He could sit still in the dark like this for hours, just waiting.
Others might smoke, watch TV on mute or help themselves to things in the fridge.
But he’d trained himself not to do anything that might give away his presence or leave a trace. No lights flashing under the door or shadows moving on walls.
He had one non-negotiable before taking on a piece of work: he’d do it his way, with no interference.
He didn’t care who the subject was, or what they’d done. If he’d been ordered in, it’s because someone’s got themselves in too deep or stepped over a line.
There’s a method to what he does. A science. Disposable coverings over shoes. Rubber gloves. A surgical apron. A noiseless act. A quick but unhurried, unseen exit.
Lack of impulse. That’s what separates him from your newspaper and documentary killers. He takes no pleasure in what he does, only pride. No thrills or urges. Worshipping severed heads in the woods and washing their hair? Bludgeonings in public places or running amok in girls’ dormitories? He just didn’t get it. Too many variables and unknowns.
But he couldn’t let his thoughts drift like this. He must concentrate. Listen for the car. Footsteps approaching. Key fiddling for the lock. The door opening. A few futile flicks of the light switch. Disorientation. They’ll gather themselves and head towards the fusebox in the cupboard under the stairs.
He watches. Waits for exactly the right moment. And then strikes.
Rory ffoulkes writes grown up short and flash fiction that draws on the darkly macabre and absurd for inspiration. He’s also, conversely, the author of the rather more wholesome children’s illustrated book, Sarah the Spectacular Squirrel. ( Available on Amazon )
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