Hexad (2 page)

Cameron grabbed the bag of nails and proceeded to hammer them into Julia's face, once by one. He giggled at the sight.

“Not so pretty now, are you? There’s nothing that you can control me with now.”

Blank, lifeless eyes stared back at him. He glanced further down and took another look at her perfect cleavage.

“No, come on, Cameron. She’s dead. That’s gross.”

He could feel himself harden as he pressed against the zip of his jeans.

“Ah, what the hell. Bundy enjoyed it. I might too.”

A minute or so after wiping his dead girlfriend’s juices off his cock, the doorbell rang. Cameron opened the door, still out of breath and sweating profusely. A young woman smiled at him.

“How can I help you?” he asked. He glanced down to notice his zip still undone. “Whoops,” he smiled and zipped it back up.

The woman shyly looked away for a moment. Then composed herself. “Hello, I'm here today to ask if you have considered giving blood.”

“Of course, come in.”

He opened the door and the woman entered. She waited in the hallway until he had closed it. Then he led the way through.

“Just this way,” he said. He led her to the bedroom and opened the door wide. “So, how much would you like? Help yourself.”

The woman screamed, fainted and fell to the floor. Cameron stared down at her. He could see straight up her skirt, which had risen up with her fall. Once again, he could feel his jeans tighten.

“Well, be rude not to, but first…”

He grabbed the hammer.

Over the Edge

Matt Hickman

19:27 pm

I stood above him, staring - a burning hatred that I've never known, coursing through my veins with such intensity that I thought my whole body would explode. He lay, sprawled out on the carpeted floor with a slow trickle of blood running down his forehead where I'd hit him with the glass paperweight.

He was stunned and obviously hurt, but he was still conscious.

Never mind
, I thought,
it won't be for long
. 

I threw the paperweight down on the floor behind him and reached over to the metal envelope opener, snatching it from the corner of the desk, the light reflecting from the pointed tip. The look on his face went from confusion to realisation, then absolute terror as I stormed across the room, toward him, covering the three feet between us in less than a second. A lame attempt to hold up his hand for protection was swatted aside and in one powerful motion the metal object was buried into the side of his neck, right up to the hilt.

He let out a deep, laboured gurgle. I shook the handle from side to side to release its grip, then pulled the makeshift blade out of his neck. In doing so, I covered myself in an arc of warm arterial blood. His hand immediately went to cover the wound but it was too late; red liquid gushed from the deep puncture in his throat and down his chest. I adjusted my position, then thrust the blade into his face, straight into the cheek below his eye, with brutality and strength that I wasn't aware I was capable of. There was no resistance at all offered by his soft muscle and flesh. I repeated again and again, wherever the blade could find purchase, I lost count of how many times the blade punctured his face, neck and chest, the result was horrific – a collage of spilled blood, ripped muscle chipped bone and skin. After what seemed like just a few seconds, he stopped breathing. He was dead - I threw up.

17:50 pm

I sat in my high backed chair and looked out of my office window to the traffic piling up in the streets, four storeys below. Holding my practice in the centre of a busy city like Bristol had its advantages, however, the commute in the mornings and evenings was not one of them. Bristol is the second most congested city in the U.K, after London. Traffic jams can appear from anywhere and take hours to clear.

The short ten mile journey to my hometown of Yate, just north of the city, has been known to take anything up to two hours to complete.

I looked at the clock on my wooden office desk. It had been a long, uneventful day, a day that I would be glad to see the end of. I barely had the chance to grab a proper lunch, I was starting to get tired and a headache was beginning to form.

I'd spent the day listening to an elderly widow suffering from depression. The more I see her, the more obvious it seems to me that she just needs someone to talk to. A six-year-old boy who suffers with ADHD. A  recovering gambling addict who had blown his entire families fortune in a casino in a short six month period, and a middle aged man suffering from anxiety and depression.

I checked my diary; the appointment with a new client that had been referred to me, claiming to be suffering from schizophrenia, started at 18:00 pm.

I see a varied range of people with psychological problems every single day, the extent of their problems and need for my assistance vary from client to client. The beauty about being a psychiatrist is that I'm genuinely able to help people with their problems. Prior to my last appointment, I had just enough time to make a quick phone call home.

The phone got answered on the fourth ring. "Hello," said my wife, Jane.

"Hey you, it’s me," I replied

"And who might me be," she chuckled, a playful tone.

"That depends; how many strange men
do
you get calling you?"

She laughed. "Only a few, how are you getting on?"

"Just one more appointment to go this evening, then I should be home around half eight-ish. Have you cooked or do you want me to pick something up for dinner on the way back?"

"I didn't collect Sam from football practice until ten minutes ago, would you mind picking something up along the –"

"– Hello Daddy!" My nine-year-old's chirpy voice came down the line.

"Hello, Sam, it’s rude to snatch the phone when Mommy is speaking, say sorry to her later. How has your day been?"

"Great, Dad, I scored a goal at football practice and I got a new football shirt."

"Oh, how come? Have you been twisting your moth...?"

The sudden noise from the street below almost made me drop the phone, my head snapped to the window. Upon inspection, two cars had collided – a large crunching noise that was audible even this far above. A red Astra had seemingly attempted to turn right out of the junction and had hit a silver Audi, smashing in the entire front wing. The damage looked quite bad.

A young man in a tracksuit and a baseball cap stepped out from the Astra, and a middle aged Asian guy wearing a grey suit emerged from the Audi to inspect the extent of the damage. Within seconds, the conversation had become very heated as the two men began to argue at the scene of the crash.

The ferocity of the argument increased dramatically as fingers started to point and voices became raised; it looked like these two guys were going to have a full on fist fight in the street. I quickly placed the phone to my ear.

"Sam, I'm really sorry, I need to go. I need to phone the police."

"What? Are you OK, Dad?"

"Yes, don't worry, son, I'm fine. Two cars have just crashed outside and I need to use the phone."

"Oh, alright, can we have pizza later? Ppppllllleeeeaaaassseeee?"

"OK, pizza it is then, I'll pick up our usual. I've got to go now, tell Mom I'll see you both when I get back. Love you."

"Love you too, Dad. Bye."

I placed the hand-set down to terminate the call and looked out of my window to the scene below. By now, another three men had arrived and the situation seemed much calmer. The drivers were standing about five feet apart and were writing on sheets of paper, presumably exchanging details for their insurance.

Two of the men that had arrived to the scene were on their mobile phones, and the third was stood between the group, keeping a watchful eye on everyone. Hopefully, some sort of recovery for the vehicles was being arranged.

With the situation diffused and more in control, my thoughts turned to the disruption caused and hoped that it would be clear by the time I left work; traffic would probably be backed up for hours due to the incident and getting home at a decent hour with food for the family would become another one of the days setbacks.

I look back to the two guys from the crash below who were now standing around, much calmer, and avoiding looking at each other.

Relief. Now the scene was under control, my thoughts turned to the behaviour of these two men. Modern society has created a dark side to human nature that I really hate. People full of angst and aggression, ready to resort to a fist fight in the middle of the street over something as trivial as a pranged car. Violence should never even be considered as the
last
resort; this is something that I always try to instil in my patients.

I hung up the phone and checked the time – two minutes to go until my last meeting. I cleared a little of the clutter from the surface of the desk into the drawers.

Clients don't need to see anything in the office that can distract them during their appointment. I stood up, straightened my tie and walked over to open the door into the waiting room.

Let’s get today over and done with.

My receptionist, Andrea, usually finishes at 17:30 pm, so her reception area was empty. A man was sat in the waiting room, reading one of the complimentary newspapers that we provide. Upon hearing me enter the room, he put the paper down and stood up to greet me.

"Leigh Thomas, I presume? Good evening, I'm Doctor Keane." I held out my hand which he shook with a firm grip. He was a fairly small man standing at about five and a half feet, a good five inches shorter than myself, and he had a small wiry frame. He had dark, thinning hair, cut in a buzz style with several days of thick black and grey stubble around his face and chin. I couldn't help but notice how captivating his brown eyes were, narrow and piercing, almost adding an untrusting, cruel expression to his face, something almost predatory. His skin was a dark olive colour and it would have been an easy mistake to assume that he was from somewhere European until he responded in a thick northern accent. "Good evening, Doctor Keane, it’s good to meet you."

Maintaining eye contact, I slightly nodded my head and said, "Please, come with me into my office."

I gestured for him to take a seat in one of the leather chairs in my office, ones I always reserved for the initial meeting with a client. Once seated, I took the chair next to him on his left. You are twice as likely to gain someone’s trust by sitting in this position.

I offered him a drink, he politely refused and took off his outside coat, placing it over the arm of the chair next to him.

In the initial meeting with a client, I don't like to make any written notes as it can cause them to become agitated or defensive. I only do this in following appointments once I have determined a course of action and development.

"So, Mr Thomas –"

"– Leigh," he interrupted. "So, is this the part where you want me to tell you about my parents?"

"You can tell me anything that you think is relative," I replied.

"Well, my dad was a heroin addict that used to steal from and abuse my mother. When time was required for old pops to get his next fix, he would often invite his mates round to have sex with her, more than one at a time if the price was right. Nothing was off limits. They got all up all sorts with her. I think, deep down, she used to like the attention.”

He took a deep breath outward and continued. “Eventually, she snapped, and at that point the old man died at the hands of my mother; she slit his throat while he slept one night, after one of his friends had left her beaten and unconscious on the living room floor. She was carted off to prison and I was put into care."

I raised an eyebrow, but didn't answer, unsure of how best to respond.

Suddenly, the man burst out laughing. "Come on, Doc, lighten up, I was only joking, just trying to break the ice you know? My folks are alive and well, they are retired and happily living in a little cottage in the Gloucestershire countryside."

Despite his admission of lying, his statement had made me extremely uncomfortable. I saw that glint in his cruel eyes, alive with mischief and deception. My experience of body language suggested a possible alternative; was he telling the truth?

I continued. "Leigh, the importance of honesty in these sessions is extremely crucial, you have to be able to trust me and I have to be able to trust you, anything that is said during our time together is completely confidential, there is no need for dishonesty."

"Totally confidential?" he asked. "Like, from the police?"

"I have a duty of care to my patients, so yes, even from the police. Have you done something illegal that you would like to talk to me about?"

Again, those brown eyes drew narrow, and the expression on his face turned to one of pure hatred. Not speaking, he slowly moved his head forwards until he was in my eye line and replied, "Yes, Doc, I've done many things. Many, evil and unspeakable things and I've never been caught!"

Panic immediately set in. My chest tightened and I had to regulate my breathing to try and stay calm, my palms immediately began to sweat and I couldn't swallow.

Still, I wanted to remain in control of the situation, he was the client. Although unnerved, I hoped that, once again, he would admit that it was a lie and we could continue, almost not believing what I was about to ask, to try and call his bluff.

"So what evil things have you done, would you like to share?"

A small smirk appeared on his face, enhancing his rat-like features. "Oh, I would like to share, Doc, where would you like me to start? Kidnap? Extortion?”

I stared directly into his eyes; they were unforgiving, expressionless. Although I didn't want to continue with this conversation, he was my client and I had taken an oath.

"Why don't you tell me everything?" I said to him calmly.

He leaned back in the chair, somewhat reducing the tension between us. He seemed to relax a little, which in turn made me a little more relaxed.

"Well, it started back in my home town of Grimsby. Prostitutes working down by the docks were easy to pick up. At the time, it just seemed easier to kill them once I had finished with them rather than pay them what was owed. Nobody would miss a filthy whore, half of them were illegal immigrants and weren’t meant to be in this country anyhow."

The way that he told his story was in such a calm, calculated manner that it almost seemed believable. The man was certainly a good liar. "So how did killing those prostitutes make you feel?" I pressed

"Feel? I felt nothing, absolutely nothing at all. In fact, if anything, I think I was doing those wretches a favour. The look on their faces as I strangled the life out of them said otherwise though. You've never seen a woman at their ugliest until they're dying at your hands."