The Facebook Killer (12 page)

Kalif put on the headphones and placed his
fake police ID next to the console in case anyone decided to
interrupt him. He heard the flat door unlock. Christ! The audio was
good. He turned down the volume.

“I’m dying for a slash.”

“You should’ve gone at the pub like me
Bro.”

He heard the toilet seat hit the cistern; the
lager hit the water in the bowl, even the sigh of relief. The flush
followed.

“Do you want some of this pizza bro?”

“No thanks, I’m gonna hit the sack. See you
tomorrow.”

Kalif could hear a click. Then another.

“What the fuck? Oi bro! What’s up with the
telly?”

“Don’t know it was ok before we went
out.”

He could hear the pizza being crunched and
slurped in silence. Five minutes later he heard the box hit the
floor joining it’s other abandoned friends, some water running,
doors banging and then silence. He switched the controller to
bedroom one. Snoring. The grinding of teeth. Bedroom two. The
rustle of clothes being taken off and discarded, drunken
murmurings, then bed springs, a duvet being pulled around and
kicked, then silence. He listened to bedroom two for eight minutes
before he heard the snoring begin. He sent the text message, “It’s
time I think. Your shopping’s under the sink.”

Three minutes later Kalif could hear the lock
being turned gently, the door catching the carpet as it opened ever
so slowly before closing again with the smallest of clicks.

Dmitri had been waiting patiently in the
24-hour café across the road from the flat. Serge had promised he
was the best of the best and that was why he cost so much. Plus the
fact that his Interpol arrest warrants had put him off air travel,
so he drove everywhere and to be here tonight he had travelled from
Latvia, as a special favour to Serge. Standing six feet seven
inches tall with a steroid-built body like a small mountain, Dmitri
was covered head to toe in tattoos. Self inflicted reminders of
time served in Eastern block prisons courtesy of the secret
police.

Military night vision goggles guided him
through the darkness to the kitchen. He recovered the “groceries”
from beneath the sink, immediately putting on the headset; he
tapped the small microphone three times.

“I hear you Dmitri. Can you hear me?”

He tapped once to confirm. Kalif could hear
furniture being quietly rearranged. He checked both bedrooms.
Snoring came from both transmitters.

“Dmitri, they are still asleep.”

Another tap came through the headphones.
Kalif could hear the lightbulb in the lounge being removed, the
plastic ring of the fitting being undone, screws squeaking as they
were being loosened then metal connecting to them before being
retightened. More rummaging in the rucksack. Then the quiet
rustling of plastic and clothes being moved. Then silence. Two
minutes of total silence. Kalif couldn’t even hear Dmitri breathing
anymore.

“Do you hear me?”

A tap on the microphone, followed by almost
inaudible footsteps. Another door creaked open. The snoring stopped
momentarily. A choking sound. Gasping. Then silence. Kalif’s heart
was pounding. He listened to the same sequence happen again. His
mobile buzzed. A text message. “The babies will sleep for half
hour.” Then the sound of a bed creaking and something hitting the
floor. A dragging noise. The door being kicked, no creeping about
this time. A chair creaked somewhere. The sound of duct tape being
ripped from the roll. Taping. Taping. A sound like a fist hitting
flesh. Then the same again, dragging, taping, and punching. Another
text. “Ready?”

“Ready.” replied Kalif.

As the effects of the chloroform wore off the
twins awoke to the nightmare vision of a naked, tattooed giant. A
cathedral on his back, his knees and one shoulder decorated with
stars, a rose and a cross on his chest. His clothes safely packaged
to avoid DNA evidence, his face hidden beneath a Hellraiser
mask.

They were taped to chairs, backs to each
other. Their ankles taped to the chair legs, their wrists taped to
the arms, their necks and foreheads taped together like Siamese
twins joined at the head. The electrical cable from the overhead
light had been stripped of it’s plastic insulation and the bare
copper wires stitched through the skin on the twins’ chests,
linking them together, each puncture wound still leaking blood. The
cables ran through a small black box before returning to the light
socket.

Dmitri had laid the tools of his trade out on
the couch. He picked each one up in turn and showed it to the twins
as he circled them.

“Now this can be very easy or very deadly,”
he smiled, “which one of you two is Brian Bridgewater?”

Neither replied. They just stared; eyes wide
open with terror, the effect of the chloroform and beers still
wearing off.

“The one from the bedroom by the front door
is twin “A”,” whispered Kalif.

“OK. You! Mr. A, as I’m gonna call you ‘til
you die. What is your name?”

The boy was starting to cry now. Shaking
slightly.

“Bridgewater,” he replied.

Dmitri hit the light switch; the searing pain
tore through their skin, chest and hearts as one. They convulsed in
their chairs, their backs arching, the veins in their necks and
arms bulging.

“Maybe you don’t understand my accent little
boy,” he leaned down to stare “A” in the eyes, “we are not playing
games here Tinkerbell. One of you two has to die tonight. I did not
drive one thousand miles to give you a striptease show. Now I will
ask you again, what is your name?”

“Bridgewater.” He yelped, closing his eyes.
The light switch was turned on again, for longer this time. Dmitri
could smell the faeces.

“Moving on to you Mr.“B”,” he whispered in
the microphone, “what is your name?”

“Fuck you!” came the reply.

“Dmitri, I need them to start answering some
questions. It’s not supposed to be like this. They‘re supposed to
be scared.” Kalif said.

“OK,” screamed the giant, “which one of you
two motherfuckers is Brian Bridgewater?”

Silence. Then the lightswitch. The
convulsions. The veins. No answer. Dmitri picked up a pair of
pliers. He peeled of some more duct tape and secured it across A’s
mouth.

“Now listen very carefully to me,” he told
“B”, “I am going to cut off all your brother’s fingers and toes
unless you tell me which one of you is Brian. Do you
understand?”

“B” closed his eyes and braced himself for
the lightswitch. He couldn’t see his brother but he could hear the
bones breaking, the smothered screams and the violent yanking on
his neck as he thrashed around in his chair. He heard the giant rip
the tape from his mouth.

“Are you ready to tell me now? Which one of
you is Brian?

“What the fuck is all this about?” sobbed “A”
with the ten broken fingers, “it’s about that drug debt to Marco,
ain’t it?”

“No, no little boy. This isn’t about drugs.
This is much more simple. Now let me ask you again. Which of you is
Brian?”

“We both are,” screamed “A”. His brother was
blubbering hysterically now. Tears mixing with saliva. Dmitri
punched him so hard that even Kalif jumped when he heard the
jawbone break. He retaped A’s mouth.

The giant started pacing the room, mumbling
something in his native language. He was agitated. He ripped off
his mask and for the first time the twins saw his face. A deep scar
ran from his forehead to his chin, a barbed wire tattoo sat like a
crown of thorns around his head. Dmitri went into the bathroom. The
twins could hear water running. He returned holding the mask,
dripping water like a severed head drips blood. He had a wild look
in his pale blue eyes. Picking up a pair of wirecutters, he began
to remove the back of the mask leaving just the face and scalp. “B”
watched him slice and rip in terror. The giant placed it onto the
twin’s face, patting it into place like a beauty treatment. “B” was
blowing; trying to jerk free from the mask, dreading whatever was
coming next.

Kalif heard the hiss of gas followed by the
flint of the lighter. Dmitri placed a stool in front of “B” and sat
down. At the sight of the blowtorch he started screaming his lungs
out. Dmitri calmly worked the blowtorch over the mouth of the
rubber mask, melting it to the boy’s lips and teeth. Then silence.
He waved the blue flame in front of his terrified eyes.

“Now, let me ask you one more time. Are you
Brian?” asked the giant quietly.

No response. Dmitri shook his head in
resignation. He waved the blowtorch back and forth in front of the
boy’s face.

“Did you know that the skin can be totally
removed from a man’s skull and he won’t die? No! Well I do, because
I have done it several times my little friend. But the pain. My
god, if someone did that to me I would want to die. I would beg God
Almighty to let me die.”

Still no response. Just two streaming little
brown eyes staring out from the Hellraiser mask.

“I will give you two minutes before you are
begging for your life.”

Dmitri started to “weld” the edges of the
rubber mask to the boy’s skin. Beginning under the chin, the stench
of burning flesh reminded him of home. He followed the edge up to
the scalp, studying his handiwork as he went. The hair melted back
into the skin before fusing with the rubber. The mask was inflating
and deflating as the twin fought for breath through his nose. Each
time little billows of acrid smoke puffed out of the eyeholes.

“Dmitri. What’s going on?” asked Kalif.

“We are just warming up my friend.”

He turned the blowtorch up to full and
started to waft it over the twin’s scalp. Blistering the skin and
rubber in unison. Heating the brain. The boy was shaking. Trying to
move. His brother following suit. Dmitri hit the lightswitch. The
convulsions. The veins.

“This is your last chance you little English
bastard,” he waved the blowtorch slowly in front of his eyes, “save
yourself my little friend. Just nod your head if I am correct. You
are not Brian, are you?”

Dmitri was nose to nose with the boy. Staring
into the eyeholes, waiting for the sign. “B” just closed his
eyes.

“Aaaagghh,” the giant grabbed the mask and
ripped it off his head, skin and lips still attached. He hit the
light switch again. Enraged, he turned it on an off. On and off.
Convulsions. Veins. Burned flesh. Faeces. Urine.

As Kalif listened the rage was way past
boiling point. He could hear them fry again and again as the light
switch was turned on and off. This was going nowhere, he
thought.

“Dmitri, they’re not going to talk, are
they?”

Two taps on the microphone meant no.

“OK. Change of plan. Take one of them into
the bedroom, take your tools with you and keep them both gagged.
I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Kalif was incensed. He sped out of the car
park and headed to 46 Grampian Avenue. She was reluctant to answer
the door at that time of night but after she had seen his police ID
and heard his explanation she got into the van. “Undercover,” he
explained as she glanced around the camper van.

He parked up in the pub car park again before
leading her by her hand to the dirty blue door.

“Come on keep up, he’s been badly hurt, we
have no time to waste.”

As she opened the flat door she stopped in
her tracks, a horrified gasp. She covered her mouth in revulsion.
She started shaking her head.

“Oh my God, who did this to you Michael?”

His eyes were almost bulging out of their
sockets as he tried to move his head. She was sobbing.

“OK Mrs. Bridgewater. I’ll take it from
here.”

“But where’s Brian. They live together you
know?”

Michael was almost breaking his neck now.
Trying to shake his head. Their mother opened the door of bedroom
number one before Kalif could stop her. The knife hammered into her
chest before the door was even halfway open. She fell forward,
hitting the floor with the full weight of her body, driving the
blade further in.

Kalif just stood and stared at her. He felt
nothing. No guilt. No remorse. He looked at her twins, one by one.
They looked like they were ready to explode with every emotion
possible. As their mother bled out on the floor Kalif turned to
Dmitri.

“The one in the bedroom is Brian. Make it
good and you might as well finish this one off as well while you’re
at it,” he paused, “ in fact I’ll give you a hand.”

Chapter 17

I made Kalif sleep in the
camper van that night. I couldn’t bear to see his face, let alone
have him in Laputa with me. In a way I was angry with him, the way
he’d just taken over. Disregarded the plan and decided to do
it
his
way. However
on the other hand I understood his principle and reasoning. The
whole family had seen his face and Dmitri’s. More poignantly they
had slaughtered an innocent mother and child. Just like Anna and
Laura had been. On the drive home Kalif had tried to justify his
actions, he called it divine retribution. I couldn’t help but
disagree with him but I could see his point.

The next day Albert picked his way through
the forest on the twenty-minute journey to the campsite. He was
going to make us something to eat in the van’s galley kitchen. I
had made myself a solemn promise that when this was eventually all
over I would never ever eat baked beans or tinned Spam again.

After a quick shower he decided to pay a
visit to the site’s bar, just to make his face shown.

“Oh, good afternoon Albert. How’s your census
going?” asked the landlady.

“Sorry?”

“Your census. The birdlife.”

“Oh yes. Fine. A lot of work though. Some of
those little buggers keep strange hours, believe me.”