T.M.E. Walsh - Pretty Little Things - 2018’s most nail-biting serial killer thriller with an unbelievable twist

Did she die because of me? Well, yes and no. I’m sure her body wouldn’t have gone into overdrive had I left her alone. BUT, she had asthma – an underlying health problem.

Properly managed, she could have lived another fifty-plus years. So, I can’t take complete ownership of it.

Mother Nature played her part.

She could just as easily have had a fatal attack next week, next month, next year . . . had she not fallen into my path.

Her name was Katie. Pretty sweet little thing she was. She was my youngest, about fifteen. Just.

Young.

Did I mention that I like them young? Well, young ish – I’m not a total monster – but I do get off on that sweet smell of youth. The skin has to be soft to the touch, like a peach. Ripe fruit meant for tasting.

That first sweet bite.

It gets me every single time. That and the precious moment when the light, the life – everything that makes that person them – has slipped away.

Speaking of which, Bryony here has just left us.

Her legs under my weight have fallen still at last, and her nails have stopped trying in vain to claw my eyes out.

I’d kept my face out of harm’s way, head cocked to the side, just so, watching as she bled out.

*

I picked her up on a winding country road in the Chilterns, en route between the county of Buckinghamshire and Kennington, Hertfordshire, not to be confused with Kennington, London, not far from MI6 – I should be so-fucking-lucky – ’cos that’d be pretty cool.

I’d been out on one of the drives I like to do when not at work.

I can literally just drive for miles, with no real destination in mind, just enjoying where the roads take me.

Admittedly this means I can scope out the area, understand my limits, respect the boundaries I have to force on myself so I don’t get caught, but it’s a real pleasure.

A Sunday-morning drive is how I found the cabin in the woods.

It was an old site that used to hire out wood cabins to families, on a self-catering basis. It was supposed to be all about getting back to nature, immersing oneself in the woods, leaving the rat-race behind – that type of shit.

This place thrived in the nineties. Then we hit the noughties, and it went to the dogs under new management.

This place was soon forgotten. It’s not even on my satnav.

Completely isolated, forgotten, broken and unloved. Until I found a use for it.

Anyway, I digress.

So, Bryony . . .

She said she’d had her thumb stuck out for about thirty minutes before I stopped at the side of the road.

When she lowered her head to give me the once-over, her eyes did show a flicker of recognition.

I did the same. I was pretty sure I’d seen her somewhere before.

‘Where you heading?’ I’d asked.

‘Anywhere but here,’ she’d replied, breezily, not seeing me as a threat.

I asked her what she meant. She told me she’d had enough of her mother’s new boyfriend, and was running away. Then she dropped her rucksack on the backseat of the car, and climbed in beside me.

Just like that.

Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly . . .

I admit, my smile was beaming. Ear to ear.

Bryony – she told me her name, with a flick of her chestnut-coloured hair over her small shoulders – was beautiful.

‘Take me as far as you’re going,’ she said.

I felt duty-bound to oblige.

After some small talk, she said she needed a piss. With no services nearby, just narrow country lanes, I pulled over and she ran into the thick of some trees.

I knocked her unconscious with one blow to the back of the head with my heavy-duty torch (top tip, always be prepared) catching her mid-flow, jeans and knickers around her ankles.

Not my greatest or proudest moment, I’ll admit. Necessary, though.

After an initial struggle with her jeans, I got her in the boot, wrists and ankles bound tight.

When we got to the cabin, I waited about four hours before I caved in and killed Bryony, cutting her throat from ear to ear.

It was right after she said she knew where she’d seen me before.

She’d sealed her own fate right at that moment, because just before that I’d been in two minds about whether to let her go or not.

She was a runaway, and I can relate to that and the reasons why she was doing it. We had found some common ground, but then she went and ruined it for herself.

I still don’t quite understand what she had been saying to me – places she said she’d seen me – but she was scared shitless. I doubt many people make much sense when they’ve reached the limits of trying to control such obvious fear.

I look down at her now, at the blood on the plastic sheet. I stare into her glassy green eyes.

With her last ounce of strength, Bryony’s frightful stare had found mine, and her eyelids flickered.

Had that been a silent fuck you ?

Too late to ask her now, but I like to think that’s what she meant. Even at the end she had a bit of fight left in her.

I eye the ring in her fleshy lower lip. That’ll have to come out. It’s about the only thing she has that I have considered keeping.

After I’ve carefully removed the little piece of silver, I press my hand, encased in surgical gloves, against her peach of a cheek. She’s going cold already.

Oh, Bryony. You tragic thing, you.

*

The cabin in the woods – isn’t that a film? – is about twenty-odd miles away from civilisation of any real kind, unless you count the wildlife – who, incidentally, can be a massive help if I want to dispose of smaller body parts.

There have been four girls before Bryony. Later, I’ll have them all moved to a different place, a wasteland about forty miles from where I live.

Then it’s just a matter of time before they’re found. I don’t think it’ll be long.

Bryony’s a bit different though. When I move them, I don’t want to leave her with the rest. She fought back more. She was in a different league.

I pick up my spade and go outside the cabin. The air outside is heavy with damp, but it’s mild enough.

I go to the back of the cabin and out towards the undergrowth.

I step over the four raised mounds of earth near the line of trees and begin to dig. Nothing fancy, or too deep, just enough like when you sow a row of seeds.

All I can hear, now the blood in my ears has stopped pounding, is the spade slicing through the soil.

It takes no time at all and I go back to get Bryony.

When I’m done, and have scattered a layer of soil over her, I take a few steps back and lean my weight against the spade.

I look at the five mounds of earth, from the bottom where their feet are, right up until I reach their faces.

Five bodies buried up to their necks, five faces left uncovered, looking skyward. They remind me of marble statues or the effigies you see adorning the top of a sarcophagus.

They are less than perfect, obviously. I can’t stop decomposition.

This is my garden, they are my seeds. Pretty things might grow here, even after they’ve gone, and join the sea of reds and pinks that are here already.

I head back inside, leaving the spade outside for later.

I go to the mirror on the cabin wall and take a moment to study my face.

So, there it is. This is me. What I do.

It’s a primal instinct. Something tuned in, buried deep, part of my DNA, never to be erased.

People write books on it – the reasons why people kill. Reality is, they’ve only just scratched the surface. They don’t know how deep down the rabbit hole it goes.

They don’t know about me.

As I said, it’s a primal instinct.

And that’s what makes me so dangerous.

PART ONE