The Mermaids Singing

F ROM 3" DISK LABELLED: BACKUP. 007; FILE LOVE. 012

The world was out in the city streets, buying Christmas presents they’d still be paying for at Easter, the fools. I was in my dungeon, making sure I would have a Christmas I’d never forget. Even though it was to be Gareth’s last on this earth, I was sure every detail of it would be as clearly etched on his memory as it was going to be on my video tape.

I’d arranged our meeting with all the care and precision I could. The advent of the bitch meant I couldn’t take the chance of capturing him at home as I’d done with Adam and Paul. I’d had to make alternative plans.

I sent him an invitation. I reasoned that Christmas Eve would be spoken for, either by family or by the bitch, so I chose December 23rd. I couched it in terms I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist and that he’d never dare show the bitch. The final sentence read, ‘Admission by invitation only.’ A clever touch, that. It meant he’d have to bring with him the only evidence of contact between us.

The directions on the back led, if he cared to check it out in advance, to an isolated holiday cottage high up on the moors between Bradfield and the Yorkshire Dales; the opposite side of the city to Start Hill Farm and my dungeon. I anticipated that the cottage would be let over Christmas. But I had no intention of allowing Gareth to get that far.

It was a Christmas-cliche sort of night; bone-white crescent moon, stars twinkling like diamond chips on a cocktail watch, grass and hedgerows heavy with rime. I pulled over on to the verge of the single-track moorland road that led up to the holiday cottage and a couple of farms. In the distance, I could see the dual carriageway leading into Bradfield like a ribbon of fairy lights strung across the Pennines.

I turned on my hazard lights, got out of the jeep and opened the bonnet. I placed what I needed near at hand, then I leaned against the front wing and waited. It was freezing, but I didn’t care. I’d calculated well. I’d only been waiting for about five minutes when I heard the sound of an engine straining up the steep incline. The lights swung round the bend below me and I stepped out, waving furiously, looking frozen and worried.

Gareth’s elderly Escort stopped abruptly in front of the jeep. I took a couple of hesitant steps towards him as he opened the door and got out. ‘Some kind of a problem?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I know next to nothing about cars, but if I can maybe give you a lift…?’

I smiled. ‘Thanks for stopping,’ I said. There was no flicker of recognition in his face as he drew nearer. I hated him for that.

I stepped back towards the jeep, gesturing under the bonnet. ‘It’s not a big problem,’ I said. ‘Only, I need three hands. If you can just hold this part in place so I can get a spanner on this nut…’ I pointed into the engine. Gareth leaned over the bonnet. I picked up the spanner and let him have it.

Within five minutes, he was trussed tighter than a turkey in the boot of his own car. I had his car keys, his wallet and the invitation I’d sent him. I drove back down through the city to the farm, where I dumped the unconscious body unceremoniously down the cellar steps. I didn’t have time to do any more then, not if I was going to get back to the jeep.

I drove Gareth’s car into the centre of Bradfield, leaving it in Temple Fields in a back alley off Crompton Gardens. Nobody noticed me; they were all too busy partying. It was a mere ten minutes’ walk across town to the railway station.

A twenty-minute train ride and a brisk fifteen-minute walk brought me back to the jeep. Cautiously, I approached. There was no sign of life, no suggestion that anyone had been poking around. I drove back to Start Hill Farm whistling ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’.

When I switched the cellar light on, Gareth’s dark-grey eyes flashed angry fire at me. I liked that. After the pathetic terror of Adam and Paul, it was refreshing to see a man who had some guts. The muffled sound that came from behind the tape on his mouth was more like an angry grunt than a plea.

I stooped over him and stroked his hair back from his forehead. At first, he jerked away from me, then he became calm and still, calculation in his eyes. ‘That’s more like it,’ I said. ‘No need to fight, no need to resist.’

He nodded, then grunted, signalling down towards his gag with his eyes. I kneeled beside him and picked at one corner of the surgical tape. Once I had a good grip, I ripped it free in one swift movement. It’s kinder than doing it gradually.

Gareth worked his jaw, licking his dry lips. He glared at me. ‘Some fucking party,’ he snarled, his voice a little shaky.

‘It’s exactly what you deserve,’ I said.

‘How the fuck do you work that out?’ he demanded.

‘You were meant for me. But you took up with that slag. And you tried to keep it a secret.’

Light dawned in his eyes. ‘You’re…’ he started.

‘That’s right,’ I interrupted. ‘So now you know why you’re here.’ My voice was as cold as the stone floor. I stood up abruptly and walked over to the bench where I’d laid out my equipment.

Gareth was talking again, but I shut out the sound of his voice. I know how persuasive lawyers can be, and I wasn’t about to be deflected from my course by any amount of sweet talking. I opened the ziplock bag and took out the chloroform pad. I turned back to Gareth and kneeled beside him. With one hand, I gripped his hair and with the other I applied the pad to his mouth and nose. He struggled so convulsively that I ended up with a clump of hair in my hand before he subsided into unconsciousness. Just as well I was wearing my latex gloves, otherwise his hair would have cut me. The last thing I needed was my blood mingling with his.

When he was out cold, I cut his clothes off. I took the strap from the Judas chair and fastened it round his chest, under the armpits. I’d fixed a rudimentary pulley and hoist to one of the ceiling beams, and I attached the hook to the strap. I raised Gareth’s body with the hoist till he swung like mistletoe in a draught. Once he was up in the air, it was the work of moments to undo the handcuffs and fasten him to my Christmas tree.

I’d bolted two planks to the wall in the shape of a St Andrew’s Cross, and covered them thickly with prickly boughs of blue Norwegian spruce. To each arm of the cross, I’d attached leather straps, which I fastened around his wrists and ankles. I opened up Gareth’s curled fists and taped his hands open to the cross. Finally, I removed the hook and let the wrist straps take the strain. His body slumped alarmingly, and for a moment I was concerned that I hadn’t fitted strong enough straps. There was a brief creaking of leather on wood, then silence. He hung like a martyred apostle on the dungeon wall.

I laid out my club hammer and the sharpened cold chisels I’d chosen for the job. We’d be together now till Christmas night. I intended to savour every minute of our forty-eight hours.