The Girl in the Ice

31

The figure leant forward, yanking off the thick balaclava, and threw up violently. The vomit hit the inky water with a nasty, high-pitched splatter, even louder than the rain, which was falling onto the surface of the pond in torrents. It was normal to purge after a kill. The figure then collapsed onto the wet earth, enjoying the sensation of the rain.

It had been easy, tracking down Ivy Norris. At her age she was a creature of habit, and had been lurking under a street light at the bottom of Catford High Street. She’d looked more disgusting than usual, with what smelt like dried vomit on the furry hood of her coat, and blood crusting around her nostrils.

‘My name’s Paulette, you want oral or full sex?’ Ivy had said, her eyes lighting up when the expensive car had pulled up beside her. She only saw the figure properly when she climbed into the passenger side, and the central locking was activated.

‘Hello, Ivy . . . I’m looking for something from you,’ the figure had said in a smooth voice.

Ivy had started to plead and panic, apologising, saying it wouldn’t happen again, the words tumbling out, spittle flying onto the dashboard of the expensive car. ‘I’m tellin’ you, I had to speak to that copper. She threatened me. She threatened to take me kids away . . . All she knows is that Andrea girl was with a bloke with dark hair and a girl with blonde hair . . . And I ain’t gonna say no more!’

The figure had then held out a gloved hand, offering Ivy two fifty-pound notes.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Ivy had asked, uncertainly.

I don’t know if she was just so beaten down by life, or if she thought there was a chance I would let her go afterwards, but she took the money.

Ivy hadn’t questioned the remoteness of the location, and when they had got there, she had allowed her hands to be tied behind her back. She hadn’t even suggested a safe word.

‘Just not me face,’ she’d said. ‘I know I’m not much to look at, but it makes life easier if it’s not me face . . .’

It was then that I snapped, and punched her in the face. She didn’t look surprised, just disappointed. When I did it again, harder, she looked consigned to her fate. Another disappointment to add to her collection. I ripped handfuls of her hair out . . . Broke her nose . . . She only looked surprised when my hands had been on her throat for longer than a minute. It was then that she realised she was going to die.

Far away, across the grass of Peckham Rye Common, a police car streaked past, sirens blazing out. The figure lay deep in the undergrowth next to a pond, enjoying the sensation of being cleansed by the rain.

My car is a few blocks away, but I can’t go back for it yet.

Not yet.

When it gets light.

When I’m clean.