Читать книгу DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw - Luke Delaney - Страница 16

There were three others before the little queer. I’ve already told you about the solicitor-type I stabbed in the heart. That means there are two I’ve not mentioned.

The first was a young girl. Seventeen or eighteen. I’d parked forty metres from the entrance to an abortion clinic. I didn’t have to wait long. These places do a good trade.

This clinic was in Battersea. Quite far from where I live. It was a low-rise, modern, sandstone building. Very discreet. It was not far from Battersea Rise. Close to Clapham Common. Nice in the summer. Lots of traffic though, and too many mahogany-skinned migrants fleeing poverty, war and starvation.

I knew exactly what I was waiting for and then, there she was. It was a few weeks ago and wasn’t as warm as it is now. She hurried along the pavement. Collar turned up against the mild chill as well as to hide her face. She entered the clinic with her head bowed.

I waited for her. A couple of hours and there she came. Hurrying back along the pavement. I could smell her shame. Probably a Catholic. I hope so.

I caught up with her soon enough, keeping pace, about five metres back. She was too trapped in her own private hell to feel my presence. If she ever needed an awareness of what was around her, then she needed it now. It was the only thing that could save her.

I was close enough to see her properly now. She was slightly built. Good. And she was clearly crying. Good. She was also alone. What type of young girl would come here alone? Simple. One who hasn’t told anybody about her little problem. So Mummy and Daddy didn’t know yet. She was perfect. All she needed to do was keep walking in the direction we were heading. I’d already checked out several routes away from the clinic and most had possibilities. But there was a nice concealed railway line on this one, running under a bridge, hidden from the road above. Close to the scene of the Clapham railway disaster.

I was wearing a raincoat I’d bought for cash from Marks & Spencer in Oxford Street a few months ago and hadn’t worn it until then. It was a common enough coat. Nothing special. Deliberately so. I also wore brand-new plain leather-soled men’s shoes, and a pair of leather gloves nestled in the coat pocket. A large bin liner was stuffed into the other pocket.

I had to get the next bit exactly right, or this would be over before it began. We approached the break in the roadside wall that led down to the railway. I put the gloves on. I had to move fast now. Anyone around and this was off.

I ran the short distance between us and punched her as hard as I could in the centre of her back. I felt her spine give way to my fist. I heard the air rush from her lungs. She couldn’t make a sound. She dropped to her knees.

I grabbed her from behind and pulled her through the break in the wall. She was no match for me, but I couldn’t risk being caught by a flailing arm. If she had scratched me, I would have cut her fingers off and taken them with me rather than making a present of my skin, my DNA, for the police.

The way down to the railway lines was exactly what I’d been looking for. I discovered it a while ago when I was out scouting for good spots. The bank fell away steeply, but not so steep as to stop you walking down. But the best bit was that up against the arch of the bridge there was a concrete ledge, a metre wide, on the ground. Past that there was only soil and the dust. It meant I could make the girl walk on the soil, hence leaving her footprints, while I walked on the concrete in my plain shoes, leaving no footprints. It would appear as if she walked the last walk of her pitiful life alone.

About halfway down she began to recover her breath. Couldn’t have that, so I punched her in the stomach. I wonder if it hurt more because of her abortion. Anyway, that took the fight out of her.

I dragged her to the bottom of the bridge arch and pushed her against the side of it. I stared into her eyes hard. They were green and beautiful. She was terrified. The art I imagined was becoming reality. I decided she wouldn’t give me any trouble. I spoke gently.

‘If you make a sound or fight or try and run, I will hurt you. Do you understand?’ I was calm.

She frantically nodded her head. Then she squeaked out a few pathetic words. ‘Please. Don’t rape me. Please. I’ve just had an operation. Please. I won’t tell anyone. Please.’

‘I won’t hurt you,’ I promised. ‘I need you to stand there quietly for a few seconds.’ I could hear the train lines begin to whistle and knew a fast train was approaching. I peeked around the corner and saw the train flying towards me. I’d timed this already. Once it passed the hut on the siding I had five seconds before it hurtled past me.

I gripped the girl by her right arm with both my hands. Five. Four. Three. Two – and I swung her out from behind the bridge arch.

It was as if she jogged out on to the line. She even managed to avoid tripping over the first rail. She made it all the way to between the tracks.

The train that hit her must have looked huge. I saw her stiffen just before it wiped her from the face of the planet. I wonder what she thought, if anything.

I didn’t wait to see where her body landed. I quickly turned and ran up the railway bank. I was well protected from anyone looking out of the train window. I’d had my fun, but ultimately the poetry was lacking. The violence was too mechanical. I hadn’t been able to see her eyes or hear her last breath as the train ripped the life from her. The work lacked feeling. No texture. No colour. I would do better next time.

It’s a shame I didn’t get to her before the abortion. That would have been a marked improvement.

I wonder where the train was going?

As I drove away, I could hear the first sirens approaching. A few days later there was a sad little article in the Evening Standard about a girl who’d had an abortion then killed herself by jumping in front of a train. Apparently all parties had decided she couldn’t live with the guilt. The shame. She still had a receipt for the abortion in her pocket. The last line of the article read, ‘Police are not looking for anyone else in connection with her death.’