Luke Delaney: Redemption of the Dead

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An hour later and Sean was alone in Chinbrook Meadows, Hither Green, close to the scene of the latest attack attributed to the as yet unidentified serial offender dubbed the Parkside Rapist by the media. The attack had happened over four days ago now and the park was quiet, the police and forensic circus long since packed up and moved on. Except for Sean — his mission to stop and question everyone walking through the park in the forlorn hope of discovering an untraced witness or even a possible suspect. He knew the chances of either were slim. Most likely Melody had given him the action to keep him out of the way while the real detectives got on with the job in hand. He exhaled deeply, tucking his newly acquired clip-board under his armpit and rubbing his hands together to ward off the approaching winter’s chill as he looked around the deserted park. The usually busy place had been abandoned by the women joggers and the mothers who only days ago walked their children along the paths — their one-time sanctuary within the sprawling city tainted by the spectre of the man who had pulled a young mother into the dense trees, leaving her child sleeping in its pushchair. Even the men had forsaken the park — fearful of being tarnished with the stigma of accusing eyes. The monster’s crimes had stained the ground forever.

Sean absentmindedly began to walk along the path that cut across the park, noticing that it wound closer to the trees in some places — places where it would have been easier to ambush an unsuspecting victim. He found himself slipping the map of the crime scene from his jacket pocket and examining it, trying to get his bearings and identify the area marked as the crime scene. After using the distant tower blocks on the urban horizon as north, he headed further along the path to the south-west corner of the park, just as the victim would have — pushing her toddler and filling her lungs with air the trees had cleansed, thinking of what she would cook her husband for tea, imagining relaxing with her nightly glass of wine — before he dragged her to hell.

As he approached the place where the victim had first been attacked he noticed the path did indeed pass closer to the surrounding trees here, allowing the predator to close in on his chosen victim before bursting from the woods and seizing her. Sean studied the woods either side of the path, the tall trees shedding gold, red and brown leaves, their branches casting tiger-stripe shadows that would have hidden the maniac stalking his prey. Sean imagined him moving quickly through the trees, periodically stopping, hiding behind the thicker tree-trunks, peering out from the shadows at the attractive young woman walking her sleeping child, watching every step she took in an ever increasing state of excitement and anticipation, the adrenalin and blood a torrent through his body, his longing for her unbearable, until finally she reached the place he’d chosen — the narrowing of the path that brought her so close he could smell her — smell the child. And then he’d burst from the tree-line like a leopard and taken her, threatening to do unimaginable things to her and the child if she resisted — things he did to her anyway, despite her co-operation. But at least the child had been spared.

Sean blinked the images away as he began to walk into the trees, his own heart rate increasing just as the attacker’s had, an uncontrollable sense of understanding sweeping over him as he drew closer to the scene of the final assault — his imagination and dark experiences opening a window to the crime through which he could witness it happening all over again. He could feel the attacker — his uncontrollable, surging power as he raged over the woman. He reached the exact spot where instinct told him the main assault had taken place and after first checking he was alone, he crouched as close as he could to the ground and examined the longish grass that still showed the signs of disturbance, lying flattened in places where the attacker had forced her to lie down, the dagger-style combat knife pressed against her throat as he rutted like a wild boar.

Still crouching, Sean swapped the map in his hand for another piece of paper he’d pulled from his jacket pocket and began to read the notes he’d scribbled about the case before heading to the park. All the victims of the Parkside Rapist so far had been attractive young women, some still little older than girls, and his latest victim was no different. Each had been threatened with a dagger-style knife and seriously sexually assaulted, although none had been severely harmed in any other physical way. Sean looked back through the trees to where the sleeping infant would have remained throughout the ordeal, sparking sudden images of the maniac doing the exact same thing, looking from the woman lying under him to the child and back. Hurriedly he read through his notes again and soon found what he was looking for — the latest victim was not the first to have been with her child when she was attacked. Out of the dozens of attacks to date, at least six other women had been with their young children.

‘Everybody thinks you attacked the women with children in spite of the fact they were with them, but you didn’t, did you?’ he said to himself. ‘You attacked them because of the children, didn’t you, you sick bastard? But why? What do the children give you?’ Sean stood and closed his eyes, waiting for answers to form in the darkness of his mind. ‘Power,’ he suddenly said. ‘Not just the power over them, to do anything you want to them, but the power to take away the most precious thing in their lives — their children. You raped the others without children because you lack control. Once the urges and desires take hold they control you, not you them. You can’t wait for perfection. You can’t wait for one to come along with a child. But when they do …’ He suddenly fell silent again, as if his clear direction of thought had been snared on a barbed hook. ‘But why let them live? You have the knife. You have the anger and the rage. Isn’t killing the absolute show of power — so why don’t you — at least the mother, or maybe the child while you make the mother watch? You’re not making sense,’ he accused the maniac. ‘Why, why, why?’ he whispered to himself as he looked around the trees, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to clear his mind, grateful to be alone so he could think. ‘Because … because … you have — you have killed before. You raped someone and then you killed them — in the past — in, in their home or somewhere else where you could have privacy. And all the women you’ve raped were threatened with a large combat knife, so whoever you killed, you killed with the same knife, didn’t you? You couldn’t have killed them any other way, because the knife’s too personal to you. Nothing else would have satisfied your fantasy. So why haven’t you killed again since? You don’t have the control to suddenly stop. Just raping can’t be enough for you now you’ve killed, so why haven’t you killed any of the women you’ve raped since?’ Sean stood totally still, hoping, praying the answer would reveal itself. ‘Because of the blood,’ he finally answered his own question. ‘Because there would have been too much blood. You had to use the knife, but it would have meant too much blood. You couldn’t be seen running through the park, through the streets covered in blood — the risk of being caught would have been too great, so you let them live, but it killed you to do it. But the time you did kill you were inside — you were inside so you could clean yourself up — wash the blood from your hands and skin, taking your time to clean yourself and maybe even change your clothes. Then you left — you left feeling calm and in control — feeling like you’d never felt before.