Make Me Shine #2
All prisons look the same, and even with the prettied-up name, Sanctuary Lakes, it didn’t stop the chill riding through my bones as my tyres crunched the gravel of the visitor car park.
I took some time in the car before I made the walk again, adamant I wasn’t going to lose it like the time before.
Likely late fifties, a warden called Trevor was waiting for me, and if truth be told, I didn’t care for him, and I know the feeling was mutual.
“Don’t approve of people like you glorifying what they did,” he said as he took me to the graveyard. “Ten down, four from the right.” Eyes remaining towards the ground, his baton pointed towards the vicinity of the intended stone. “And don’t dither as I’ve things to do.”
I didn’t get the same feeling as last time: no eerie mist, no charge. Marching towards my target, shoulders back, chin up, I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment, anxious I wouldn’t be able to duplicate the atmosphere of my last piece.
“Did you know him?”
“I don’t want anything to do with what you’re writing, sonny,” Trevor replied. “Keep my name out of it.”
As I continued my approach, I was half-hoping for a blanket of mist to fall, for the whispers to begin. Even as I stood, perhaps three feet from the final resting place of Thomas Butterworth, 1975-2014, the only thing I felt was Trevor’s eyes burning into the back of my head.
To this day, I still don’t know what made me reach out to touch the cold roughness of that gravestone.
Felt like a million volts shooting through me.
Got a story for you, the voice spoke in my ear.
I can’t explain it. All I know is what I saw.
From the moment I spied the reflected face in the rain-spattered patio window, watching that family laugh and play, I knew what was in store. I could have likely snapped my hand back at that point, but my ego was as smooth as a pebble, and I wanted to keep that shine.
Don’t get me wrong, I was terrified, but curiosity and fame formed a potent potion.
I remember Sinatra was playing. Flickering lights on the Christmas tree and countless presents underneath, I guess Thomas Butterworth felt he had a right to their happiness.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Is that Santa, Daddy?” the blonde-haired boy said.
“Call the police, Denise. And get the kids upstairs.”
They didn’t even make it to the hallway before I—Thomas—was inside, barking instructions and slicing at the Christmas air with a knife.
“Really should be more careful, folks,” he said.
“All sorts of night creatures out there.” He made them swap presents first, rocking back and forth with excitement, watching them untie golden ribbons, and tearing off the expensive wrapping paper. “Isn’t it all so damned cosy?” he said.
While the little ones wailed and the wife begged for Thomas to let them go, he helped himself to some brandy. Even started dancing and singing along to the tunes. Swear down; I could taste the liquid at the back of my throat.
“Come on; let’s have a dance.”
Sobbing, the wife shook her head, withdrawing further into her husband’s arms.
“Come on, love,” he said. “You only live once.”
It was then I felt the pressure on my arm.
“Sonny!”
And just like that, the scene was gone, and I was left squinting into daylight, the same whooshing in my ears and heart thumping.
“I ain’t got all fucking day.”
During the drive back, I contemplated how far I would have let myself go; what would have been my threshold? The thought terrified and intrigued me.
Once home, I followed the web trail. It came as no surprise to read Thomas Butterworth killed every member of that family. Put both kids back in their beds and filled their stockings with—well, some things are best left unwritten.
It took me just shy of three hours to put everything together. I printed two copies, as usual, one for my file and one for reading in bed. Felt pretty good about it, too, what with that genuine thread of fear running through the entire work. Shook off the nastiness that little bit quicker, too.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Susan said, once the kids had left the dinner table.
“What do you mean?”
“Surrounding yourself with all that carnage.”
“And that’s coming from a teacher,” I replied. “Look, it’s only for a while. I can’t spend the rest of my days rambling about different types of pasta. I’ll go bonkers.”
“What were the kids talking about at dinner?”
“Huh?”
“The thing that happened at school today. You were nodding as Jessica was telling you about her day.”
“I’m too tired for your tests, Susan.” Seeing the sting in her eyes, I lowered my tone. “Look, just a few more weeks, okay. I’ve already had an e-mail from a couple of newspapers. And that job at the university.”
“You’re not here, though, James. Every conversation I try to initiate, you’re driving it towards the finish as quickly as possible.”
‘I’ll do better; I promise.” I place my palm across her wrist. Her words ring true, though. Fear has turned into an obsession, and I’m ready for my next fix. “I just want more than a page in the local rag, Suse.”
“Don’t you remember how happy you were when you got that job?”
“I know, love. I just want to”—Shine— “make you proud, that’s all.”
She offered a sigh. “Go and spend a couple of hours with Jessica and Arty, okay? Take an interest.”
“For sure.”
I never did get to see the children that night.
Instead, I stood outside their bedroom door, reading the printed copy of my latest article.
Things like that get to me now, the assumption there’ll be other days, hindsight having razor-sharp teeth.
Shortly afterward, I flopped onto our bed, letting the manuscript fall to the floor.
I closed my laptop after hitting send, and my eyes soon followed.
Yet another night of broken sleep ensued, dreams of making it as a prize-winning journalist, stunted by visions of blood-filled savagery.
I woke to find the manuscript gone, afraid that Susan would shortly deliver another lecture on having such material in the house.
But it was the name circled on my pad that stole my attention.
Leonard Tamms. I didn’t question it this time; I just assumed that my journalistic instincts were reawakening after being dumbed down for so long.
Another outstanding article, James! We can’t wait to get this out to the public. Bravo!
Squinting into the artificial light of my laptop, I clicked off my e-mail and refreshed myself on the legend that was Leonard Tamms, a serial killer made even more infamous by his appetite for human flesh.
Two hundred and sixty-seven pounds of pure evil.
Made the arrangements shortly afterwards to see his grave.
There was no mist that day, no build up as I approached the stone. But I do recall the smell of rotting flesh on the breeze and the feel of warm breath against my neck.
They don’t know about all of ‘em. Got some more for yer!
I took out my notepad there and then and started writing names down. It turned out these people were all missing, dating back for decades.
Fan mail, hate mail, people trying to shut us down, we couldn’t get to it all quickly enough. Even had to hire a legal department. And we couldn’t print the weekly quickly enough, flying off the shelves it was.
The circling of the names carried on, too, bringing me to the resting place of more monsters, each more evil than the last. Hard to think they once walked the streets, passing themselves off for normal.
What scared me more than anything, though, was my developing numbness to it all.
By the time I was on my way to visit the circled name of the week, Clive Durrell, I reckon I’d seen more carnage and bloodshed than any man alive.
It seemed like my threshold for violence increased each time, too. Sometimes I carried it around for days.