Murder Anthology by Paul Weightman (top e book reader TXT) 📕

have started ages ago. I really don't know why I didn't.

It's strange. I'm sure everyone wonders, sometimes, what it feels like to kill somebody. They probably just don't have the strength of conviction, or the brains, to see it though. Well, let me tell you, it feels great! So great, in fact, you can't help wanting to do it over and over. Funny really, the killing bit's an anti climax. (You'd have to be really sick to climax then. Ha, ha). No. It's what comes before that gets you. The selection. The planning. The.... (Ha! Nearly said "The Execution") But no, it's the bit after the planning, and the capture, and way before the execution that I like most. That's the climax for me. (And more than once!)

They just haven’t got a clue. The telly, the newspapers and the police; they’re all as dumb as a bag of spanners. Not a clue. It was a bloody waste of time spending so long thinking out a theme when they can’t put two and two together.

First off, a lesbian into S&M called Georgina. Dead easy she was: off t’internet, as Peter Kay would say. When she heard about my little playroom and the poor defenceless lamb I told her I was holding there. (Ooh! You’re such a fibber!) She couldn’t wait to come visit for the weekend. A bit backward in coming forwards until I told her I only wanted to watch, and then she was dead keen. Hee, hee.

Followed closely by young Polly from the café. Do you like horses? Do you ride? So easy. “My Mum will worry that I don’t really know you.” “ She sounds a very sensible woman. Don’t worry, I’m sure your Mum knows loads of people with horses you can learn to ride on!” “Well, I could tell her I’m going to the pictures with Sally. What do you think?” “If you’re sure. I’ll make sure you get back in plenty of time. Oh, do you think Sally would like to come too?” She didn’t want Sally to come. (Wouldn’t it have been just perfect if her friend had been called Sukie?) So Sally didn’t come. I’m fairly sure Polly didn’t. But I did.

I wonder if I should have taken trophies? Jack the Ripper and Ed Gein did. How many movies have been based on those two? Fred West did, and he was probably the most successful in Britain. You can’t count Shipman. He was playing a different game altogether. I wonder what Fred did with all the fingers and toes. He must have had something in his head; apart from that metal plate, of course. There was plenty of room; he was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

It doesn’t matter about trophies. They never come to light until you’ve been caught or the bodies have been found, and I’ve no intention of either of those happening.

That well is deeper than I thought. I’d nearly counted to three hippopotamuses before Georgina went crump. Funny noise. Still, the sound Polly made when she hit bottom was a bit different. I wonder if she did? Hit bottom, I mean, what with Georgina waiting for her.

Come on guys. It’s not difficult. It’s just Nursery Rhymes. Surely even you can spot that. And you’d better come up with a good nickname.

I’m really looking forward to watching the blubby Mum appeals on telly. It’s the Dads I feel sorry for. Sitting next to the missus with the whole world convinced that Dad did it. Not this time, he didn’t!

Oh well. Let’s go get the next one.
I really thought I’d found her. The next one I mean, just by using the internet. I love the internet. It’s so anonymous. It’s just perfect for hiding behind.

I’d had a crazy thought and decided to follow it up. How long will it take, just to look? First time out it worked. I felt as if I’d won the lottery. There she was. On the Arachnophobia Forum. Screenname: Miss Muffett. Just as I imagined she might be. Terrified of spiders and was that a cry for help I heard in her writing? (Perhaps, later…with a bit of luck. Aural sex.)

Enter stage left, Dr James Treadworthy, Cognitive Behaviour Therapist extraordinaire. Me! (Therapist seemed so apt, just one little space away.)

We sent little messages to each other. Over the course of the next few days I knew everything about her fears, how they had ruined her life, what she wouldn’t give to be free of this terror. So much less hit and miss than my previous experiences. So kind of her to have shared her greatest fears, and with me; the perfect person to help her confront those fears. We talked of her attitude towards drug therapy. (She didn’t agree with it). And she was so supportive when through her insistent questionning I was forced to admit that I had recently been asked to leave the BABCP as I refuse to recommend any form of drug therapy for most phobics; and certainly never for arachnophobics. It took a few days of mentioning the regular group workshops I hold at my country home before she eventually enquired as to the cost. She didn’t like to ask. Aah! She thought she was being presumptuous. Aah! Or would have to be referred by her GP. Aah! It’s just my regulars, says I, I could always do with some new blood, says I. How lovely, says she. It’s a bit difficult to find first time out, says I, I’ll collect you from the station.

I even did a bit of shopping. You’ve got to get into the part. Grey slacks, a double-breasted navy blazer, a perfectly horrid yellow bow tie and a pair of horn-rimmed specs: plain glass, for the psychotherapist about town.

I was at the station early, really feeling rather chipper. I was even singing, in my head of course, two of my favourite Sinatra numbers. “Stranglers in the night”, amazing how adding a single letter will perk up a lyric, and that one that always makes me think of the monsters in children’s nightmares, “Things like a walk in the park, things like a kiss in the dark…” And why wouldn’t they?

The train arrived. I thought I looked very dapper and just the right side of forgetful professor. I had my concerned face on and was considering what voice to use. Slightly superior with just a whiff of caring, sharing, ‘90’s ought to do it. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I could see, looking lost, an insignificant little man in a beige raincoat. He caught my eye. “Dr Treadworthy?”

Oh my God, she’s brought her father with her. It’s OK. Think on your feet. Using my chosen voice to maximum effect, I admitted that I was he.

With a smile, he introduced himself: “I’m Miss Muffet!”, he said.

The bastard. The sick, sick, bastard. What kind of creature would do that? Que le F*** was I going to do now?

I really couldn’t decide what to do with Miss Muffett.

Should I tell him how disappointed I was for his lying to me about his true identity? I feel that if someone is being offered, completely free of charge, a course of therapy for their phobia, they should at least have the common decency to be honest about the fact that they are not who they purport to be; before just turning up and presenting themselves.

I did feel rather let down, and more than a little hurt. Perhaps I should have told him there and then to get back on the train; that I wasn’t prepared to be lied to by a prospective patient. But then, I’d made all the arrangements and collected all my props.

Oh, well, off to confront those fears.

In the car he was quite chatty, nerves I suppose, he’d never been to a workshop before, and, other than online, he’d never met any fellow sufferers. My proffered hipflask was readily accepted. Greedy Miss Muffet. I hope he felt rested by his little nap; after all, he had quite a day ahead of him.

There are a lot of spiders available in a stable. Certainly enough for what I had in mind. Outside, in the bushes, were those big fat-bodied green ones. He’d mentioned that he was particularly frightened of those. I’d stored a few in a little box.

Well Miss M and I had fun for a time but it felt like I was just going through the motions. (The motions certainly went through him with spiders in his hair. Lots of disinfectant needed. I didn’t want to have to hose him down and wash away all his newfound friends). All in all, it just wasn’t terribly satisfying! I suppose I’m just not a man’s man, I vastly prefer the company of the ladies.

Sure, it ticked some of the boxes, but it’s like having an itch that hasn’t quite been scratched.

So, when I got bored, which wasn’t too long, we had to say goodbye. After I’d dropped him in with the other two and had a bit of a tidy up, I made myself a nice cup of tea to try to cheer myself up.

I’m a little uncertain as to my next move. They’ve found my first lady friend in the freezer. Perhaps I ought to change tack. I do want to be noticed soon and it’s getting harder to keep up with my chosen theme; although I have found a Dr Foster, (in Gloucester), and a Dr Fell, both of whom seem to meet my fairly exacting criteria. I’m just a bit disappointed that I’m putting all this work in and no one, so far, seems to care.

Maybe I ought to just drag out the three in the well, pop them in freezers, and drop them off at various recycling centres. It would certainly make my selection easier. If I put a proper top to the well, with a rope, a pulley, and a grappling iron, it should be quite easy to get them out. Afterwards, I could take off the hook and replace it with a bucket. That would look quite nice and ever so bucolic! Second hand freezers are a dime a dozen. I do like the idea that, after finding another one, poor old Percy Plod will have to start searching for more.

Imagine the headline: “Police to examine every dump in the Greater London Area” Tee Hee!

If this carries on I'll end up like poor old Adolf. He topped six million and no one knew about it at the time. It must have driven him bonkers. At least now we recognise his contribution. Like any artist, recognition post mortem.
So. Nursery Rhymes or Freezers? That is the question. Perhaps a notelet to the News of the World or Percy Plod might get things moving. Liquid paraffin for their little grey cells perhaps.

Dear Editor;

You reported recently on a missing young lady by the name of Georgina A. and another by the name of Polly B. I've not written before as I feared you may consider me just a silly old woman with too much time on my hands. I read with interest the details you published regarding young Polly, from the tea-shop, and the way she just disappeared after finishing work, and also about the disgusting sexual proclivities of that horrid Georgina person.

I had a dream where their disappearances were linked in some way. I have to tell you that since I retired I've gained quite a reputation amongst the other ladies at the WI as being something of a psychic.