The 90% (Or All is right in the world)

She had to prove him wrong. Time was fast ticking away and it had been a disastrous day, but she had to disprove his damn worldview; had to. Yesterday was a different story, a view of the world that made her happy: all was right with the world and people were generally good. The he joined her team at work, had the audacity to sit next to her and over the course of the day turn her life upside-down.

John, from Hassocks, was 24; barely out of university and so green he could have been a walking advertisement for the Vegan brigade. Tall and sickly thin, freckles, ginger hair and glasses were an unfortunate combination which, coupled with the medical complaint known as ‘running at the mouth’, made him an annoying shit.

Why was it that those that went to university felt the need to rub it into everybody else’s face; justify their existence and piss everyone off with their new found wisdom. They saw themselves as superior, and experience had taught her that they were anything but!

Of course, she didn’t know any of this when she first met him; she was always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt; it took just her ten minutes of his elitist crap to come to that conclusion. She was a quick study, being a firm believer that a picture is worth a thousand words and first impressions were never wrong. It took her ten minutes to decide that she didn’t like John from Hassocks at all. His ego rankled her and they clashed on everything. He was staunchly anti-religious (especially regarding Christianity) whereas she was a Protestant and proud of it. She was the vegan and he was a lapsed, but still very keen, fisherman; enjoying the occasional trip with his father. She believed in turning the other cheek, seeing the good in everyone and England for the English. Good and evil; black and white.

“So you’re a racist.” John replied, upon hearing this.

“If that means being proud to be English then, yes. I am.” She replied, unnerved by the reply. She was, actually, very racist but that wasn’t something she wanted other people to know.

“Yes, then… and a hypocrite as well.” He challenged. “What does it actually mean to be ‘English’? We’ve been invaded so many times that the original inhabitants of the green and pleasant land were either butchered or bred out a long, long time ago.”

This was infuriating. She saw herself as being essentially cool, calm and collected; but in the first half an hour of talking to him she had almost lost her shit completely. She was also due to go on jury service in the next couple of weeks and made the mistake of mentioning it in conversation.

“I have a dislike for the judiciary system...” He jabbed at her.

“Why does that not surprise me?” She countered, really not wanting to get into the conversation. Where was a large polo mallet when you really needed one, she asked herself.

“The whole system is corrupt.” He replied, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, come on; that’s total crap.” She snapped. She tried her best not to let her feelings get the better of her but his whole attitude just annoyed her so much!

“Look – discounting the fact that the whole system is pre-dictated on the facile agreement that everyone swears to tell the truth on a fictional document; it’s not up to the lawyers to ascertain the guilt of someone, it’s to find a way to justify their massive salary. The lawyers are paid to understand the law, not people. If they can get their clients off on a technicality then they will do whether they’re guilty or not.” She let the words ‘fictional document’ go over her head; now was not a time for a religious debate, so she said:

“But that’s why there’s a jury, surely...”

“Oh, please. Look, it’s like this: people are selected at random on the basis that everyone is created equal and it’s a jury of their peers, right? Well, I hate to say this but we’re not all equal. It all depends on economic, sociological and intellectual biases for a start. I’m not the same as you.” You can say that again, she thought and really wished that she hadn’t started the damn conversation. “By putting me on a panel with a 44 year old Sun reader with the intelligence of a used teabag is ridiculous. There is no average person.”

“That’s crap and you know it.” She snapped back.

“Harlan Ellison once said that 90% of everything is utter shite… and he was right, you know. If you look at art or music in terms of quality, or even people on a graph you’ll get a bell-curve. You’ve heard of that, I’m sure. The peak is always in the middle and that’s called the average. So those that exceed are in the top 90%...”

“Ah – so you think of yourself as one of the top ten percent, I take it? Riiight.” She snapped, incredulous at this attitude.

“Ok – let’s take an extreme example. Serial killers.”

“What?” She asked, curious as to where the conversation was now leading.

“Well, take people’s perception of serial killers; look at all the films about them. They’re perceived as ‘different’ to us; and much is made of their perverted nature… In fact, anything further that people can do to distance themselves from serial killers the better. But you want to know the real rub?” He didn’t even wait for her to answer, John was on a roll. She got the feeling that he’d got this patois down through countless retellings. Perfect for chat up lines… “Your ‘average’ person is one bad day from becoming a serial killer… if only they knew.”

“I can’t believe that for an instant. What you’re saying is that there’s no innate difference between…” She shook her head, trying to take it in. “..between a Joe Nobody and a serial killer?”

“Think about it – most of these serial killers had diabolical upbringings. I mean, really, really shitty.  I’m not making any excuses and can’t generalise, obviously… but a case could easily be made. Most people turn round and say ‘I could never do anything like that!’… but had they had lived the life of, say, Ted Bundy or Charlie Manson, then I can’t help but wonder how they would’ve turned out.”

“Bollocks. I’ve known people who have had far worse lives. I mean, how many people are walking round with a life that is just as bad, if not worse than Ted Bundy, and have not become serial killers?”

“It’s impossible to know what the triggers are for each person…”

“Look, I’ve read up on serial killers too, and from my experience these people were just projecting how bad they felt onto others so they didn’t have to take the rap for it… or they felt that their behaviour was justified because their victims were ‘asking for it’.” She couldn’t believe how this conversation was unfolding. One bad day or not, she really wanted to smite John at that very minute!

“That’s such an oversimplification!” John replied, almost mimicking her objection earlier.

“These… people, these serial killers always try to play the victim.. “ She pushed back. “‘Poor me, my childhood was terrible’ ; we could all say stuff like that! But it never adds up to anything, if you ask me, as their crimes were always premeditated!  It’s rare for these killings to be spur of the moment. These were clear thinking individuals making clear and informed decisions.”

“I said nothing about ‘playing the victim’;” John replied. “And I actually agree that their crimes were premeditated.. but that’s not the point…” She was having none of it though, she interrupted him.

“When something is carefully planned in advance… and the person knows it’s illegal then they are totally responsible and should be held accountable. I had some really bad experiences but that doesn’t mean that I want to go out and kill, kill, kill!” Although at that particular moment there was one person that she would happily have throttled. “When you start talking to people you find that it’s actually quite common!”

“Ok – so maybe you’re getting confused by my argument; getting bogged down in semantics. I’m saying that you can’t say for certain that you wouldn’t end up like them if you lived their life. You’re saying that’s not true –you would never kill like that. How do you know that for certain? Talk about living in a glass house! Life happens in increments; each incident stacks up; you never know what’s going to break the camel’s back. People can crack up in two ways, you know… suicide or murder.”

“That’s such an oversimplification! How you can come up with such generalisations without the slightest bit of evidence is beyond me! I wonder what the stats would show us: comparing those men who have been abused by their mothers and chart how their lives turned out. How many of them turned out to be psycho’s.” She wanted this conversation over, but there was only one way out: admit that he was right, there was no way she would let him have the final word.

“How the hell can you use statistics as a comparison? If you’re saying that my views are an oversimplification then you’ve got to be doubly careful with your rash generalisations purely because of the type of measurements you make. It’s not just a case of looking at ‘those men who were abused by their mothers’ and seeing how many of them end up killing anyone…”

“It’d be far more accurate than taking ONE example, like you did, and drawing conclusions from that!” Oh, please, she thought. What have I done to deserve this? This is only the first morning; it can only go downhill from here.

“I haven’t given any examples and nor have I drawn any conclusions.” He replied snidely. “What I actually said was that I don’t agree with people’s views of serial killers.”

“No, what you actually said was ‘’People are one bad day away from mass killing.’”

“Right – remember that petrol crisis a few years ago?” He replied.  “People were killing others over a tank of petrol… other people have been stampeded in Black Friday deals.”

“I think I need evidence to back those up.” She said.

“It was on the news… In America recently there was a Chinese kid who was shot because he knocked at the wrong house in a Halloween costume! Shot for no reason at all.”

“But that’s America, surely?” She regretted saying that, and knew that she’d just added more fuel to the already fanned flames.

“I don’t think you can afford to be that blasé about it all. It’s no good saying that in America you get shot for no reason because it’s America! That’s happening over here now!”

“What are you? Some kind of pessimist?”

“Well, I’d actually call myself a realist.”

“Ha! I would describe my view as realistic; at least as far as humanity goes… and at least as far as I can make it; although with my history I should probably be the one busy cutting men into pieces.” Men like you, she thought to herself.

“I don’t see the worst in people… I let them dig their own holes.” John grinned.

“Well; I’m naturally a kind person… I feel for others. You have to lack empathy in order to hurt others in a premeditated way and some of us just aren’t built that way. I can’t take credit for it though, it’s a mixture of brain chemistry and environment.”

“So you agree with me then!” She was stunned by his conclusion, but when she later unpicked what she’d said she realised that he was right.

“No… that’s NOT what I said. You’re just turning my words against me!”

“Ok… You think that people are generally friendly and kind. Is that your world view? You don’t believe in my 90% and that only the really screwed up ones kill. Have I addressed all your concerns?”

“Yes.” She replied through gritted teeth.

“Well then; I’ll set you a little test. In one day I want you to prove me wrong. Believe me, I want to be proved wrong. If you can tell me of at least three positive interactions with people over the next... well, let’s say by the end of tomorrow then I will concede that you’re right and I’ll change my world view.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Well, nothing… nothing really. But let’s hope that I am wrong, eh?” John said smugly. Oh, how she wanted to wipe that wry grin off his mouth.

She had just over one day to prove herself. She so desperately wanted to prove him wrong and, more importantly, prove herself right. They didn’t speak for the rest of the day, bizarrely enough; save for work related questions, nor did he mention the bet or make any snide remarks but she was pondering on what she could do to make a difference.

It was no good approaching people at work; in her mind she already had a rapport built up and it would be far easier to prove kindness in people she already favoured (and John would, no doubt, dismiss them). No, the whole crux of John’s argument was dealing with the ‘average person in the street’; and that meant random acts of kindness –something that she agreed with in principle, but had never actually put into practice. Now was as good a time as any.

That evening on the platform she noticed someone drop a five pound note from their pocket and she was about to pick it up to give it back when another person pushed her out the way. “Bloody thieving bitch.” The elderly man remarked, prodding at her with his finger, drawing the attention of the woman who dropped the money.

“What’s happening?” The woman asked.

“This bloody woman was about to nick the money that had fallen out your purse.” He said.

“I was not! I was just about to give it back to her.” She replied in disbelief.

“Oh piss off.” The woman snapped and she meekly moved down the platform, drawing looks from the other passengers. On the train journey home she was treated with distrust and disparaging looks so she couldn’t try to engage anyone in conversation. Was the world always like this, she asked herself. Was John right after all? No, she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. She just had to try harder.

The next day she did her best to wear a happy face and greet everyone with a smile, but no one else seemed to share her positivity. All she got in return was lewd stares, grunts of disapproval and, when she did try to strike up conversation, affirmations of a completely different kind. She sighed inwardly and felt dejected, crippled inside.

John’s effervescence made things ten times worse. Although he never mentioned the bet it was easy to tell from her expression that things weren’t going so well. She so wanted to ram that sparkling smile down his bloody throat.

At lunchtime she gave money to a couple of charity workers waving collecting tins. She didn’t even bother to see which charities she was giving to she just wanted to feel good about herself. However by the time she’d walked to the other end of the pavement she was almost swamped by the other chuggers who had witnessed her display of goodwill and wanted to get in on the act. She ended up losing her temper at them and told them, in no uncertain terms, to sod the fuck off.

She tried giving money to the homeless to elicit some kind of response and was rewarded with a sarcastic “50p? Wow, this will go handy towards my Ferrari! Bloody Tories, no idea of how the world works; not everyone has a silver bloody spoon round their necks!”

She then saw a pregnant woman smoking and felt for the unborn baby inside; she couldn’t stop herself and said something. The woman looked shocked and she thought for a minute that she’d actually done something worthwhile; made a difference. A slap in the face made her realise that the woman wasn’t pregnant… just fat. A crowd of people had to drag the two of them apart in the end. It was all put down to a misunderstanding.

At the end of lunch she finally had her chance; a young girl came up to her sniffling away. She’d lost her purse and needed some money –just 50p- to call her mummy. Deeply touched, she gave her the money and it was worth it just to see the look on the little girls face. Five minutes later she realised that whilst all that was going on some other little shit had stolen her wallet.

Back at work she had to ask one of her friends to lend her the money for the train home; the only act of kindness in the whole day, but she was beyond caring now. John was staring at her with a knowing look in his eye and she just couldn’t return his gaze. In fact she did everything she could to avoid talking to him, even going so far as to listen to her I-player for the rest of the afternoon. At the end of the day she dashed away without speaking to him and stood on the train platform sobbing inside. Had she really worn blinkers all these years? How could this fucking university freak make such a fool of her? It wasn’t fair.

“What’s it like living in the 90%?” She heard the voice and didn’t want to turn around, but there he was; large as life and twice as ugly. John. “Still believe that people are inherently good? Still live in fairy land?”

That was enough. Something inside her finally snapped; even though it went against everything that she had ever believed in, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She didn’t believe in cliché’s but as the red mist descended she coolly and calmly took him by the shoulders and just pushed him on to the railway tracks as the 17.22 to Brighton entered the station.

All was right again in the world.

The Forgotten Life

It wasn't so long ago that life had been so right for Emma Dern. True, she had gone to the boating lake to break up with Steve. She had to be somewhere public where he couldn't make a scene. But he had surprised her.

For months he had made promises that would change with his mood, like making a go of his life away from his stoner friends. She wanted more from life and there was no way she would let him drag her down. Emma had aspirations, wanted a family, a steady job and a house… liIt could still be done, even in these days. It wasn't square to seek stability.

Steve seemed to that too at the start of the relationship, had said all the right things and had never pushed her when it came to sex. She wanted it to be right, for the right reasons and so did he. When they finally consummated their relationship it was everything she had ever thought it would be. The words came so easily from her: “I love you.” and though it surprised her when she realised that she meant it, she was even more shocked when he said them back with the same conviction. She felt something click in her soul, something eternal.

But that had been weeks, maybe even two months ago? And though they had screwed and had fun, nothing had reached that nights passion. Were her friends right? Had she been just another conquest and no longer worth the effort? 

Well, no more. They argued a few nights ago; she'd had enough of him and told him exactly what she wanted from him. She wasn't just another cheap screw and if he really loved he then he would change, make a go of his life and take responsibility. She hadn't heard from him since and Emma had now decided that enough was enough, for sure!

He seemed surprised by her phone call and genuinely pleased to hear from her; said he was looking forward to seeing her again. She felt guilty about what she was doing, and nearly cancelled the meet twice.

The day came and she was listening to the transistor radio he'd bought her, lying on the blanket by the lake. It was a beautiful day, hot and sweet. 'For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her” by Simon & Garfunkel played on the radio. Steve pulled his bike next to her Dodge and they hugged, but she was stand-offish. They sat down and she dove straight in, not giving him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I've had enough.” She said, ready to let loose, but he never gave her the chance.

“I know, and you've every right to feel that way. I've got something I want to say and if, by the time I finish you still feel the same way, then I don't blame you. Will you give me the opportunity?” She nodded and he sat down next to her.

“I gotta admit that I was more than pissed by what you said that night.” He laughed. “But then I thought about what you said, and thought about why you said those things.. and about how I really felt about you.

“I think I scared myself when I said that I loved you back, because it was so true.” Was, Emma thought… here it comes. “So I did everything I could to forget it, to pretend it didn't happen. That way I didn't have to think about things like responsibility. But when I realised that meant losing you, I couldn't bare thinking about that either.

“The reason I haven't seen you during the last week is 'cause I've been cleaning up my act. I'm no longer wasted... no longer smoke (and boy, that's a bitch) and hardly even drink! I've even gone for a few jobs, gotten accepted as an intern in one of the local offices… It don't pay much to start but I think I got good promotion prospects, if I stay out of trouble.. which I fully intend to do.”

Emma couldn't believe this was happening, was this the same stoner she had spoken to before.? He'd made such a change.

“Y'see, I've realised something… I do love you, and I want exactly the same things you do. I don't expect you to take my word for it… I got a lot to prove, but I'm willing to give it a go if you are.”

She was willing, boy, was she ever! This was the most romantic thing she had ever heard and that it came from him made it even more amazing. They hugged for what seemed like hours. 

When they finished their embrace they realised how late it was, and how thirsty they both were. Steve offered to go get a couple of drinks but Emma went instead, needing to go to the lavatory as well. Her head was still all over the place, she was so happy.. She was near walking past the cars, out of sight from Steve but not out of his heart! She didn't saw the guy with the bandaged arm by the van until she almost walked into him.

“I'm sorry.” He said.” I wonder if you could help me. I need to load my suitcases into the van and can't manage it.” He seemed really sweet and her heart went out to him.  She helped him lift the suitcases in to the van and didn't even think to ask how he'd managed to get put them where they were. She didn't even ask why he'd gotten into the back of the van behind her, or why he shut the door on her... But it was the last thing that she ever did.

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