crowd, make themselves the same as the crowd. That was what camouflage meant. It was a pity because the clothes were cool and had been quite expensive, but he trusted The Book now.

The Book told him who he was and what he had to do.

And now it was almost time...

He needed to finish his checklist. Practice.

A few stray cats, his oath — he knew he wasn’t going to flinch.

Practice. Tick.

Choosing the right name.

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing was very clear about the importance of a good name:

A successful serial killer will select a name with the same care he works out his modus operandi. (Modus operandi means the way you work. He’d looked it up.)

The name must be memorable. If you don’t get this right, the reporters might name you themselves (and remember: all successful serial killers get on the news) or even worse, they may not name you at all.

Tip: you can make a name memorable by choosing certain features. A name can:

Rhyme: everyone remembers Hannibal the Cannibal.

Alliterate: Darkly Dreaming Dexter and Buffalo Bill are hard to forget.

Inform: The Collector, Jack the Ripper. These names make it clear exactly what this serial killer does.

Describe: Bluebeard. These names describe a physical attribute of the killer and create fear.

Without a name, a serial killer is just another murderer.

He’d never heard of Bluebeard. It sounded a bit sad to him, but when he looked it up, he saw that Bluebeard was one of the best. Ever. Still, these days you couldn’t go round with your beard dyed blue. He didn’t even have a beard, for that matter.

He liked The Collector, but his modus operandi couldn’t involve collecting. His flat was too small. A physical attribute? He looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t really have any, or not any good ones. Maybe he should have got a tattoo — a discrete one of course. Only a stupid serial killer would get tattooed on the face, though he kind of liked the thought.

She would look at him, and he’d draw his scarf back and she’d see the tattoo and know who he was. She’d scream then, but of course, it would be too late...

What about The Slayer...

Or The Gutter...

Great. He had almost named himself after a bit of roof. He hit the table with his fist in frustration. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up making a fool of himself. Tonight was the night and he didn’t have a name. He’d got the weapon, he’d done the practice but he still didn’t know what he was going to call himself!

Choosing a name... He couldn’t tick that box yet.

OK. Moving on.

Choosing your first victim.

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing said:

Great care must be taken over victim selection, especially your first victim. You will make most of your mistakes with her.

Tip: don’t choose someone you know well. Remember that’s how they caught Buffalo Bill!

He was right on top of this. Or — he wished he’d get a chance to say this out loud, or at least say it on the right forum — she was right on top of him. He’d done his research. It was serendipity (another word The Book had taught him). She’d moved into the upstairs flat a couple of weeks ago, but he didn’t know her. They’d never spoken.

She went out each morning, presumably to work, and each evening, she came running down the stairs in those tiny shorts that showed off all her legs, and her... things... joggling about under her T-shirt.

Dumb cow.

And when she came home from her run, about an hour later — he knew because he spent a lot of time watching her — she didn’t come back through the front gate where the road was and all the people going past. No, she came through the back gate that led into the small yard and went into the flats through the basement entrance.

The basement entrance was dark and hidden. No one else used it.

In the basement, there was just a storage cupboard for each flat and steps that ran up into the main building. If the door at the top of the steps was locked, then anyone who went into the basement was trapped.

Like a fly, in the web he had created.

Choosing your first victim. Tick.

He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to go. It was time for the cat. First the cat, and then the dumb cow. That was his way. The cat was still watching him from the windowsill. He picked up his knife and reached over the pile of comics on top of the shelf to grab it by the scruff.

The cat arched and spat. Its paw moved fast and a sharp pain stabbed into the back of his hand. The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. There was a hiss, and the cat was on top of the wardrobe.

He sucked the blood off his hand, angry now. The cat was going to learn a hard lesson. It had hurt him, and you didn’t get away with that. You didn’t hurt.

Of course. The Cat. That was it. That was his name. That was his signature — the dumb cow and the cat, together. His check list was complete.

Choosing a name. Tick.

Oh, he was going to have fun now. He pulled the chair across the room and stood on it, reaching towards the animal who backed away, still hissing, almost like it knew. He grabbed at it again but it twisted away, bit him and leapt over his shoulder onto the floor. The chair teetered and he jumped off, making the room shake. The bedroom door sprung open and the cat fled. He swore, sucking the blood from his hand where the cat had bitten him.

The cat was going to spoil it all.

But then he realised it didn’t matter. It couldn’t escape from the flat. It would be hiding, but he’d find it. He could do it later.

Afterwards.

Now it was time to get ready. He shook out the dark blue coverall and pulled it on, standing in front of the mirror to check the effect. In his pocket he had his knife and what The Book called the serial killer’s best friend, a roll of duct tape.

Modus operandi.

He knew exactly what he was going to do. She’d come through the back gate, go to the basement entrance. The basement light would be on — she wouldn’t go in if there was no light — but it would be dim because he’d changed the bulb. She wouldn’t see him standing in the shadows by the door. She’d go up the steps leading into the flats, turn the handle of the door at the top.

Which would be locked.

Should he come up the stairs behind her? Even say, ‘Good evening’?

Or should he be waiting for her at the bottom?

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing said: plan well but be flexible. Always be prepared for the unexpected and adapt your plans accordingly. Tip: measure twice, cut once!

And then — he could take his time. Thanks to the duct tape, he could take all the time he wanted.

He stared out of the window, thinking about it, then he shook himself back into the here and now. Don’t waste time dreaming. It’s going to happen. It’s going to be real.

Soon, he told himself.

Soon.

And afterwards he would leave her there. They’d find her quickly enough. He’d go back to his flat and grab the cat — he’d have to do it fast, but it wouldn’t matter, not after what he’d just done.

Should he go back into the basement so he could leave the cat beside her? No, that was too much of a risk. He’d leave the cat in the bushes outside. It wasn’t perfect, but he was being flexible, like The Book said. Measure twice, cut once. Then he’d clean the knife and put it away. Until the next time. The coverall would go into a big padded envelope.

And tomorrow — this was genius — he was going to take the envelope down to the post office and send it to a made-up address in Glasgow. He’d have to get it weighed, have to talk to the woman behind the counter who always looked at him as if he smelt or something, but that didn’t matter. By the time they found it — if they found it — she would have forgotten. Or it would be too late.

He knew quite a lot about her. She lived on her own. With her cat.

Modus operandi. Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

And now he’s waiting in the shadows by the door that leads into the basement. He feels as though he’s been waiting a long time, but it’s only been five minutes when he checks his watch.

He can hear her. She’s approaching the basement, breathing hard, stumbling slightly as if she’s more tired than she expected to be. She opens the door, and he can see her silhouetted against the moonlight. She doesn’t see him in his cave of shadows.

Then she’s past him, heading towards the steps up out of the basement, towards the locked door.

She’s trapped. He’s got her.

Moving silently, he follows her. Then something brushes past him and he freezes, his heart hammering.

Not now! Not when he’s so ready.

But it’s only the cat, running up the stairs behind her. It must have got out of the flat when he opened the door.

It doesn’t matter. In fact, it’s even better. If she heard anything — and she didn’t he’s sure of that — but if she did, she’ll think it’s the cat. And now he’ll have the cat in here with him. Just like he planned. No one can stop him now.

The dumb cow. Dead.

The cat. Dead.

She’s almost at the door. He hangs back, wanting to hear what she does when she finds it’s locked. Will she be scared? Will she realise?

He jumps as he hears her speak. He’s never heard her voice before. “Hello, puss. What are you doing down here? You hungry again? He doesn’t look after you, does he?”

Oh, she’ll pay for that. And he’ll let her see how well he can look after a cat in a few minutes. Once the duct tape is in place he can take all the time in the world.

But she’s not talking to the cat any more. She says something under her breath, sounding annoyed, a bit irritated, and she rattles the door. He can’t let her do that. His heart is beating fast. It’s now. Now! Quietly, quickly, he flies up the steps.

She hears him, and half turns, the cat in her arms, but he’s right in front of her holding the knife towards her face.

“Shut up. I won’t hurt you.”

She lets the cat fall from her hands and it flees.

Too late, cat. Too late.

But she ducks and slides, and suddenly she’s under his arm and past him, running down the steps ahead of him.

Running towards the outer door.

He leaps down the steps behind her, momentum carrying him forward, and she’s there, in front of him, kneeling, just the way it was supposed to be, only not, only not...

In his dreams, she wasn’t the one holding the knife.

Karma watched the final twitches with clinical interest. This bit was always an anti-climax, frankly. Still, she was done here. It had been trickier than she’d expected. She thought he would attack as she came into the basement. She hadn’t credited him with the intelligence to lock the door at the top of the steps. Oh well. You live, and you learn.

So much for planning.

The cat wound round her legs, purring. She picked it up. It was going to need a home. Well, she could do that. It was time to take a break after all, take — she smiled — her ‘cool down’ period. Then she could go back to her site and wait for another one to walk into her honey trap.

The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing, by Karma.

First find your dummy.

That’s it.