Sick Fux - Page 93

When he walked off, I stared at the card in my hand. The drawing of the twins was so accurate I got chills. Then I remembered Heathan’s drawings as he sat with Ellis on the lawn. Sick and twisted pictures. Pictures of them killing.

I closed my eyes. Ellis . . . what the fuck has he made you do?

“Heathan?”

Mrs. James—now Mrs. Lockwood—paled as she uttered her son’s name.

“We just want to know more about him.”

Mrs. Lockwood’s gray eyes—Heathan’s eyes—fell on my uncle, and her hands twisted in her lap. Her husband took her hand. She cast him a grateful smile.

Mrs. Lockwood was a petite woman. Seemingly timid and weak. I couldn’t imagine Heathan being her son. But then, I was sure Heathan’s evil was innate, not learned.

Her husband rubbed her back and encouraged her to speak. Mrs. Lockwood brushed a piece of black hair from her face and said, “Heathan, from being very young, always displayed some . . . tendencies.” Her eyes grew distant. “He was always a quiet child. Lived in his head most of the time. Didn’t like to be touched.” She took a drink of water. Placing it down, she said, “To cut a long story short, I couldn’t cope with him anymore.” She inhaled deeply. “He . . . he scared me. Heathan was always a tall child. Well-built for his age. By the time he was nine, he was the same height as me.” She worried her lip. “There . . . there was an incident, and I knew I couldn’t have him around anymore.” Her head fell to her hands, and a sob ripped from her throat. “I feared that he would kill me.” She wiped at her tearful eyes, and said, “He told me he would. Told me that if I ever crossed him, he would kill me.” She sniffed. “My own son. My nine-year-old son. I was alone. A single mother, with a son I believed would do as he threatened. I feared for my life.”

“Why was he like that?” my uncle asked. “Was there a particular moment you can pinpoint?”

Mrs. Lockwood drained her glass of water, and her husband handed her a tissue. She nodded. “I was very young when I had Heathan. I foolishly believed his father loved me. He didn’t. Soon after Heathan was born, he left us.” She looked out of the window, eyes unfocused. “With no money, I had no choice but to move back in with my father. My mother had died years before from cancer.” Her husband gripped her hand more tightly.

“My father was a hard man. A taskmaster. With Heathan, he was particularly strict. Heathan never said anything, but I knew he hated him.”

I was tense as I listened to the story.

“One day, I came back from work to find my father on the floor of our kitchen.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Heathan was sitting beside him, soaked in blood.” She hiccupped. “There had been a break-in. The men were caught. But those men had come in and tried to take money from my father. All he had was a pocket watch, a family heirloom that he refused to give up. They later confessed everything to the police. My father was stabbed, ten times, right in front of my little boy, for not handing over that damn pocket watch.”

My blood cooled when I remembered that watch. Tick tock . . . tick tock . . . tick tock . . .

Mrs. Lockwood became lost to her tears. “I knew Heathan would be affected by the murder. What six-year-old child wouldn’t? Only he wasn’t affected like I expected. No”—she shook her head—“Heathan wasn’t scarred by the memory. He seemed . . . inspired.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “The pocket watch vanished after the murder. We all thought the murderers had taken it or thrown it away. It turned out Heathan had it. It had been damaged, ruined beyond repair. I found him with it when I caught him sitting beside next door’s dog on the side of the road. It had been run over by a car. Heathan was braced over that poor dog, his eyes wide with wonder as he studied its dead body, holding that watch, repeating ‘Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.’ The boy believed the watch was working. Seemed to associate that watch with anything death-related. Always uttering ‘Tick tock’. I realized in that moment that seeing the murder of my father had altered him permanently. All he did after that was read about death, murders, serial killers and ways to kill.

“I couldn’t afford any specialists to look at him. And then things only seemed to get worse. His obsession spiraled. He burned insects. Destroyed butterflies. He was fascinated by their demise, by their deaths caused by his own hands.

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