Jams Roses - Son of a Serial Killer

Ben headed towards the voice of his mother and entered the red room, his dad’s old office. His mouth dropped wide open.

What the hell had happened here? He thought.

He stood in the centre of the room and let his gaze wander from wall to wall, mentally absorbing the redness from everywhere, except where dozens of framed pictures and newspaper clippings now hung. He glanced at his mother, who sat behind the desk with a glass of wine cupped between her two hands, smiling at her son.

Ben didn’t say a word, but glanced at the ceiling, red also, and then he took a step towards the picture frames and quickly recognised that all the information and pictures hung on these walls were relevant to The Phantom, or the victims, or the police not having a clue as to who was responsible for these sickening murders.

Ben was in a daze.

‘Close the door, Ben,’ said Mrs Green. ‘We need to talk’.

Ben was speechless. He turned slowly and pushed the door shut, then his eyes widened. On the back of a door hung a mirror, and with the lighting in the room and the redness, Ben didn’t know anything anymore. Was he in hell? Was he the devil himself?

He turned to face his mother, and for the first time noticed her red hair and bright red lipstick. Ben slowly stepped towards her and sat down in the seat his side of the desk, a chair that she had dragged in from the kitchen; she had been expecting him.

Mrs Green took a newspaper clipping from her side of the desk and placed it in front of her son. It was from the local newspaper, describing how two youngsters had been brutally murdered the day before, less than a mile from where they both sat at that moment.

Ben looked his mother in the eyes.

‘It’s true about dad?’ he asked.

His mother nodded.

‘And I’m the same,’ he said, as he pushed the news article back towards his mother.

Ben suddenly felt a wave of ease flow through his body. It was the first time he had admitted out loud what he was, the first time he had admitted to someone what he had done. His mother saw the burden lift from Ben’s shoulders and the frown lines retire from his tired face.

She smiled.

‘That feeling,’ she said to him, ‘that’s acceptance.’

His mother, the woman from whom he had recently been trying to keep his distance, knowing that her madness was worsening and that she was very difficult to deal with at the best of times, was now the only person who he could confide in, the only person who would not judge him, and had lived through this very experience with his father for the last few years, or however long she had known that her husband was a killer.

She even seemed pleased, which was something Ben couldn’t quite get his head around. Was it due to her illness? Or was her illness a result of discovering her husband to be The Phantom? That has to be a shock to anyone, and a reaction to news like that could play all sorts of havoc on the mind. She chose to stay with him, to support her husband through the good times and the bad, the highs and the lows.

Or was it her idea? Did she lead him astray? Mrs Green had done nothing to condemn Ben, not said one word about handing himself in to the police nor even asked why it had happened. In fact, he had the feeling that she openly encouraged his recent behaviour.

He was right.

Mrs Green moved her glass to the side of the desk and gestured for Ben to give her his hands. Slowly he placed his murdering hands into the palms of his mother. Their eyes were locked and she spoke softly to her son, her last remaining family.

She told him that she knew about his father from the first time he had committed murder, and contrary to what Ben was probably thinking, it was what made Mr Green the kind and generous and loving husband and father that he was before he passed away.

She explained she knew about the voice in the head, and the man in the mirror, and the only way to take back control of the mind was to release the pressure from time to time.

‘You know who you are now, Ben,’ she said.

She passed him the glass of wine and he took a large gulp, large enough to finish the glass. He put it down on the desk.

‘I can’t kill people, mum,’ he replied. ‘I can’t do that. I’m scared, mum.’

‘We know you can, Ben, you already have,’ she said, sounding so calm, almost hypnotising him when she spoke. ‘It’s in your blood. You need to commit to this life, Ben.’

Ben sat back in his seat.

Commit? He thought to himself.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘You can try and hide your feelings, learn to live with the man in your head dictating your every mood, owning your every thought, or you can take control. Every now and then, release the pressure. Give in to your will. Let your nature take over for just those few moments, then bury those feelings until the next time.’

‘I… I can’t control this,’ Ben replied. ‘He’s too strong, mum.’

Mrs Green shook her head and once more took Ben’s hands in her own.

‘You will listen to me. If you want any sort of future, you must listen to me. If you don’t let nature takes its course, you will go mad. He will not let you think, he will not let you choose your path, he will ruin everything from here on in,’ she said, passionately, convincingly.

As shocking as it was to be having this conversation with his mother, Ben had himself realised that since the murders, the voice in his head had quietened down. Sure, the man was still in his head, and in the mirror, but he hadn’t been as nasty, or as forceful as the last few weeks.

He wondered if his father had sat down with his mother and had a similar conversation all those years ago when the bad things started to happen. She wasn’t all there in the head, his mother, but she was a strong woman and this was now becoming very clear to Ben.

‘So what do I do?’ he asked.

‘You take charge. Today,’ she said.

Mrs Green reached into the drawer at the front of the desk and pulled out a large knife, she placed it on the desk between her and her son.

‘What?’ said Ben.

‘Either your girlfriend, or that bastard she’s been sleeping with. Or even that man who sacked you from your job,’ she said. ‘Decide.’

Ben was taken aback, lost in the moment. He was being told by his mother to choose someone to kill. Was this real? How did it get to this? He stood and looked beyond his mother, at his reflection in the window. When his father had died, had Ben inherited that dark part of his soul? Did Ben now carry the torch of death in his absence?

He checked his watch, and then picked up the knife.

‘I’ll kill my boss,’ he said.

Mrs Green stood, walked around the desk and hugged her son. They held each other, this mother and son who had just formed a more complicated relationship than any normal soul could imagine. Then she loosened her grip and looked into her son’s eyes.

‘Go.’

Ben crouched down behind a vehicle in the underground car park. It was reserved for executives and managers and was below the office block that housed Cutting Edge Marketing. He had left his own car at his mother’s house and used the walk to psyche himself up and prepare himself for his first premeditated murder.

Charlie was the boss of the company and never stayed late at the office and was often the first the leave by a good hour or so. Ben was hoping this would be the case today.

He had already been waiting for nearly an hour, constantly sweating and jumping out of his skin at the slightest sound. He could have sworn there was someone there watching, waiting to catch him red-handed, stood over the dead body of his ex-boss with a bloody knife in his hand. He would often stick his head up from behind the car where he was hiding, but nobody was there to be seen.