In the Still of the Night

He knew there was no man in her life. From time to time the press had talked about some actor she was seeing; there had been a few photos of her at first nights or arriving at a party, or having dinner with someone, but it had never lasted. He had watched feverishly each time until the stories faded away.

So far she was still alone. And women alone were vulnerable: helpless, fragile, easy to hurt. He tightened with memory, remembering another woman. The whispered pleading, the fear in the voice, and then the moans of pain, before the screaming began.

‘Please don’t, please, oh, no, please don’t … Oh, God help me …’ She had been so terrified. So helpless.

‘There you are, all done, rinse out now,’ said the dentist, stepping away.

He was almost

dazed as he leant over to rinse his mouth in the pink disinfectant fountaining in the white china bowl.

Pink turned red with his blood as he spat the liquid out again. He stared at it, eyes fixed. Blood. Blood got everywhere; it took forever to clean it all away and you had to make sure you got rid of every trace of it or it might betray you. Luckily, it hadn’t mattered the first time.

Well, after all, it had been an accident, that first time, hadn’t it? That was what he’d told the police, and it was true, in a way, because he hadn’t meant to do it. He had been scared into it, he’d acted in self-defence. And they’d believed him, they hadn’t guessed the truth.

‘Send the next one in,’ the dentist said.

He stumbled out of the chair and walked unsteadily towards the door.

‘Make sure you brush your gums properly in future,’ the dentist said.

‘I will,’ he promised and smiled, thinking: go to hell, you sadistic bastard, you enjoy your job, don’t you?

Hurting people could be addictive. He was no sadist, but he couldn’t deny he’d enjoyed killing that first time. He enjoyed remembering it.

The face surprised, not believing what was happening; the open eyes, staring up at him. The mouth open, crying out, soundlessly, going backwards, going backwards, very slowly, so that it felt like watching a slow-motion film, the body going backwards, backwards endlessly, with the hands flung out, trying to grasp, to grab, to hang on, but meeting only empty air.

Usually that was all he remembered, but sometimes his mind ran on like a video and the noises came through – the crashing, the sickening thuds, the screaming.

He didn’t want to remember that.

He preferred to remember afterwards – the silence, the body lying very still and silent, not hurting any more, at the foot of the stairs. Over. Finished.

He stood at the top, staring down, transfixed. Then he realised what had happened, saw what it meant. All safe now. All quiet.

The second time he hadn’t acted on impulse; he had planned it all, worked out how and where and what to do with the body afterwards. And it had all gone exactly as he planned, except for one, stupid unforeseen accident.

Life wouldn’t let you get away with making plans. It always tried to trip you up if it could.

Leaving the dentist’s surgery, he walked neatly and quietly back home.

Safely in his room, he put up the picture of Annie among the others, and stared at it for a long time, then he got out the new Valentine’s card. He had had it for weeks: he liked to have them with him for as long as possible before he sent them, to enjoy imagining her opening the envelope, looking at the card, reading his message. He’d give anything to be a fly on the wall, able to see her face, watch her reaction.

This year he had chosen an old-fashioned Victorian-style card, all dark red roses and white lace.

The outside carried the words ‘Forever mine’ in shimmering red foil. He traced the words with one finger, smiling. How would she look when she read that? And she would be his … soon. He couldn’t wait.

The following month, Annie was thinking about Valentine’s cards, too, as she sat in a chair in make-up, with other actors yawning all round her in the location caravan as the make-up girls attended to their faces.

It was the thirteenth of February again.

An unlucky day for her, she thought, shivering.

‘Working on a Sunday!’ one of the other actors moaned. ‘And in weather like this! I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed!’

‘Not cold enough,’ someone else said. ‘And overtime, Paul – remember that. Overtime for working a Sunday.’

‘I’d still rather be in bed!’