Читать книгу Ghost Writers - David Shaw - Страница 17

Don’t fear the reaper

A trickle of ice-cold tap water slowly removes the soft lather of soap wedged between the fingers of the most perfect hands you could ever imagine. As both palms meet in perfect synchronicity, a symphonic resonance welcomes a single droplet of water as it gracefully cascades sideways to reunite with the continuous flow. Each alternate finger carefully intertwines in perfect unity as the last remnants of the lightly scented lather follows suit along the contours of the gleaming ceramic hand basin.

The impeccably clean hands are gently dried using a plain white hand towel, freshly laundered and folded seamlessly in preparation for this most delicate of procedures. A creamy, smooth moisturiser is hastily applied to ensure that these immaculate hands would even be admired by visiting royalty. Finally, a sterling silver nail file finely sculpts each fingernail with a precision that would even leave a master craftsman impressed.

It is difficult to imagine such fine-looking hands engaging in anything other than pastimes suited to celestial activities. However, these unblemished hands belong to a child killer. On five separate occasions, these hands were responsible for murdering young children and consequently destroying the lives of their respective families, and no amount of self-cleansing would ever remove the stain of death from these well-groomed weapons of hate.

The dimly lit sky hides behind a small round window that dominates this featureless room. There is clearly a subtlety about this domain that highlights a need for security, yet at the detriment of extravagance. The sparseness of the room lays bare the notion that the idiosyncrasies of killers are often reflected in their habitat. The walls and floor are both immaculately clean, yet they lack any real affluence. This is clearly a dwelling place that was created for purpose rather than comfort.

The child-killer opens the window slightly, allowing the cold night air to filter through, refreshing his naked torso as it eagerly searches for an escape route. He closes his eyes before drawing a deep breath. Quickly reopening them, he sluggishly turns around to peruse the remaining contents of his life. His neatly folded clothes lie at the foot of an impeccably made-up bed. A black leather belt sits uncompromisingly on top of a small circular table, with the large metal buckle overlapping a handwritten note.

Impetuously, he picks up the belt from the table and loops it around the catch at the top of the window. Then, he thrusts his head out of the window for one final gasp of air, his whole body shuddering with the violent force of his actions. The cold air continues to filter through the window until the night suddenly turns to day.

As the early morning mist clears from the window the welcoming rays of the sun announce the arrival of a beautiful summer’s day, just as a distant blackbird serenades the early risers. A familiar noise then breaks the peace and calm of the moment as the sound of a key turning in a lock heralds the beginning of another day in the life of a prisoner.

The cell door opens and two prison officers find our child-killer’s lifeless body hanging from the window frame. The consequent sound of the alarm acts as a devastating reminder to every other prisoner that another soul has ended his pain, only to recommence his torture.

Afterwards, the parents of the murdered children are offered the opportunity to read the suicide note left by the killer. Naturally, they find this suggestion repulsive, yet they all reluctantly agree to hear his words – hoping for an explanation as to why he chose to commit these appalling crimes against their children. As far as they’re concerned, the fact that he had chosen to commit suicide didn’t justify an apology in any context whatsoever.

‘To whoever may read this note, I solemnly promise that these words are sincere and honest. That is the very least that I can offer under the present circumstances. By the time you read this letter the world will be a better place. Of that I have no doubt. This will be the last life that I take and the only one that is morally just.

Sometimes, when you try to make sense of an act of cruelty, there are no words to convey the nature of such an atrocity without appearing sanctimonious. This is not my intention here. My words offer no explanation as to my actions for that would be as barbaric as the crime itself. I only offer my sincere apology for the grievous acts of depravity that were committed against the innocent children and their respective families.

It has been widely reported that my crimes were committed as a result of hearing immoral voices in my head from the Devil. I do not believe in any devil. If I did then I would also have to believe in God, but what kind of god would allow a monster such as me to join his flock?

The crimes were committed by me and me alone. I am totally responsible for the deaths of five children and it is only me who should be judged in this instance. My own death will not compensate for what has already transpired but it may highlight that I am aware of the grief that my actions have caused and the torment that shall last indefinitely for those affected. My own mental torture shall remain private as I do not deserve nor look for any sympathy whatsoever.

To that end, I wish to publicly apologise. I can only hope that if there is any justice in the place that I now go to, I will finally find a reason as to why I have acted so abominably and brought eternal shame upon my own family.

As I now contemplate the end of my wretched existence, I fear not death; it is only life that I truly fear. The inferno that still burns deep within my soul shall surely diminish with my imminent passing. I can only hope that the love I desecrated during my time here can return to save me from myself.’