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  When she had sufficiently composed herself and opened her eyes again, he was kneeling at her feet brandishing a pair of kitchen scissors. She flinched, and he scowled at her.

  “Relax, will you, I’m just going to cut through the tape.” A funny, squeaking sound reached her ears when the cool metal grazed her ankle, and she realised it was her. “On your feet, Doctor Johnson, it’s time you saw my little project.”

  He placed the scissors on top of the nearest snake-cage and hooked his hands under her armpits. She cried out at the contact – she couldn’t help it, the touch of him repulsed her to her very soul – and helplessly allowed herself to be dragged to her feet. At such close range, the rank, meaty smell of him filled her nostrils and all her pains and fear were fleetingly obliterated by his BO.

  He let go of her armpits and shoved her in the back, making her lose her balance so that she dived headfirst into the sofa. Her neck twisted awkwardly on impact, sending shooting pains through her shoulders and down her spine.

  “Clumsy bitch,” he said, giving her upturned rump a pat. “Come on, up.”

  Once more she was hauled to her feet, then bodily walked towards the half-closed door. For a few seconds, she found herself in a small, dingy hallway. Her heart gave a hopeful lurch when she saw the front-door at one end of it. He walked her in the opposite direction towards a closed door beyond the carpeted staircase that led up into blackness. On the way there she glimpsed a large, shabby kitchen through an opened door opposite the staircase.

  When Colin pushed open the door at the end of the hallway and flicked on the light-switch, she saw a flight of wooden stairs that descended to a dark basement.

  “No, please,” she said, instinctively reaching out to place her hands on either side of the doorframe.

  “Yes, please,” he said, kneeing her between the legs.

  She gasped, only just managing to grab hold of the rickety banister in time to stop herself from plummeting headfirst down the stairs.

  The smell was the first thing that hit her when her bare foot connected with the top step.

  What’s down there?

  But the question was rhetorical; she didn’t want to find out.

  Whatever it was, it smelt like mould and shit. She coughed and gagged, her eyes instantly watering. Another shove against her shoulders forced her downwards and a surge of hatred so strong rose up like bile from her stomach.

  The first chance I get, Colin Chesterton, I’m going to kill you.

  She clung to the feeling of hate, it was preferable to the terror that turned her legs to jelly and her mind to mush.

  Her fear mounted with every step. Still she couldn’t see anything as the overhead light only illuminated the stairs. The pitch-black basement loomed closer, like the proverbial pits of hell.

  “You are going to love it, Doctor Johnson. I made it just for you.”

  “You need help,” she said with a bravado that she didn’t feel. “I can get help for you, the very best. I can pull some strings, you’d be seen straightaway…”

  He snorted laughter, cutting her off midstream. “I’m getting help alright, I’m getting your help. I need a spot of medical advice and then I need your pretty face and tits.”

  There he goes again, she thought in mounting alarm. What the hell does he mean?

  She had now reached the bottom of the stairs and before she got the chance to peer into the gloom, Colin was behind her, sandwiching her body between his bulk and the rough, stone wall. She wailed in disgust at the feel of his blubbery body through the flimsy t-shirt. The stench of him made her throat close over.

  He smells like this basement, except he smells worse.

  He mashed the side of her face against the stone-wall and his free hand roamed her body, squeezing and pinching. She shuddered in repulsion at his touch, especially when he thrust his groin into her lower back and she could feel the stiffness of his cock through his jeans rubbing against her.

  Just when she thought she might lose her mind at his touch, the pressure lifted off her back.

  “Are you ready, Doctor Johnson? Because here we go.”

  The basement was suddenly bathed in light and for a second she squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the glare.

  The sight which greeted her when her eyes had adjusted made her head reel. If the wall hadn’t of been there to lean against, she would’ve fallen down.

  Being a doctor, Jean was no stranger to bloodshed. She was used to viewing the human body in an entirely dispassionate way and she thoroughly respected the body for the brilliant, flesh and blood machine that it was.

  Yet this, this defied comprehension. She stared in disbelief at the carnage spread out before her. She counted four women, although at first glance it was hard to know for sure. Jean had to do a head count, given their current state.

  All four women no longer had their arms and legs attached to their naked torsos. They lay motionless on their backs with blackened stumps where their arms and legs used to be. Their limbs were neatly stacked up in the corner of the barren basement like a pile of logs.

  So that was the pervading odour that clung to the house and to him; the stench of piss, shit, blood and seared flesh. The smell of early stage, decomposing corpses.

  “Do you like?”

  He sounded eager, almost boyish and shy. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. She felt dreamlike and strange. This couldn’t be real, because things like this didn’t happen in real life. This was the stuff of horror movies, not anything that could possibly happen to her.

  She took in his face with sudden, razor-sharp clarity; the thickness of his lips and bulging eyes, the specks of dandruff in his greasy hair and the tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead. She stared at this face and finally understood that this wasn’t a man, it was a monster.

  “What have you done?”

  Her face felt damp and she realised she was crying.

  “I’m making a snake-woman. I love snakes, as you might’ve noticed upstairs.”

  His words didn’t make sense and she continued to stare at him in blank disgust like he was the most humungous shit she had ever seen. He frowned slightly, as if cross with her lack of response.

  “So anyway, I need a spot of medical advice, the thing is, the bitches just up and die on me. I mean, apart from one, they survived the limb removal but when I stitch them arsehole to mouth, they just die after a few minutes. Why is that?”

  Jean stared at him, utterly lost. She knew she had to formulate a reply, but in that moment, every last word of the English language had deserted her.

  “Answer me, or I’ll start chopping you up.”

  His threat worked. Keep him talking, buy your time… She cleared her throat, amazed at how calm and doctorly her voice sounded. “Limb removal would be unbearably painful, but not necessarily deadly, provided you keep the stump free from infection. I see you have cauterized the flesh, that’s usually enough to keep the wound clean.”

  “But why are they dying when I stitch them arse to mouth? In that movie where that guy makes that insect, they last for fucking weeks. My girls last just an hour, maybe two.”

  Jean had no idea what film he was talking about, and neither did she ask. “Well, there is the blood loss for a start. And the whole experience would be quite nauseating for the person – regurgitation would be a key factor. You yourself know that when you vomit it is a violent process. So if the person doesn’t choke to death on their own vomit, they would definitely inhale vomit. This would cause chemical injury to the lungs from the stomach acid, difficulty breathing and pneumonia. Infection would be the worst part, however.”

  “Infection? It’s only a bit of poo, for God’s sake, people have anal sex all the time and don’t die, I’ve got dirt in cuts before and not fucking died.”

  I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. She glanced at the basement stairs and considered making a run a for it. But she knew he would catch her, and right now talking was preferable to dying.

  “Like I said, vomiting is a violent process that would dislodge the stitches, further exposing the wound to fecal matter. They would likely contract sepsis within a few hours, which is a severe blood infection. It would leave the recipient incoherent and confused before finally killing them.”

  “Is it possible in any way for them to last a week? Or even a day?”

  “No. It’s impossible. Even if they survived the sepsis for a short while, once they ingested even trace amounts of fecal matter, they would be host to a variety of infections, such as cholera, polio, hepatitis A and E, to name but a few. No one could survive that onslaught of infection for any length of time without treatment.”

  “So I only get the head alive for a few hours? Bummer. Still, it’s better than nothing.”

  He took a step towards her, and it spurred her into action. Fight or flight impulse kicked in – she wasn’t going to stand around and wait to be fucking slaughtered – and she lunged for the stairs.

  She only made it to the first step. Searing agony exploded in the back of her head and she slumped forward, out cold.

  When she groggily opened her eyes, taking in the view of the concrete floor, she knew that she was well and truly fucked. Colin’s voice seemed to drift to her very far away:

  “…knocked you out then fed you a dose of Rohypnol. The box says it’s a strong tranquilizer and causes extreme sleepiness, amnesia, problems talking and muscle relaxation.” He laughed. “Don’t know why I’m bothering reading that to a quack. Oh, and I fed you some of that Special K too, just for good measure. I like you, Dr Johnson, I thought I’d give you a treat, make it more enjoyable for you. I’m sure you know that Ketamine causes a dream-like feeling, loss of sense of time, and hallucinations. It’s gonna make you feel like y
our mind is separated from your body. This is gonna be a real trip.”

  But she barely heard him, his voice was a distant buzz in her numbed, fuzzy brain. She didn’t hurt, not really, but even through her drugged haze she was aware that something was beyond wrong with her body. She felt lose and tight at the same time, fuzzed up and numb and throbbing. She closed her eyes and felt as if she was drifting through the air on a concrete cloud.

  Dimly, she was aware of Colin Chesterton’s bulk sitting down next to her and then she was being lifted off her cloud, high into the air. On her ascent, she caught a waft of cooked meat and on some level she knew it was the cooked flesh of her stumps where her arms and legs used to be. There was a tugging sensation deep in her rectum, like there was something heavy attached to her arse.

  Even above the stench of her own cooked flesh, she caught a waft of the unmistakable stink of fetid, unwashed genitals. The still comprehending part of her mind realised that she had been draped over his shoulders

  (like a snake)

  and he was frantically wanking off his smelly little cock.

  Using all her strength to raise her head, she noticed a black, round eye of a camera on a tripod pointing at her. She stared into the camera and the camera stared into her.

  I’m going, was her final coherent thought. Fuck you, you bastard.

  And the black circle of the camera’s eye continued to stare into her, silently recording her death.

  Coulrophobia – A fear of clowns.

  Clowns are lifelike enough to be disturbing, but not realistic enough to be pleasant—this can frighten a child so much that they carry this phobia throughout their adult life.

  Ref – Wikipedia

  (Or as a victim of Coulrophobia might say – ‘I fucking hate clowns.’)

  THREE

  Linda shuddered at the blaring TV. She hated that fucking clown. Maybe it was the baggy, green, black and red striped suit that always reminded her of the death metal band Cradle of Filth, where the lead singer came on stage in clothes dug up from the grave. Or perhaps it was his purple hair and freaky clown makeup. Or maybe she just hated fucking clowns.

  Either way, her three-year-old Jamie loved it.

  “Mr Scew is side-splitting,” he repeated in his sweet little voice.

  Only time he speaks properly is when he’s imitating that prick.

  “Sweetie, shall we go upstairs and change your nappy?”

  Instantly, Jamie’s angelic little face crumpled and his bottom lip quivered. “Waaahh,” he said. “Mr Sceeeeewww.”

  “Okay, fine, watch Mr Scew, Mummy’s just popping to the loo for a wee.”

  The tears dried as quickly as they had arrived.

  Little bugger, she thought fondly as she walked out the door and up the stairs of the two-bed terrace to the bathroom. The truth was, she didn’t need to wee, she just couldn’t stand being in the same room as that dick on the television for a second longer.

  Mr Scew gives me the creeps…

  Hopefully, by the time she emptied her bladder and perhaps run a baby-wipe over the base of the taps and rinsed out the mucky toothbrush holder, then the TV programme would be finished.

  “Mummeeeee! Waaah! Come dooooown.”

  “Mummy’s coming, sweetie,” she shouted as she stuffed the corner of the hand-towel into the toothbrush holder to dry it off.

  As she did so, she caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Old before my time, she thought sadly. The fine bone structure was still there; the jutting cheek bones, Kate Moss style, circa. nineteen ninety-five, and the wide set, baby-blues which her ex used to say was her best feature.

  Yeah, used to say. Before he ran off with that slag of a barmaid from The Fox and Goose…

  Before I got fat.

  Not wanting to dwell on her ex-boyfriend’s devastating betrayal and her constant weight battle, she turned away from her reflection.

  Replacing the toothbrush holder, she reluctantly made her way downstairs.

  Fuck. Bum face is still on.

  Jamie ran into her legs and wrapped his chubby little arms around her thighs at the same time as Mr Scew shoved a custard pie into his own face. She shuddered.

  What a horrible man. Rumour had it he lived round here in one of those super-posh houses round the corner. Yeah, well, I sure as shit hope I never bump into him.

  Averting her gaze from the TV, her thoughts turned to biscuits.

  Just one penguin bar with a cup of tea…

  The thump of the post landing on the mat out in the tiny hallway distracted her and she went to retrieve it. Amidst the usual brown envelopes of bill misery was a purple envelope.

  Frowning slightly, she turned it over in her hands. There was no stamp on it and just her full name, Linda Harvey printed in neat handwriting across the front.

  How strange.

  Shrugging, she ripped it open. Inside was a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper, which she impatiently flattened to read the typed letter:

  Mr Scew has chosen you!

  You are one of the chosen few.

  Luckily for you, he likes them fat,

  So much better for filming scat.

  The more you eat, the more comes out,

  Lots of fun before he wipes you out.

  And if you please him,

  You will keep your limbs.

  Or perhaps he lies,

  Which is no surprise,

  Considering he’s a fucking lunatic,

  With a taste for hentai comics,

  That show women horribly mutilated,

  Decapitated, blooded, and crooked.

  It’s dizzy time, Linda Harvey!

  Mr Scew is side-splitting!

  “What the..?”

  Linda didn’t understand what she had just read. This had to be the sickest fucking joke she had ever had the misfortune of being the butt of.

  Poem’s crap too.

  She tried to smile to herself but couldn’t quite bring herself to.

  As if on cue, Mr Scew was shouting out his end-of show catchphrases on the TV:

  It’s dizzy time, boys and girls! Ha ha! Mr Scew is side-splitting!

  Jamie laughed along with the clown as he bounced around manically on the screen and Linda did indeed feel dizzy. She gripped the doorframe, the sight of her son bopping in front of the TV making her feel seasick.

  “Turn that shit off,” she cried, stumbling into the living room and snatching at the remote which was poking out from beneath an Ikea cushion.

  Predictably, Jamie burst into tears.

  Linda’s legs shook uncontrollably and she sat down on the sofa, staring in horror at the blank TV screen. Her breath caught in her throat and Jamie’s cries cut through her brain like a blade.

  “Shut up,” she whispered.

  Jamie didn’t.

  “I said shut up!”

  The words were so sharp they cut her throat, making it ache. Above his wails, she was sure she heard the backdoor open and she froze in horror. She stiffened, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickling. All the while, Jamie continued to wail, an accompaniment to her terror.

  The backdoor wasn’t locked. Mr Scew is coming to get me…

  The thought was so preposterous, it was almost funny.

  It’s broad daylight, nothing’s going to happen. And the poem is just some seriously sick prank.

  The end of the sofa she was perched on was mere inches away from the door that led into the kitchen. All she had to do was crane her neck round and peer through the door. Stealing herself, barely able to focus she was so scared, she leaned round…

  And saw that the kitchen was empty, the backdoor standing slightly ajar where she had hung the washing out earlier in the small backyard.

  Should’ve locked the damn thing.

  She got up to do it now, feeling distinctly like the stable-hand locking the gate after the horse had bolted.

  But there was no way a person could’ve slipped in without her noticing; the only way to the stairs was through the living room, and the back kitchen was rectangular in shape with no other rooms apart from the living-room branching off it.

  I don’t care, I’m calling the police.

  Prank or not, that letter was some serious fucked up shit. Feeling slightly better, in that she was no longer in any immediate danger of passing out, she went over to her son and picked him up, bundling him against her. His face was soggy against her pullover and the screams at such close range hurt her ears but she drew comfort from his hug.