Her only possible escape is the shallow river that lies twenty or so feet below, with the sharp, protruding rocks and pebbles. So what if she breaks every bone in her body? She lunges, but his hands are just too careful, too considerate and too strong to let her fall. After all, they are there to protect her from the water. Her knight in shining armour has a much worse fate in mind for her.
Lisa stands, frozen to the spot, neither hand on the rail, as she realises it is him. She closes her eyes and releases a muffled whimper as she allows him to carve lines down her chest with his razor.
She knows that, by the time she plummets to the waiting water below, she'll most likely already be dead.
DAY TWENTY-FOUR 24TH JUNE 2018
Over the last few days and weeks I've been spending less and less time on my boat. There, I'm a sitting target. I know that, by staying away, I'm running. You can run, but you can't hide. I know Richard doesn't want me to run. No. He wants me to fight. Easy for him to say, hidden behind the comfort of his mahogany desk. The serial killer isn't interested in him. For me, right now, it isn't so much that I need to keep running; I just need to keep busy, to focus and distract my mind. And so I've roamed the streets, sometimes with purpose, mainly aimlessly.
Passing a shop just like any other on the high street, I turn back and enter. Scanning the wall behind the glass counter, the shelves are stacked with an array of gadgets and accessories, such as iPods, headphones and laptops. This is the equivalent of a sweetshop for the modern male. Glancing at a faded white sheet of paper pinned to the wall with Sellotape, I hand the bearded guy behind the counter a quid and he silently points at a vacant computer behind me.
This is only the second time I've been in one of these places. I never anticipated a second time after my first experience. Sure, it ticked most of the boxes. I purchased a lukewarm can of coke from the counter. The monitor was clear and free of glare. At a quid for an hour, I couldn't argue with the prices. So why was I put off? These establishments seemed to attract a particular type of clientele, that's why. I could cope with the punters shouting and arguing with the guys behind the till who didn't speak great English. I can't quite clear my mind of the guy next to me rubbing his dick under the table to some porn, though. I really don't care what goes on behind closed doors, so long as I don't have to see it when I'm checking my emails.
I roll back the blue swivel chair, eyes checking for any unidentified white stains. I smile and nod to the young guy at the computer to my left; he stares at his monitor and rolls his chair further to the left. I click to start my hour, aware that I'm on borrowed time, hoping I won't need the full quota anyway.
What, I ask myself, is the most appropriate search to find what I was looking for? Bowing my head, I close my eyes and thumb my temple. This is the first hurdle, and it seems I'm no Colin Jackson at jumping over them. This was going to be more difficult than I initially anticipated. How could I search for somebody when I didn't know who they are? I'm interested in two people, but I don't have either name. I type in the one name I did know, my only link to the other two.
Jesus. He fills page one and so I click onto page two, then three. Clearly, I'm not the only one interested. I'm momentarily impressed at how popular he is, how much of a footprint he has made in his field. My hand hovers on the mouse. None of the search options fit the bill. I type some specifics into the search engine, then some more.
That's the one.
I glance at the countdown on the bottom right of my screen. I still have fifty minutes. I glance down at the crotch of the young guy to my left, just to make sure he hasn't taken things into his own hand; he rolls even further to the left. I move my eyes from left to right, like I'm at the tennis, as I scan the words on the page. At first I skim-read, skipping the occasional word and sentence to get to the gritty detail. By the second paragraph, my reading slows and my jaw drops. This is worse than I feared. My fingers tap against the edge of the table, then I slam my fist down hard. Eyes burn the back of my head. Glances are exchanged both left and right. I don't care; at least I don't have my cock out.
The evil little bastard.
I keep reading. I can't help myself. My heart is in my stomach, churning my guts, but I have a need. Suddenly, I sit up, press my elbows against the desk. There is a twist. A fucking immense twist. I shouldn't feel like this, but I can't help it. This is personal. The anger seeps out of my body and is replaced by a warm, numb glow.
The evil little bastard got what he deserved.
I wish I could have picked up a shovel and dug his grave myself. I would have used the shovel to smash his face first.
Instead, something strikes me first. A thought. A terrifying thought. I recall our conversation. What he said. I repeat his words. The realisation hits me like a bowling ball to the skull. Pulling the chair back, I nod to the guy behind the counter and then the
