Now Comes the Dark (Basic Instincts #1)

Chapter Seven

Murder with the Morning

Roman dreamed about Mallon. He was in bed with the hot French man, their limbs entwined, bodies arching together as they kissed and caressed every part of each other. Several times Roman threatened to wake up, but somehow forced himself back into the dream, where they were still together, still kissing, but fucking now. Roman moaned in his sleep. The dream was so real, so intense, that he could feel the heat of Mallon’s body against his own, could smell his skin and taste the whisky and smoke on his breath.

An urgent knock at the bedroom door pulled him back to reality. He fought it, wanting to remain in his imagination with Mallon, but the knocking persisted and in seconds he was fully awake.

“What?” he groaned.

“Can I come in?” Ashley called.

Roman had tossed the covers aside in his sleep. A raging boner tented the front of his underpants. He grabbed the duvet and pulled it over him. “Okay.” He rearranged the pillows and shuffled up the bed. Ouch . His head hurt when he moved.

They had gotten home before eleven and had polished off a full bottle of red wine with their pizza, before starting on a bottle of vodka and playing their favourite songs on YouTube as they opened their hearts to each other. Roman had admitted how strong the sexual desire Mallon had unleashed in him was, while Ashley got maudlin and detailed all the things he regretted about dating Patrick. He had a vague memory of stumbling to bed sometime after four.

Ashley came into the bedroom, wearing a pair of pyjama shorts and a baggy Spiderman T-shirt. He held his phone in front of him.

“What time is it?” Roman asked, shielding his eyes from light that came through the open door.

“Nearly one.”

Shit. Another Sunday wasted to a late night and a hangover.

Roman groaned and wriggled into a sitting position. Ashley got onto the edge of the bed.

“Have you seen what’s happened?” he asked.

“You’ve literally just woke me up,” Roman laughed, managing to open his eyes fully for the first time. His Mallon-induced erection stayed rock hard beneath the covers.

“There’s been another murder, someone from the village.”

“What? Who?”

“Not sure. The victim lives on the Grange Estate in the East End, they say.”

“How do you know it’s related to the other killings?”

“It’s what people are saying on WhatsApp and Facebook.”

“Gossiping. It could be totally unconnected.”

“They’ve never been wrong before.” Ashley’s WhatsApp group had broken the news of the last three murders in the community before the details had been publicly released. He tapped the screen of his phone as the messages refreshed. “It’s definitely a murder. The police have got the whole place sealed off. Look.”

He showed the screen, which displayed a photo of a typical crime scene. The area was taped and guarded by uniformed officers, while a fully kitted forensic team worked in the background. The horrible reality of the image shocked him wide-awake. Had another member of their community fallen victim to a hate crime?

“How long has it been since the last one?”

Ashley rubbed his stubbled chin. “About four months, give or take. Wasn’t Charles Lear killed sometime in June? And that couple were killed a couple of months before that.”

Roman nodded. “Yeah. That was in April, around Easter. Fuck. What is this city coming to?”

Ashley studied the photograph again. “The fucking police are only interested when someone gets killed, a juicy case they can cover themselves in glory with when they solve it. But if they do confirm the victim was one of us, no doubt they’ll file it away and move on.”

There was a huge distrust of Blyham Police with the LGBTQ community. Sometimes Roman thought his friends went too far in the fervour of their hatred of the cops, but he only had to remember the statistics to share their anger. Despite an overall rise in abuse and violence within the village, a figure he was now part of, five men had had been murdered in the last fourteen months and not a single charge had been brought. Several people had been arrested and taken in for questioning, friends and partners of the victims, but no serious suspects had come to light. If the current speculation was proved to be right, then this morning brought the total of dead to six—six that they knew of. There could be other deaths that hadn’t been connected to the case.

Roman got wearily out of bed. He showered, feeling the full weight of the news, together with a thick hangover, and dressed in jeans and a comfortable, oversized sweater. After a couple of painkillers and a glass of juice, he started to feel more human. He made a pot of tea and searched the fridge and cupboard for something he could have for lunch. What he really would have liked was a slice of last night’s pizza, all cold and stiff, but they had finished the lot in one sitting.

He opted for a tin of chicken soup, perfect comfort food for a grim day like this one. He emptied the can into a jug and put it in the microwave. Ashley rushed through from the living room, still in his bed wear, clutching his phone.

“You are not going to believe this,” he said, pacing the kitchen.

Roman slumped against the counter. He didn’t have the appetite for more bad news. Ashley was enjoying the drama.

“Just tell me.

“The guy who got killed last night. They’re saying it’s Cameron Taylor.”

“Cameron Taylor?”

“Cameron. ‘ Fuck Me Cameron’ . The guy you said almost nixed your plans with the French guy in The Viaduct.”

Roman heard what he was saying, but it took his mind a few seconds to compute and make sense of the words. Cameron . “Shit. Are you sure?”

Ashley brandished the phone. “They have never been wrong yet. That’s his flat that the police are crawling all over.”

Roman took a deep breath. He heard his blood pounding in his head. “But…I saw him last night. He was in The New Inn when we were there, out on the back terrace.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No. I doubt I’ve ever said more than a few words to him.” Though Roman and Cameron had frequented all the same places for years, they had always maintained a distance, rivals who didn’t dare get too close to each other. “He was with a group of other people.”

“I didn’t see him, though I didn’t go out the back. I almost slept with him once, but neither of us were that into each other. Poor kid. I can’t believe he is dead.”

“Nor can I.” Roman stared at his feet for several minutes. Though he could hardly say he had been close to Cameron, he was the first of the six victims he knew in a personal way. It brought the crisis closer to home than any of the others. “And his death is connected to the others? It’s not some unrelated tragedy?”

“Too early to say, but it looks that way.”

The facts of the previous murders were chillingly similar. Each of the victims had been found at home, naked in bed, with their bodies positioned in a grotesque parody of welcome, with arms and legs open. All five of the men had been strangled and sexually assaulted, though no trace of the killers DNA had been recovered. Many speculated that the sexual assaults had been carried out with a sex toy rather than a penis, leading to much speculation about the killer’s motives. Some said he was a sexual oddball, destroying the men he desired and was unable to have for himself. Others insisted the murderer had to be a homophobe, using a dildo to violate the victims and make the killings look like the work of another gay guy. Everyone had a hypothesis for the murders, but no one had an answer.

And while everyone had been guessing, the killer had struck again.

* * * *

“How many more men have to die before anyone but us gives a damn?”

Phil’s face was red with fury as he stubbed out a cigarette and immediately lit another.

The beer garden of Julie’s was full. The news of Cameron’s murder had brought the community out to mourn, and soon an informal meeting had begun as residents expressed their sadness for the young man’s death and anger that it had happened again.

Roman and Ashley had been among the first to arrive around five o’clock. Neither of them were regulars on Sunday, but they had felt so restless at home, following the WhatsApp feed as more details were shared, that they had both felt an overwhelming need to get out and be part of the community. Roman had needed to receive support, and he wanted to give it back.

There was no doubt now that Cameron had become the sixth victim of what people in the pub were now calling ‘The Blyham Strangler’. Cameron had lived alone in a small flat on a six-storey block. He’d been due to meet a friend for brunch that morning. When his friend couldn’t get in touch with him, he had gone to the flat, let himself in and found Cameron laid out on the bed like the all the previous victims.

The police had still to release details to the press, but the news had already spread far.

As he sat at a crowded table, Roman couldn’t stop thinking about Mallon and feeling guilty for it. Mallon wouldn’t know what had happened to the boy he had almost spent the night with instead of Roman—the boy who had sucked his cock, regardless. Would he want to know? Would he care? He couldn’t stop turning the questions over in his mind, and he hated himself for it. Mallon wasn’t here. Mallon wasn’t dead. He had to get over him.

“We’ve got to make them give a damn,” a voice hollered from somewhere behind and was met with a wall of approval.

“But how?” Someone else asked.

“They don’t want to know.”

Anjoa, a beautiful Black trans woman who DJ’d at The New Inn, got to her feet and waved at the crowd to be quiet. Anjoa was a member of the Blyham Pride committee, and when she spoke, people listened. “We are all angry tonight and with good fucking reason. We’ll decide in the next few days the best course of action we can take to raise awareness—marches, demonstrations, fundraisers. We’ll do everything we can to make the voices of these victims heard and force the police to get justice for them.”

Her words were met with applause. Roman and Ashley joined in. He needed to. Whatever action was decided upon, he would be part of it. He’d experienced first-hand the kind of abuse his people were suffering. It was time to fight back.

“But before all that,” Anjoa continued, “there’s something far more important we need to do. Keep safe. Look out for each other. No one else will do it for us. We need to take care of ourselves. Starting right now, tonight, you need to be vigilant. There are too many bastards out there who want to hurt us. Not all of them are killers, but they’ll beat the shit out of you if they get the chance.”

Ashley put a reassuring hand on Roman’s forearm. “You okay?” he mouthed.

Roman nodded. He didn’t want sympathy or to make any of this about him. It was about Cameron, the five other victims and protecting anyone from future danger.

“No more risks,” Phil yelled. “No casual hook-ups with sketchy men who won’t even give you their name. No going down dark alleys with strangers. No inviting dubious people home. And if you really must do all that, make sure someone sees you. Meet them in a public place first. Get their fucking faces on CCTV. Tell your friends what you’re up to. Safe call each other. If you don’t want to take someone home, then drag their arses to The Viaduct. You can fuck them there. It’s a safe space with plenty of staff and security. You won’t be alone.”

Phil’s words were met with more serious applause. No one laughed or cheered or thought any of it was funny. The world had changed. Their lives had been touched by darkness.

There was a palpable sense of fear among the crowd. So thick, Roman felt like he could touch it. He shared it, too. What had happened to Cameron could easily have happened to him or Ashley or any of their friends.

Everything Anjoa and Phil had said was right.

The danger was real, and it was here, and any one of them could be next.