The man who was

Instinct; it's the only thing that kept him alive for this long. It told him when to abandon the job and when to pull the trigger. It had saved his life numerous times, so why didn't it warn him this night?

Never keep a routine, never be predictable:  that was a sign of carelessness, and even after five years of anonomised retirement those were two rules he still lived by. The only thing he did which was even remotely relatable was buy himself a dog. Bill was a bulldog that had seen better days, but then so had he. There was a mutual dislike at first sight which grew to respect and then to loyalty. He took a lot of training and it was his guess that whoever had owned Bill before had lacked the discipline.

Walking Bill was one of the few concessions he allowed himself; it gave him a sense of enjoyment and he'd also spent a long time learning from Bill. Although his sense of smell was nowhere as acute as the dog's he was surprised at how much he could now pick up for himself.

Walking Bill also gave him the chance to reconnoitre the area. Bill needed a good long walk which suited him fine, so he took a different quarter at a time. He varied the times that he left for the walk, varied his routes and speed of pace as well as the duration of the walk.

He possessed a photographic memory and noted everything that was happening in the neighbourhood. He bought every local newspaper to keep up to date on any crimes -anything that could be used if eventualities permitted.

He had to be ready for anything and he thought that he was. He'd honed his skills, but had he, in fact, become sloppy? What else could have explained what happened next?

He was going to take route Q2P24 but changed his mind at the last minute. He was getting sentimental in his old age – there were some woods near his house and a family of badgers had recently made it their own. Course, Bill would have to be kept on a leash but everyone needs to be reined in once in a while.

It was getting dark but there were still good visibility and the leaves on the woodland floor acted as an effective early warning system. Bill was enjoying himself, lots of scent trails to engage him but he kept looking up at the man in an attempt to coerce him into letting go of the leash. “Not a chance.” the man thought. Bill resided himself to take a piss instead.

The hand holding the leash exploded in crimson and bone before he even heard the crack of the shot. Even with the suppressor the sound was still deafening in the dusk.

He didn't think about the pain, didn't even think about Bill or how someone had managed to sneak up on him, he dived out of the way as the next three bullets thudded in to the ground where he had been standing.

The shot that killed Bill was more of an afterthought, perhaps calculated to enrage him so he'd make a mistake. But the man who was Quicksilver didn't make mistakes -up until now. There was nothing he could do for Bill -the moment the first shot had been fired he only had thoughts for one thing, his own survival and nothing had changed.

He checked his surroundings; lucky old man, he'd leapt into a bracken thicket which gave him more than enough cover. The light had dimmed to a murky grey which made it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front. He just hoped that whoever it was didn't possess an infrared sight or goggles. The fact that he was still alive was perhaps proof that they didn't. Either that or he was being toyed with,

He had to assess the situation, work on the supposition that there were no infrared sights in the equation, otherwise he might not make the night.

Carefully he checked his right hand. The last three fingers had been almost completely shot off and his index finger had a chunk taken out of it. Blood was throbbing out of the stumps. Not great and without medical attention he could die but for the time being he had to make a temporary tourniquet. He took the cotton handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, found two sturdy twigs to splint the mess together and bound his hand up the best he could. It would do -he would survive though... but it had been Bill's weak bladder that had saved him.

There had been no trace of anyone remotely near them -he would've sensed them, surely. The gunman had used four bullets already but there was no telling how many spare clips he held. He was far from unarmed though, always carrying his piece with him. The Glock was fairly unobtrusive and more than enough to do the trick, but he was disadvantaged by having to shoot left-handed, but there was no way that anyone could sneak up on him now. They couldn't see more than a few feet in front of them so they'd have to come in close for a kill. Either that or they'd wait him out -allow him to make the first move and pick him off at their leisure. The third option was that they'd given him up for a lost cause, but that was a risk that he couldn't afford to make. If he could last the night then he would make sure that someone paid.

With practice and will power one can accomplish anything. Lying absolutely still upon damp woodland as the temperature drops whilst all manner of bugs and creeping things snack on your blood is just such a skill, made even easier when the threat of death is the only other alternative, he thought.

For all he knew, he was completely alone in the woods; the would-be assassin long gone but it was obvious that this guy was a professional, and even though he could see shit out there it would still be possible to be picked off by sound alone. One would only have to get the general vicinity and then human psychology would do the rest. He couldn't take the risk, he'd have to wait until daybreak; at least then he might have more of a fighting chance.

His fingers throbbed sickeningly. He'd been injured worse than this, for sure, so he wasn't worried, but this was his dominant hand. Shooting left-handed wouldn't normally be too much of an encumbrance, but with this person he needed every edge he could muster. He had to ignore the pain and concentrate on what he knew and what he could surmise.

This person was good; a professional. It would be pointless to guess at their identity or even their gender. In his time he'd known too many female assassins, playing on their obvious assets to get the job done -disguising the fact that they were just as deadly, if not more so, than their male counterparts. He'd almost been caught out twice himself in the early days. The second time had almost been his demise but she had stupidly let her guard down and had paid the price.

Was that it – revenge? Never underestimate the half-life of revenge. It goes dormant, waiting for the right time to strike. It's more dangerous once the triggering emotions die down and then cold hard logic seeps in. That's how some people became contract killers in the first place -the kill; that feeling of release takes over from the initial desire for revenge, and, like any drug, the first hit is always the sweetest. It takes many more hits to get that initial pay off and then you're hooked.

But it hadn't been that way for him though.

The man had no qualms and no illusions about why he'd become a killer. He was good at it. He had morality and knew the difference between right and wrong, but he just didn't let it get in the way of his job. He tried to think about all the people who could've called out such a hit and it didn't take him long to run down the list of potential suspects -they were all dead. He'd made certain of that before he retired.

Very few people had known of his true identity; the only people to connect his alias with his face were his targets and they never told. He had always prided himself on his anonymity, always dealing through proxy addresses and dummy names. He'd had enough sense to study acting as well, and could disguise himself when necessary; nor had he allowed himself to get too close to anyone.

He was cold, ruthless and efficient and that was how he lasted for so long. No emotional attachments.

The hours had crawled by and the sun was starting to rise. He felt that the time had come for him to make a decision. Was he going to move now or wait a bit longer? There was a mist issuing forth from the ground which could provide him with an extra edge if he used it correctly. In another hour the light would be stronger and he would stand out like the Pope in a whore house. The trick would be in getting up slowly so that he disturbed as little of the undergrowth as possible -the mist would make it harder for anyone to get a bead on him.

He could feel the cold damp cramp protest as he edged himself up. The temptation was to make a run for it but the noise would alert anyone in the vicinity, so it took him five minutes to stand upright and inch himself back on to the path. There was Bill still lying where he'd been shot -at least it had been a clean kill. Damn, Bill had been the one luxury, the one sentimental chink in his armour; well, that would learn him (if he got a second chance).

Even when he was walking back to his house he took it slow, tried to make himself as casual as possible, even going so far as to walk slightly hunched over, with a limp, so his silhouette didn't look like him.

He was conscious of every movement around him; every noise, no matter how small. Even when he got to his front door he still wouldn't allow himself to relax; that had been the biggest mistake of his; he had grown complacent and had almost paid the price for it.

Now it was somebody else's turn to pay.

He bathed and tended his hand as best he could. He couldn't afford to waste time at a hospital but allowed himself a few hours’ sleep. He had learned to switch off; a skill that had served him well and led to many nights rest. Too many people could not switch off and they either went mad or got sloppy.

But it was when he woke that the questions really started. Two really: Who had tried to kill him and who had called in the hit? Both were hard to figure. He had not kept any contacts to his old life so didn't know who was still operating. They were good, maybe even as good as he used to be. True, they had missed, but could that have been deliberate? Was this part of a psychological vendetta? To make him paranoid before killing him?

He despised that approach; he didn't want to think of people unduly suffering; his kills were always quick and clean. So who was alive that could have called it in? No one to his knowledge and he'd certainly not made any waves in his new life to prompt anyone to go down such a route. A hitman was a very costly vendetta -extortionate, actually. It wasn't that a human life was expensive, but making it look like an accident or making it untraceable was difficult. Killing someone was the easy part. No one he knew could afford that kind of money surely?

He had three choices as he saw it. One: Run. He could easily disappear again. He'd left a fake trail that no one could follow. No one had managed to trace him back to his old life so he could do it again.

Two: Ignore it. There was the slightest possibility that he had been mistaken for somebody else. It had been known, bizarrely enough.... but that was the kind of thinking that would lead to his death.

The only option that was left to him was to find out who was responsible. That meant taking his life apart person by person. There were two people who thought that they were close to him, and one person at work who had proven to be a trouble maker; so it was with them that he would start.

This was going to be a nasty process, one that there was no going back from and he had to be prepared to go all the way. There was no resurrecting his cover from this; once it was over he would have to start again... but he had to be sure.

The key to any hit was detail. One had to know everything about the target, down to the last detail: it was all relevant. The man had been an excellent researcher in his time and he'd lost none of that skill. He'd managed to develop detailed background checks on all his so called friends -call it paranoia, but it was another of the reasons he was still alive.

He'd worked at the same firm for five years now and had managed to stay firmly in the background. He was a financial advisor and neither over-performed nor missed his targets. He knew enough about psychology to be an effective salesman without being too pushy. His clients trusted him and saw him as a straight shooter (one lady had actually called him that, drawing a thin ironic smile from him.).

Most of his work colleagues paid little notice of him, all except one: Simon Jimson. Simon was a Welshman of no mean repute; he was one of the top sellers and could net women with the same skills. He seemed to take an interest in the man's affairs from almost the first month; on the first training session he made jokes about other forms of retirement, something that seemed deliberately aimed at him.

Simon was way too popular to be made an example of ; too many questions would be raised if he was found dead. He couldn't afford that kind of heat, so it was far better to avoid him, which wasn't that difficult as they lived over 200 miles apart and only met up three times a year. But now was the time for answers. Simon seemed to know something and there was going to be no fucking about now.

It was a four hour trip to get to Simon's house, and it took another hour to ensure that he was alone, but the first shot had been worth it; he took a perverse pleasure from it.

The knock on the door had led to a surprised look on Simon's face, quickly followed by horror as two rounds of suppressed gun fire tore chunks out of his left leg. The man pushed Simon as he fell and closed the door swiftly behind him -the whole thing had taken less than a minute.

“You know who I am.. or at least, what I am.” He said quietly. Simon had managed to keep himself from screaming from the pain but could only spasmodically nod. “How?”

“Conspiracies...  I'm into conspiracies... followed your career for years.”

“Again, how? I've been careful.”

“Too... too careful.” Simon replied, sweating profusely now. “Your M.O. was too perfect, you took no risks. Your nickname was the Immaculate Conception, believe...believe it or not.. because every job you took was immaculate. There's a whole sub-culture of us who are into contract killers as others are into... trains... We swap statistics like top-trumps.”

“I'm not a fucking card game, Simon -someone took a shot at me and I want to know who.”

Horror was quickly followed by disbelief on his face as Simon understood what was happening.

“But who could take you? You think... you think it's me?”

“Who.... have... you.. told?”

“Swear.. I swear. I've told no one.” The man bent over and pushed his gun into the wounds on Simon's leg. Simon screamed.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Ran background check on you... was too good.”

“Why?”

“Like to know who my competitors are – good salesmanship.”

“Go on.”

“You'd taken such pains to make out that you were an average person... but you.. you're not. Nothing about you is average. You're always aware, your body mannerisms; it's like your hunting. Your KPI's are always just right -oh, you play the odds but it's obvious that you're capable of so much more. I had suspicions right from the start and … built up from there.”

The man smiled despite himself -this womanising, washed-up Welshman had done what he thought impossible and in any other circumstances he might even have admired him.

“Who else have you told?” He prodded the wound again.

“Fuck you! Who would have believed me? I'm a good salesman, but not that good!”

Simon had a point; he was a blabbermouth but knew how to keep the important stuff secret. If he had spoken to anyone before then the attack would've happened far sooner.

“It's your lucky day, Simon.”

“You going to let me go?”

“No, you're going to be taken out by the Immaculate Conception -out of retirement for the last time. You were right after all.” The bullet was swift; no point in inflicting any further pain, that wasn't his style.

On the drive home he was cursing. How had he been found out? Had he been that sloppy in his life? By being so cautious had he really created another M.O. (Something that he had tried so desperately to avoid.) He was confident that Simon hadn't told anyone else, but if he had figured it out.... He only had two places left to visit but he had to make it quick -luckily it was now Sunday morning so surprise was on his side.

Part of him didn't want to go through with this -it meant killing two people he almost cared about. His partner and is 'best friend'.

He'd met Louise in a bar in his first week. He'd visited it to get a feel for the locals, not to enter into a relationship with anyone, but she had made it too easy. Five years had passed like months and he had almost trusted her enough to move in together. She was sweet and gullible and just wanted to believe the best about people; she swallowed his lies easily.

She wasn't at home when he called, so he broke in using the key he copied from when they first met up. It looked like she had been gone the whole weekend, but where? She hadn't spoken about making any plans.

Then a note on her calendar for Saturday and Sunday: Matthew and a smiley face. That bitch! He couldn't believe that she would do such a thing. Matthew was supposed to be best friends with him. Well, no matter -it was all going to be over anyway and this way would be much quicker.

It was a short drive and easy enough to break into Matthews flat and, and as he thought, they were still in bed together; it was almost touching.

He had to be careful, too much noise would alert the neighbours. He had a roll of duct tape and some cable ties with him from the car. They were both lying on their backs which made things slightly easier. He quickly rolled out a long strip and leapt on to the bed, fastening the tape to their mouths in one swift motion.

When Matthew awoke he gasped soundlessly and the man swiftly elbowed him in the stomach before cutting the tape between them and pinned Matthew to the bed. Louise was awake now but too scared to move so he could roll her onto her front and secure the cable tie to her wrists before moving back to Matthew.

When the ties were firm he ripped the tape from Matthews mouth in one swift motion nearly taking the skin from his lips.

“Do you know who I am?” He hissed.

“You fucking kidding me? I knew you'd find out eventually.”

“Find out what?”

“About us? What do you think? I said that we were taking too many risks but she said nooooo -you know what I think? I think she wanted you to find out. Well, congratulations, bitch -he found out!” The man slammed his fist into Matthews nose before securing another swathe of tape across his mouth and nose.

He pulled Louise off the bed and dragged her into the bathroom whilst Matthew struggled to breathe. Once she was inside he turned back into the bedroom and looked at the panicking body. “You should've treated her better.” He said before shooting Matthew through the heart.

Back in the bathroom Louise had managed to wake up from her stupor and tried to scream when he walked in, shutting the door casually behind him. She stood by the toilet, trapped and cowering. She looked so vulnerable that a small part of him wanted to just hold her, but that could never happen again. He thought of Matthew and just lashed out, slamming her into the bath, her head hitting the wall, knocking her cold. He relieved himself in the toilet whilst pondering what to do.

He didn't want to overly hurt her but equally he needed to know what she knew. Basely, he also wanted to know why she cheated on him; for some reason it mattered to him.

The cold water woke her up but he splashed two more cup full's on her to make sure. When she calmed down enough he talked to her.

“Do you know who I am? Who I really am?” She shook her head, terrified. “Talk to me!” He shouted.

“No.. No, I don't.. I swear.”

“Have you ever spoken to Simon?”

“The Welsh twat? No.. why should I? Why would I talk to him?”

She was right, there was no reason but he had to be sure. He took the pair of scissors that sat on the vanity shelf and pondered using them.

Her eyes followed his and seemed to immediately understand. A thin trickle of liquid ran down her leg. He needed no further proof and sighed. But if not her, then who? Who knew so much about him? He turned to leave. He knew that he had to kill her but couldn't; but equally he needed to know why she'd cheated on him.

“Why him, Louise? Why Matthew?” She looked at him firmly now, free of fear and all meekness gone.

“He's everything you're not: caring, understanding. Do you ever really see me? See what's become of me? You care nothing about no one; nothing touches you. You're nothing but a cold blooded machine – a nothing!” A single bullet stopped her, he couldn't bare to hear any more; and what was worse was... she was right.

Back at home.. but home no longer. People would come looking for him now, police. He had to be gone, as far away as he could manage. It would take less than ten minutes to pack and erase his presence from the place. He always kept emergency suitcases for just this eventuality.

When he'd finished and wiped his fingerprints from everything he found a piece of paper sticking out of his letterbox. Two words, in familiar handwriting that he just couldn't place.

“Nymans 10pm.”

Nymans Gardens was a National Trust property on the outskirts of town where he'd taken Bill for many walks; he knew the place well. Tonight was different though, he needed answers. He'd hid in the woods during closing time and at nine he started prowling the grounds. There had been no specified place to meet so this was to be a showdown... well, he was going to be ready.

He took the path that led straight to the house; two tall hedges stood either side making a narrow corridor. He hugged the left side and made himself as small a target as he could. He had perfect visibility as the assailant could only attack from the front or the rear and he was on a hair trigger. The house was in front, and behind were simply fields, there was no chance of a surprise attack.

The spotlight blinded him, forcing him from the shadows. It could only have come from the house but made it impossible for him to see anything. He never even heard the first shot but felt it enter his naval. By the time the second shot found its mark he was already falling and he hit the ground dead, as he always was.

The Death of Dating?

This was so simple, he thought to himself and it was a wonder that no one had ever thought of it before. Manson, Bundy.. even that Russian cannibal bloke… all of them had a hard time picking their victims and disposing of them. For Clive Cleaver it was as simple as 1,2,3; with speed dating it was as easy as plucking fruit from a tree.

He'd created a number of aliases and identities using the internet and avatars and most of the speed dating companies were very lax when it came to doing background checks,all they wanted was the money; and provided the individual was well behaved and inconspicuous they would get invited back again.

Clive had been doing this now for quite a few months and traveled the country with his day job and used the 'net to research where the local speed dating hubs were. He was very particular about his prey and made sure that didn't kill every time the urge took him.

The police had already been wise enough to pick up on the connection between the speed dating sites but he had been so meticulous in his preparations and considered himself a master of disguise -willing to shave his head if necessary, or even gain pounds to change his visible features. Robert de Niro had nothing on him.

He took his time with his victims, ensured they were the right type of self-obsessed, narcissistic bimbo before following them home and editing them out of the gene-pool. He always followed them out of disguise, that way they could never link him to the speed dating if anything went awry.

There was another reason – it was more intimate, that they should see his real countenance before they died.

Through his research and, thanks to the internet, there were very few locks that he couldn't pick (his flat contained the largest collection of locks in the South East. Each time a new model was released he would buy it and within a week he'd learnt how to pick it.)

Once inside he would quietly find the woman asleep and render her immobile with a form of anesthetic which he had concocted himself.

In daylight he was a drug-representative for a new form of anesthetic and a self-confessed expert on working out the right dosage for each victim. The anesthetic combined the ability to completely numb the patient whilst keeping them wide awake. It was pioneering and truly remarkable to watch; and, the most amazing property for Clive, within hours there was no trace of it in the bloodstream. It was still “untested” but he was responsible for finding potential markets for it.

When his company stumbled upon this wonder drug Clive was overjoyed as well for it finally gave him the greenlight to start the killings. Up until then he had done all the preparations, spent hour after hour on the locks, reading up on psychology and finding out how the other serial killers had screwed up; brushing up on his stalking techniques and then his surgical knowledge -he wanted to enjoy his encounters as much as possible. The anesthetic meant that they wouldn't die from the pain or shock so it would just be the blood loss that could upset things.

Again, the 'net provided a lot of textbooks on torture techniques -both psychological and physical; and he knew enough to change his M.O. after every encounter. Some attacks were focused on the sexual organs, others on the face and hands. Each type would be seen differently by the forensic psychologists who would try to create a profile on him.

Some places he would burgle (and give the stuff to a local charity) others he would completely trash afterwards -always being careful not to leave trace evidence behind.

He had almost reached double figures and the police were no closer to catching him; not even realising that there was a “him” to catch: Police in Scotland rarely contacted those in Sussex, and there wasn't much to connect the two any way.

One time Clive wanted to kill a couple of men, just to really muddy the waters but couldn't bring himself to do it initially. Then, after the thirteenth victim, he felt that he needed to. He was becoming frustrated that the game was becoming too easy, he needed to take his frustration out on someone.

He went to a gay club where they held a speed dating group and stayed for as long as he could stomach it. He had been working out and was confident about the way he looked but hadn't counted upon being sized up immediately upon walking in to the club.. He felt completely out of his comfort zone and so was a lot quieter than normal which made him more attractive to some of the men and worked in his favor. It was child's play finding the right man in that group.

There was one, Toby, who was just the wrong side of camp and pushed all of Clive's buttons and made him the number one target.

Upon breaking into Toby's apartment Clive was shocked to see him not only awake but fucking another one of the speed-daters; neither noticed Clive staring at them. When Toby finally saw him it was too late for them both.

There was no time for Clive to drug them and he could only grab at whatever was at hand -a large lump of amethyst crystal. He lept at the conjoined men, ferociously slamming the crystal shard on their heads time after time after time. It was the only time that Clive had lost control of himself and even he was repulsed by his actions; it took him hours to clean the bedroom up.

He had severely jepordised his future with that particular piece of indulging and vowed that he would go to ground for at least a couple of months. He was not, in his own mind, a true psychopath. It was relatively easy for him to stop -just until the heat had died down some and then he would be able to reap again.

He was alright now, though, and had regained his composure and the true need was upon him. He was in a new town where no one knew him and he could choose his next victim in a relaxed fashion. He'd done his homework and picked the venue that he'd be visiting.

He arrived early to watch the rest of the cattle filter in. More than ever it was important to weed out the time wasters. Speed dating was becoming a team sport with girls going together, already with boyfriends, on a cheap night out. He despised them and so desperately wanted to make an example of them -maybe one day…

There were the same bland stereotypes like the self-pitying blubber monsters who let their obesity count as character and dominated the conversation with their inadequacies. There were the vain, insular tarts that demanded to be entertained and only went out with those with sparkling smiles and shit for brains.

There were even a few genuine women who really wanted to meet someone and Clive wished them luck -perversely he had no problem with them- however he equally knew that ultimately they would end up alone, washed up and forgotten; being genuine counted for nothing these days.

Then out of the corner of his eye he saw her… yes, she was perfect! Auburn hair tinged with red, stark blue eyes but with lush inviting lips. She had a great pair of breasts as well and her top was canny -it both hid and accentuated them at the same time, captivating, and she knew exactly what she was doing as well. She was coy and flattering, obviously playing her own game. He knew that she was the one and he was going to have fun tonight!

“So, what is it that you are, Jack?” She asked, putting him instantly off guard. He liked her immensely, it was a shame he was going to kill her.

“Just a normal red blooded male – you've probably had your fill of them already!”

“It takes a lot to fill me up, Jack. Think you've got what it takes?”

“I would say that I'll give it the old college try but I'm the type to leave someone wanting more.”

“There's no harm in trying though.. you know? I tell you what… I'd kill for a diet coke. Would you be a lamb and get one for me?”

This as too easy, he thought. Was it worth making an exception and go home with her? His disguise was perfect as he'd dyed his hair black and really slicked it down. The glasses added that bit of Christopher Reeve kitsch but also provided that memorable detail that eye-witnesses would use to misidentify him by,

He walked up to the bartender and ordered the two drinks. As the barman served him he said, “be careful if I were you, matey.”

“Huh?” was all he could say, taken by surprise by the sudden conversation.

“You're going out with VD, mate?”

“VD? You mean she's got an STD or something?”

“Nah, she was given that name by a graduate who barely got out with his life -if you know what I mean. He called her Vagina Dente as she was a bit of a man eater.. you might not be so lucky to get a second chance, mate.”

“Sounds like my kind of woman then.” Clive said in an accent that wasn't his own.

“Well.. you can only warn a fella once… good luck.”

Walking back to the woman he placed the drink in front of her and sat down. There was a ten minute break inbetween rounds and accepting the drink the woman smiled and said, “by the way, my name's Jean. I got so carried away with the banter that I forgot to say.” She downed the drink before he had a chance to reply and got up. “Want to blow this joint?”

Clive could only nod. This was going to be easier than he thought!

He insisted on driving her back home, even though she only lived minutes away. As they walked out of the pub the barman shook his head in dismay.

Clive was a little concerned that she lived so close and that his car would be spotted, but it could easily be disposed of afterwards and besides, it could only be linked to his current disguise and alias.

On the way to her place he was trying to figure out the angles; he had the syringe in his pocket but couldn't figure out the best way to administer it, or even the best time.

The question really was: could he afford to have a bit of fun with her? There was something… arousing about her, as well as distasteful… Did he dare to let himself go again?

Yes, it felt good last time and she was all for letting it all hang out, after all. Yes, he would excuse himself and go to the bathroom where she was bound to have some kind of razor blade -if only to shave her legs. He'd read about the way that prisoners could jury rig a weapon out of household items: stick some razor blades in a cake of soap and you had something potentially lethal, especially if you had surprise on your side.

It was difficult to gauge the right time though. The barman was right, she was insatiable and she seemed to suck the very life out of him, her kisses were long and demanding and she knew exactly how to tease him.

Eventually he managed to gain the willpower to go for a quick slash. She seemed disappointed but there was also a glint in her eye.

Just as he pictured it, the bathroom cabinet had a razor-blades and it was child's play to strip them apart and in-bed them into her cake of soap. How thoughtful she was to even have it on a rope; now he had a long range weapon. He grinned at himself in the mirror as he thoughtfully pulled the chain.

Walking out of the bathroom he was surprised to find her no longer in the living room. “I'm in the bedroom, lover boy.” She said seductively.

“I'm coming… with a nice surprise...” he replied and almost laughed when she said, “Me too...”

Her bedroom was candlelit and smelt a little like lemon Jiff, an odd combination. He couldn't see her as he entered and barely ducked in time before the hammer came from out of nowhere.

She must have been standing behind the door, waiting for him. He whirled around, swinging the soap out hard and he could feel when it sliced through the flesh on her flank. She squeeled in delight.

“Ooh, what a naughty boy you are… this is shaping up to be the most perfect night!”

He stepped back to look at her now. She was now lying on the bed, the light from the hall creating a breathtaking silhouette. She was still holding the club hammer in her left hand, her right touching her side where the razors had scored her. She put the bloodied fingers to her lips and sucked on them. “I think I'm in love.” she said.

She let go of the hammer and before he had the chance to steady himself she launched herself at him, entwining his limbs with her own so they would fall on the bed together. She ripped his clothes off as if they were made of paper.

Just go with it, thought Clive, if she wanted me dead then it would've been all over by now.

There were screams that night, but they were of pent up passion, release and ecstasy. Was it possible that Clive had finally met his serial soul mate?

For a time Clive believed himself to be in heaven. Finally he had found someone he could be his true self with; someone who not only empathised with his predicament but also enjoyed the same things!

It was the details that no one else understood: the pitiful look of surrender when the victim realised that there was no hope of survival; it was like a light draining from their eyes. Clive liked breaking people, the stronger the person the longer it would take to break them and the more satisfying it was when it finally happened and Jean got the same kick out of it!

After the marathon love making that happened after their first date they spent hours talking and comparing notes.

Jean hadn't killed as many as Clive but she had been more selective as she didn't travel much; however she had started killing when she was much younger.

She had gone out with her little brother for a walk when she was twelve and he had been annoying her, holding her hand and being clingy when she didn't want him to. He was only six at the time and adored her. Jean wanted a kitten.

It was almost supper time and it was getting dark, the rain was scaring her brother and he was screaming at her to make it stop. In retrospect Jean realised that he had some form of condition but she had had enough; it was a busy road and she was really careful to push him when no one else was paying attention. The driver hadn't twigged what had happened until Jean screamed; then there came the sickening thud.

“I should've won an Oscar that day.” Jean said to Clive, “no one suspected a thing.” Deep inside she was surprised about how easy it had been. No one ever suspected her and what was even better, she got a new kitten as a reward for being so brave.

She felt cheated though, the kill had been far too quick; she wanted to enjoy the next one… so she planned and took her time.

She found an abandoned building that no one would ever dream to visit in a disused part of the local industrial estate. She then took time to find the perfect victim and as luck would have it there was another child with a similar condition that her brother had. Everybody picked on the boy but Jean went out of her way to be nice to him. The teachers all saw it as her adopting him as a surrogate brother, and in a way they were right.

It took a long time for the boy to trust her, but it was well worth it. Eventually she led him to the building and managed to tie him to a chair; her knots were exquisite, even at that age. The building even had a basement which was even better for her needs.

Due to the nature of the boys condition it made the pain even more exquisite for her and more than made up for the sudden death of her brother. She could take her time.

It took almost a week for him to die. His parents were frantic and Jean did everything she could to act the grief stricken sister and no one ever suspected a thing.

His torture was slow and precise and she explored every avenue of her own psyche; she was nearly fifteen and had a healthy sexual curiosity as well. They boy helped answer many questions before he died.

When she was finished she moved the body to a more conspicuous location. There was a derelict wastrel who was known to frequent the industrial estate; some people said that he was a pervert, a released sex-offender and it was childs play to make him the foil for the crime. She made sure that there was no evidence to connect her to the boy and found a way to inform the police that there was a man sneaking around wearing the missing boys jumper. The police were more than obliging to create an air tight case against the tramp as there were no other leads.

That kept Jean satisfied for years… in the interim, before she met Clive, she had only killed three times. All of them were on the spectrum, which was ironic as she was now a care worker for a charity!

Clive understood the dichotomy and loved her for it. He understood the murderous impulse and saw it for it was. Some people drank, others took drugs just to deaden the pain. Others might use the pain to become artists or actors; some even became sporty and used the pain to fuel them. Jean and Clive gave into the pain and transferred it on to others, shared its lessons with others so they could learn from it.

For a while neither of them killed. For whole months and Clive didn't miss it. He had Jean and when the urge took him they would fuck like wild beasts until he could no longer feel it.

As the months progressed further though he would catch flashes if gouging out eyes, snapping her neck mid-coitus and the sex no longer satisfied him in that way. Rather than bottle it up he actually told her about it; after all, she would understand.

And she did. More than he ever dreamed. She suggested that they actually have a threesome -they would actually kill together. God, how much did he love her at that point in time? There was only one proviso; no children. He drew the line at killing kids, and she was ok with that as well.

Because of her contacts Jean was able to liberate a lady from one of the rival care homes; where the security was lax. She carried enough authority with her that she was never questioned even when they walked out the door together.

The first kill together was a peak for Clive, a peak of sustained pleasure for him and absolute agony for the woman. By the time they had finished the corpse was barely recognisable as human.

Now role-play became an active element in their lovemaking sessions as they tried to re-live the event but soon even that felt wrong.

Clive felt as if his will was starting to get sucked out, so slowly he didn't notice it at first. They were now living together (and how had that happened) and had been for some months. Even though she had a much bigger house most of his stuff was still in boxes and at first he hadn't minded.

Something was missing and it took a while for it to trickle through -he missed the thrill of the hunt. With Jean everything was planned meticulously, well planned and clinical. She very rarely let her urges take her (you were the exception, she said time and time again -I wanted you so badly I didn't know what else to do) and it really took the passion out of it for him. He loved the thrill of the hunt, like in the speed dating circus, the lock picking -it all added to the excitement.

And it wasn't long before he gave in to the urges and then it was only a matter of time until she found out.

“You've been seeing other people!” It was so predictable, she just couldn't let him be! He accused her of making it all up, it as all part of her paranoia. “Paranoia?” She'd shout back. “That certainly wasn't lipstick on your collar!”

“What do you expect? You never want to go out any more! We used to do more together!”

“That's not true… what about that sweet little Danish girl? She was fun.”

“That was last month! And you always have to be so damned picky, talk about high maintenance...”

“Well, you'll just settle for anyone.” It always ended the same with him replying:

“I settled for you.. so yeah!”

That's how the rows would carry on. They would reach a certain level and one or the other would walk out for a few days. It wouldn't be long before the news would report about another inexplicable murder and they'd be back together again as if nothing had happened, but both of them knew that time was running out.

One of them would have to end the relationship.

Timing was everything. Jean was always on guard around him and was easily a match for him. It was virtually impossible to sneak up on her and Jean felt the same way about Clive. Clive could easily kill her if she made the slightest error. He no longer enjoyed her cooking, would only drink from bottles that he bought and opened. They slept in different rooms that were locked and bolted from the inside.

Paranoia set in deep, or that was what Clive wanted her to think. He wouldn't come out of his room for days at a time and realised that neither had Jean. They knew that whilst they were inside they were relatively safe, in the meantime he had come up with a plan.

It had taken days to silently chip through the plaster board that connected their rooms, and there were now dozens of tiny holes poked through. He was going to smoke her out. When he was ready he would light a series of fires by the wall and the smoke would be drawn through the holes into her room. Jean would then be forced out, weakened, and he would kill her. Or the building would catch fire and she'd die that way. He was right by the window so it didn't matter!

On the day he was ready he was actually trembling with excitement. The thrill of the kill, it had been too long -he couldn't believe that he'd allowed himself to be trapped in such a way. He felt numb, lightheaded even.

There was a funny smell that he'd been aware of for a couple of days but he'd put it down to his poor hygiene -pissing and shitting in buckets. It had never occurred to him that Jean was planning something too. It certainly hadn't crossed his mind that she had also been chipping away at the plaster, silently creating her own holes.

She had found a way to create a leak in the gas pipe that ran beneath the floorboards and to divert it into those holes. Yes, there had been some leakage back into her room but she had stayed as close to the window as possible to escape the worst of it.

She was looking forward to seeing his face as the light finally died within and he realised who was the master of their relationship.

It was at that second Clive struck the match; the resulting fireball tore down what was left of the wall and killed them both instantly. 

"Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame." -Henry David Thoreau