Prologue: 'The Muse'

Prologue


After killing the dark haired gentleman, I went to the Kings Arms for a pint of ale. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over these past few years, is that murder: really isn’t a big deal at all. This one had been surprisingly – almost laughably – easy. I find nothing more exciting than choosing my victim; spying a toff lurking down the alleyways alone and unsuspecting, assuming that as the world is at his feet, so must be the night. Well, let me tell you something, the night belongs to us. The night is for thieves, for drunks, for adulterers, for smugglers, for murderers. Yes, especially for murderers.
Don’t worry; it’s not going to hurt. A lie. It will hurt, it’ll really hurt. There isn’t anything painless about being strangled to death. Having your throat crushed under the thumb of a person looking you square in the face, menace in their eyes and no mercy in their blood. And don’t worry, as a victim you won’t have to do much of the work. You only have a small script: To struggle, to gasp, to splutter, to choke, and to sink slowly but surely into death. There, see? You can sit back and … relax.
There’s something thrilling about using your own hands to end somebody’s life. Wrapping yourself around their rich necks and pressing your fingers down harder and harder until all colour drains from their face and their widened eyes falter until they’re nothing but a still, blank canvas. Like squeezing a sponge, dry.
When their final scream is at last etched on their pale and unmoving face, I can then strip their pockets of dignity. Often there is a leather wallet with a generous handful of shining coins cluttered at the bottom, maybe a few crumpled notes if I’m lucky. Sometimes, if luck really strikes my way, a pocket-watch can be found, tucked into the seams of their trousers, a soft but prominent ticking emitting from its hands that turn teasingly around its rounded body.
But this particular dark haired gentleman’s pockets held neither prizes, but it was not for them that I searched for.
I dug deep into his pockets, making sure I left no corner unsearched. Nothing. The inside of his jacket was next to being felt. Still nothing. I cursed - perhaps a little too loud for this uncomfortably silent and clear night – and stepped back to admire my handy work.
I pride myself on my neatness, not a drop of blood or saliva ever lies upon the ground, marking its territory. No, I was much more careful than that. The dark-haired gentleman lay awkwardly, the left hand straightened outwards as though reaching out for something … or someone.
I snapped round. The alleyways were still, not a sound to be heard or a movement to be spotted. We were all alone, this gentleman and me.
For the first time, I grew too comfortable, grew too cocky. I dared myself to take a few more minutes on the job, I wanted to be … thorough.
I found my hands on the buttons of his white shirt. Found my fingers fumbling as I tugged it open.
A white sheet of skin and bone lay before me. It glowed in the moonlight, almost too brightly as though I’d killed a fallen angel. I searched the inside of the shirt, but it wasn’t there either.
Almost as though someone had whispered the order in my ear, I suddenly knew what must be done.
I put my hand into my coat and pulled out a pocket knife: a sharp little thing; a present. I gently laid the tip of it on the gentleman’s torso. I teased it, two beads of blood bobbed to the surface of the cut. And once again, I grew too comfortable, grew too cocky. I dared myself to –
I cut and I carved, words, my words into his china doll skin until the white turned red.
When I had finished, I sat back. My body shook and leaked sweat, bathing my trembling body in God’s tears as He wept for my sin.
Killing was easy, a thrill. Playing with a dead body was not so easy, but the thrill was even greater.
Adrenaline pumped around my veins, I felt sick to the stomach but I couldn’t allow myself to feel remorse. Feelings can kill you. And I won’t allow that to happen.
Moving the body took longer than it usually did, I had to be very careful. My reputation must be kept intact: not a drop of blood could spill onto the wet slabs of pavement, not a single drop.
I pulled at the feet, only a little way to go now.
“We’re nearly there” I whispered to the gentleman, “The river welcomes you with open arms”
Head first, I slipped him into the river. Water licked at his face, ready to swallow him whole. One more push and it carried him off, adoringly and hungrily. I watched him go, and as I watched, I sang goodbye, sweet and soft:

“Oh, I've a love, a true, true love: who waits upon yon shore... and if my love won't be my love, then I will live no more...”

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