Perfect Death. Helen FieldsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Lily’s life was very nearly over, it was just that she didn’t know it yet. He stroked the photograph of her he’d kept by his bed for the last few months. In it, she was bending over the edge of a pond, throwing bread for ducks, laughing, entirely unaware of her stunted future.

      Much remained to be done before the evening, but he could allow himself a few moments with his box of treasures. He pulled the bottom drawer from his bedside table, putting his hands into the dark void beneath to grip the wooden container. He’d made it in woodwork at school – one of the few triumphs in a largely wasted period of his life – but then he’d moved around a lot, and academics had never come easily.

      Sliding the lid off, he caught his breath looking at the scraps of lives contained within. A brooch, inlaid with semi-precious stones, in the shape of a sprig of heather. He remembered the back-breaking hours of gardening he’d had to do for that one, never allowed a rest to avoid the rain, yet it had been worth it in the end. Then there was the tiny silver letter opener, so well used and well loved that part of the swirling design on its handle had been worn away. A lucky coin, or so its owner had claimed, kept always in a pocket or a purse. Just went to prove there was no such thing as good luck. Finally, a tooth. More specifically a crown, dislodged in the torment and drama of those final moments when nothing had gone to plan. He liked the smoothness of its surface, the integral part it had played in the life he’d ended. Where did a body’s energy go once death was complete? He thought back to his school days once more. There had been something about energy changing form but never ceasing to exist. Not enough knowledge to have passed a science exam, but he was pleased with the tiny pearl of wisdom. He wondered if it was possible to breathe a dying person’s energy in.

      Making a small space in the centre of the objects in his box, he imagined a new prize there. Its owner had taken more time to cultivate than the rest. Lily kept herself to herself, enjoyed family life, and worked hard. Soon he would have his memento of her, ready to savour among the others he’d worked so hard for.

      He checked the tiny vial of cannabis oil he’d spent weeks brewing. Buying small quantities here and there rather than risking scrutiny for purchasing a massive amount in one go had been time consuming but worthwhile. Most of the process after that had been easy, snagging only when he’d tested it on himself and ended up sleeping so deeply that he’d missed work the next day. Not good. He had expenses. Such a complex calling required careful financing, and cash in hand jobs were in short supply.

      Sliding the box back beneath the drawer space, he ran through the details once more in his head. His car was ready. All the lights were working – no point attracting attention from the police over something as ridiculous as a blown bulb. Everything had been handled with gloves. All his supplies. There wasn’t one item touched freely. He’d watched enough true crime television to know that these days fingerprints weren’t the issue. Skin cells could leave enough DNA to make a case against him. He didn’t want to get caught. There was so much to do. So many more people that needed his attention.

      All ready. He could even afford the time for a nap. Better not to be tired given all he had to do. Not just the physical aspects. Killing was hard work. Anyone who believed a human being perished in the few seconds portrayed in TV crime dramas was an idiot. Death, more often than not, was a slow striptease of a show. There were ways it could be done fast – gunshot, explosion, massive head trauma – but hands on, it inevitably took longer. Suffocation and drowning were the real time-heavy activities, and chances were that you’d end up injured yourself. Scratches, groin kicks, broken bones. He’d had enough of that.

      Lying back on his bed, he closed his eyes. The anticipation was all a part of it. Rushing to the end point was like reading the final chapter of a book first. It was the build-up, the investment in the characters, that made the pay-off so thrilling. In the past he’d struggled to find the ideal victims, and now three had come along at once. He laughed. It was a brutal choke of a noise that exploded in the air like a firecracker. It was a cruel sound, but he wasn’t a cruel man. Not unnecessarily. Only when cruelty was absolutely required.