Paul Johnson - The Death List

“Calm down, you old cow,” he said, the East End tones more evident. “Calm down and take your punishment like a…well, like a stinking old woman.”

Evelyn’s mind was filled with flashes from the past. Take your punishment like a man. That had been one of her catchphrases as a teacher. In the first part of her career, she’d applied the cane liberally. Later on, she’d been forced to come up with more imaginative forms of chastisement for the boys who had threatened her authority-and it was always boys. The girls had seemed to see sense when they encountered a worthy opponent and kept their heads down. Insolent faces cascaded through her thoughts: vicious, calculating little hooligans; ne’er-do-wells who’d begun smoking before they were ten and sworn like troopers…

“Mmm!” she said with a feeble groan. “Mmm!” She felt a blade close to her skin, slicing though her clothes.

“Yes, Miss Merton,” the man said, this time his voice high-pitched like one of her pupils’. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Evelyn closed her eyes as her outer and undergarments were cut apart and tugged from beneath her. No man had ever seen her entirely naked, not even Gilbert. When he had started coming to her bed not long after their mother died, she’d always kept the light off. She cringed in shame, feeling the soggy bedspread beneath her loins. Then her eyes sprang apart when she felt latex-covered fingers probe inside her.

“Well, well,” the man said, bending over her midriff. “We all thought you were a virgin, but it seems that someone’s been here.” He gave her a lascivious grin. “Or did you use a cucumber?” Then a knowing expression spread across his smooth features. “Silly me,” he said, following her eyes to the photograph on the bedside table. “I forgot. Mr. Gilbert. I remember your brother from sports days. He used to time the races.” He laughed, a cold and pitiless sound that chilled her blood. “And call us ‘dirty little tinkers.’ You and your brother were the dirty ones, weren’t you, Miss Merton? Still, nothing wrong with keeping it in the family. I had a very close relationship with my mother, too, you know. Then again, I was adopted.”

Suddenly the knife, a large blade that could have been a soldier’s, was in front of her eyes. She whimpered through the gag.

“No, Miss Merton, it’s too late to say you’re sorry.” The man brought his face close to hers. “You hurt me, Miss Merton. You hurt me a lot. Do you remember?”

She shook her head, trying to keep her eyes off his.

“Let me help you. My name’s Leslie Dunn. Mean anything to you?”

Evelyn closed her eyes. No, she thought desperately, it can’t be him. Not the weasel-faced Les Dunn, the boy who used to look at her in the most impudent way, as if she had no right to discipline him.

“I can see it does. Nice to see you again.” The man laughed. “Not.” He ran his eyes over her body. “I always thought you’d look disgusting without any clothes on and I was right.”

Then the blade was at her face again. “Let me remind you what you did to me so that you understand why I’m exacting retribution.”

She moaned again.

He ignored her. “You made me stand in the corner with one leg raised for a whole lesson, do you remember? Because I put my hand up at the wrong time. You made me crawl around on all fours like a dog for a day because you thought I’d made a barking noise. It wasn’t me, it was Richard Brady.” He gave another empty laugh. “He paid the price a long time ago. And you ridiculed me in front of all the kids, not once, not twice, but hundreds of times.” He stood up and started walking around the room in the heavy-footed way that Evelyn had always had. “‘Leslie Dunn,’” he said in a high-pitched voice, “‘if your parents weren’t drunken idiots, you’d know that behavior like yours is unacceptable in polite society. Leslie Dunn, if you can’t come to school with clean clothes, then don’t come at all. Leslie Dunn, your writing is like a brainless chimpanzee’s.’” He fixed his eyes on her. “And so on. You didn’t really think you could get away with treating people like that, did you, Miss Brother-fucking Merton?” He slapped her hard on the cheek. “Did you?”

She was so terrified that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She watched as he went out of the bedroom, to return a short time later with a furry blue object dangling from one hand.

“Aaanng!” she exclaimed, trying to scream. Rajah was thrown at her, landing on her bare chest. She could feel his blood, sticky and warm, on her skin.

“I hate cats,” said the man she’d taught. “Now, Miss Merton, it’s time I told you what I’m going to do to you.”

As Leslie Dunn’s words cut into her brain, Evelyn felt a wave of heat flush through her veins. She didn’t deserve this. It was years ago. She’d turned out plenty of good pupils, plenty of children who would have gone on to benefit society. No, she didn’t deserve this. She’d been a good Catholic.

But, as the knife penetrated her, she acknowledged her sins. Cruelty, pride, hatred-not to mention what she had done with Gilbert for decades. Deep down, she knew she deserved everything she got.

And for her there would be no absolution.

I spent the next day writing up the notes the White Devil had sent me that morning. They were chilling. I hoped for a moment that he was breaking out into fiction writing, but I had the firm feeling he wasn’t. At least this wasn’t a contemporary killing, though that didn’t make it any better for the wretched vagrant he claimed to have killed a couple of years after he’d left senior school. I’d written plenty of violent scenes in my novels, but this was worse than any of them. The man was clubbed to the ground and kicked to death with steel-capped boots. At least that hadn’t happened in any of my books.

I picked up Lucy and took her home, helping her to make a papier-mache model of Edinburgh Castle for a project on medieval fortifications. Then I came back to my place. Sara arrived unannounced. I was rereading the text I’d sent the Devil and only just managed to clear the screen before she let herself in. I wasn’t proud of how I’d enhanced the revolting material. Writing “I felt the rib cage shatter under my boot” brought it home even more.

“Hi, my love,” I said, getting up to kiss her. “I’ve missed you.”

After a few moments, she pushed me away gently. “Steady on, tiger. I’ve been tramping the streets all day.”

That meant she’d been dashing around in taxis paid for by the newspaper, but I resisted the temptation to say that. She looked worn out and pretty dejected.

“Have you seen the news?” she asked, turning on the TV. “Bloody Jeremy’s over in Belfast covering that huge bank robbery.”

“No, I haven’t.” I sat down beside her on the sofa. “Did you get a juicy story to cover in his place?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t say ‘juicy’ was the right word, Matt. Poor old woman.”

My stomach constricted. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

“Retired teacher out in Chelmsford,” Sara said, kicking off her shoes. “Fortunately the police wouldn’t let us in.” Her hand was on my arm, suddenly squeezing it hard. “Can you believe it? One of her arms was severed.”

“What?” This time I was unable to hide my surprise.

“Severed,” Sara repeated. “It seems the killer took it away.” She swallowed. “After he cut her throat.”

“Jesus,” I whispered. My heart was thundering. “What was she, the victim?”

“What do you mean?” Sara’s eyes flared. “She was a defenseless old lady.”

“No, I mean what did she used to do?”