Chapter 5
The General surveys himself in the bathroom mirror.
His short hair is combed and gelled neatly; his face, blank but stern. It is the face of a capable man: not someone to catch the eye of, not a man to be crossed. A soldier’s face – finally.
Below the shaved-red flesh of his throat, the uniform is green and straight; the red tassels at the shoulders stand out as bright as berries on sunlit grass.
He holds the cap in his hands, clasped before him, and stands with rigid legs, feet shoulder-width apart.
His black boots are polished enough to glint back the overhead light.
He can stand for hours like this on a night.
He stares at his own reflection for so long that the face dissolves and reforms, becomes that of a stranger.
Until, in fact, he feels oddly threatened by the man looking back at him.
Frightened of the figure he sees, but also in thrall to the superiority there. Other times he feels disgust for him.
Often, the feelings vacillate, and that mixture of sensations, that internal conflict, can send him curling towards an unfathomable part of himself. He becomes lost in this image that encapsulates him. Hypnotised by the half-glimpsed, winking face of his soul.
But tonight, it is getting late. He has work to do.
So the General nods to himself – dismissed – then leaves the bathroom and moves through the silent house to his office.
It is a small room. At one side, there is the terrible, half-formed thing that both disgusts and fascinates him, but he ignores that for now and turns his attention to the opposite wall instead, where he keeps his desk and computer.
Work to do: always more work. But although it has been a busy day, he has enjoyed the clamour his actions have created.
He is excited that his plan – finally – is beginning to unfold.
Everything, so far, is going as it should.
Why would it not though? He has been careful.
He deserves to succeed. He is a soldier.
The General slips on gloves and retrieves the document he typed and printed days ago from the locked drawer in the desk. Then he places it on the computer table beside the monitor, and reads the first few lines even though he already knows them off by heart.
Dear Detective
I don’t know who you are yet. And at the time of writing this letter, you don’t know who I am either.
You have no idea of my existence and no inkling of what I am about to do.
The truth is I still don’t know quite when it will begin myself.
That is why it’s going to work. That is why you’ll never catch me.
And the rest of it.
It is all true. It’s beautiful, actually.
On the floor by the desk, he has today’s evening paper.
He picks it up now and scans the news report on the first killing, finding the section he’s interested in.
There it is. The man who will fail to crack his code.
His opponent, as much as the figure in the mirror is.
The General takes a blue fountain pen and amends the printed letter.
Dear Detective Hicks.