The cellar, p.1
The Cellar, page 1
THE CELLAR
JOHN NICHOLL
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
More from John Nicholl
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
1
Marcus Gove stared at the wall clock high above the psychologist’s head, willing the hands to move a little faster. He raised an open hand to his mouth, yawning at full volume and then rubbing his eyes, as if struggling to stay awake. It was all part of his show. The persona he’d decided in advance to present that particular morning – anything to make his mundane existence just that little bit more interesting.
‘Is this going to take much longer, Doc? It’s getting boring.’
The secure hospital’s most experienced expert, Dr Sally Barton, looked back at Gove, her senior nursing colleague, with a disdain it seemed she could no longer hide. Her professional identity was slowly disintegrating before Gove’s eyes. Growing contempt was written all over her face.
‘This assessment is part of the disciplinary process, Marcus. My report will inform the clinical director’s decision regarding your future employment here at the hospital. You’re an intelligent man, therefore you must realise your predicament. You need to take the process seriously. You’re working with some of the country’s most dangerous patients. As of now, I have serious doubts as to your suitability for the role.’
Gove’s arrogant smirk became a full-blown belly laugh, head back, Adam’s apple bouncing, dark mercury fillings in full view. There was much about working in a hospital for the criminally insane that amused him. And this experience was no different. He began picking his nose, knuckle deep, flicking the snot over her right shoulder, as if aiming at the wall. His manic laughter suddenly morphed into a smile, replaced seconds later by a frown, the toothy grin disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. The appointment was progressing much as he’d hoped. He’d anticipated her seeking to retain a professional persona despite his antics, and now it was happening, making it all the more delicious.
‘So, I need to take this shit seriously, do I? Do I really? Is that so? Dr Know-It-All has serious doubts about my therapeutic abilities. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. You are so full of crap, lady. The director is a bitch, and so are you.’
Gove watched as the psychologist slowed her breathing, steadying herself, sucking in the air before releasing it. The strain was getting to her. She was usually so calm, self-assured, and composed, but not now. There was a sheen of sweat on her brow, which pleased him. He’d liked to have licked it away. He considered it briefly but decided against it. He wasn’t ready to bring the interaction to a close. Everything was going his way. The bitch was squirming. Ha! There was more fun to be had.
Gove silently acknowledged that he was starting to enjoy himself. He studied the psychologist closely as she prepared to speak, her lip trembling ever so slightly, her facial muscles tense. The second hand on the clock was moving a little faster now, time passing more quickly.
‘Your behaviour has become extremely concerning, Marcus. You’re alleged to have had an overly familiar relationship with a patient, a man with paranoid schizophrenia, a predator who killed seven women before disposing of their bodies. It doesn’t get any more serious than that.’
Gove began rocking in his seat, his eyes wide, popping.
‘You said “alleged”. It was alleged, alleged, alleged! Doesn’t that suggest an element of doubt on your part? It seems you’re not nearly as clever as you like to think you are, Doc.’ He repeatedly jabbed out a finger, pointing towards the three framed academic certificates on the wall to his left. ‘Maybe all those flashy paper qualifications aren’t worth shit. All those years of study were a complete waste of time and effort. You’re a bad joke, Doc. How much good do you do? Fuck all, that’s the truth of it. You come here, day after day, spouting your mindless nonsense to no good effect. Surely you must have realised that by now. Anyone with even half a brain would understand that reality. You’re a non-person, an irrelevance. Such a sorry sight to witness. How very sad to behold. Maybe you should crawl off and die somewhere in a dark hole where others wouldn’t have to suffer your vile attentions. I’m sure I would in your place. I couldn’t stand the shame of it all. To have wasted one’s life as you have, deluded by an unjustified sense of self-importance. You’re no more than a wallflower with your expensive clothes, permed hair and make-up. You’re a decoration for the amusement of males starved of female attention. And you’re not even very good at that.’
The psychologist somehow held it together despite Gove upping the pressure, but he felt confident her resolve was weakening. He was getting to her. Something he was good at, something he’d rehearsed and practised, sitting in front of a mirror, picturing her face, choosing his words, even his expressions, anything to make her twitch. He saw her stoic determination as a challenge to be overcome as he sat listening intently, searching for weaknesses, throwing one verbal grenade after another into the mix, simply because it amused him to do so. He waited with interest to hear what she said next, already deciding to dismiss it, preparing to go on the attack.
‘This isn’t a criminal court of law, Marcus. We’re not talking about proving the allegations against you beyond a reasonable doubt. I think we both know what happened. You agreed to cooperate with this process. At the very least, you developed an excessive interest in the patient concerned. Your fascination with his crimes went well beyond the professional. If anything, you fed his fantasies. We need to address that openly and honestly if we’re to make any progress. It seems that, yet again, I need to remind you that I’ll be making a recommendation as to whether you should keep your job at the end of this assessment process. There are issues you need to address.’
He tilted his head at an angle, leaning towards her with his open hands held wide.
‘Were they crimes?’
Her eyes narrowed.
‘Sorry, what are you talking about?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? It would be to anyone with even the slightest degree of insight. I’m referring to my new friend. The Hunter, as he was so appropriately referred to in the press. The gentleman you so flagrantly dismiss with your tired moral judgements and labels. Think about it. All he did was kill a few worthless vagrants, homeless trash, hardly a great loss to society. Is he insane? Should he even be locked up like some caged animal for idiots like you to irritate with your endless nonsense? I’m really not sure he should. So, he didn’t live by your rules. So what? Who are you to judge?’
She screwed up her face, and he knew he was winning. For a fleeting moment, he thought she might start crying.
‘Those women had a right to live like everybody else.’
He couldn’t reply until he stopped laughing. And even then, he giggled as he spoke, stopping between sentences to draw breath. He thought her contention utterly ridiculous. One of the most ludicrous things he’d ever heard. And that was saying something, given her lunacy, the moral straight jacket within which she lived her life: such misplaced principles, such unfortunate limitations.
‘You claim they had a right to life, these dregs of society, the filth that lives in the gutters. Did they? Did they really? Who are you to decide? Governments kill with impunity, as does nature, wars, famines, earthquakes, disease. It seems it’s the way of the world, survival of the fittest.’
‘Please think very carefully before saying anything else, Marcus. Some of the things you’ve shared are extremely concerning. Are you trying to be provocative? Is that what’s happening here?’
He spoke more quietly now, his body language relaxed as he sat back in his chair, legs crossed, a single finger raised to his chin below his bottom lip.
‘I’m told you have a strong religious faith. The Bible on your bookcase hasn’t gone unnoticed. You’re one of those do-gooder, God-botherer types who think they are oh so very special. But you’re just a big bag of shit, blood and intestines like everybody else. The Good Book is full of death and destruction, plagues, pestilence and genocide. Where is your God in all that? Surely, He must be the architect of it all if your belief system is accurate. Or is all that the work of the Devil? Is evil the dominant force in our universe? Let me know your thoughts. Are you as confused as it seems?’
Dr Barton shuffled a sheaf of papers, the colour draining from her face. It seemed she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
‘We’re here to talk about you.’
‘You flatter me, Doc. Am I that fascinating? Don ’t answer that. I must be, or we wouldn’t be sitting here now. It’s all about me, my interests, desires and thoughts. I bet you wish you were more like me. You’re so uptight, so restricted in your ways.
‘I’ve actually developed a growing admiration for the man in question. Harrison approached his activities with a passion. He killed because such things gave him pleasure. He sucked the juice out of life. He explored the very limits of human behaviour and got away with it for six long years before the interfering police finally caught up with him and a judge sent him here. Isn’t that something to celebrate? I was keen to congratulate him. I wish I had even an ounce of his courage. I’d pin a medal on his chest if I could. He has so much more to offer the world than you.’
The psychologist spoke more slowly now, as if she thought her tone might calm him, eliciting a different response.
‘Fredrick Harrison has a serious, chronic mental health condition, Marcus. He hears intrusive voices. His paranoid schizophrenia drove him to kill. He’s ill, Marcus. And I’m beginning to think you may be too.’
Gove jumped to his feet, spinning in a circle on the ball of one foot before standing to face her.
‘Well, isn’t that just fine and dandy? The oh-so-clever Dr Full-Of-Shit thinks I’m ill. Maybe I should take an aspirin. Or perhaps eat an apple. Doesn’t one a day keep the doctor away? I’m sure either option would be a lot more beneficial than talking to the likes of you.’
She pressed herself against the back of her seat. To Gove, it seemed she’d had enough. She’d soon bring the meeting to an end. Too soon for his liking, but he was determined to make the best use of whatever little time he had left. He decided to let her say her piece before pouncing. Whatever mindless bullshit she came up with was a mere preamble to his dramatic climax, no more than that.
‘I’m going to recommend to the director that you take an extended period of sick leave. I’ve seen a significant deterioration in your mental health in the time you’ve worked here. That now appears to have reached crisis point. I implore you to listen to me. You need help, Marcus. I need you to understand that. I plan to refer you for an urgent psychiatric assessment. Please take what I’ve told you on board.’
Gove bent easily at the waist, placing his face only inches from hers. And then he opened his mouth wide and licked her, poking out his tongue, leaving warm saliva smeared across one cheek and eye as she flinched back in apparent fear. The look of total shock on her face amused him immensely as she urgently reached for her panic alarm. She almost succeeded but not quite, as he moved quickly, with agility and grace, and pulled her arm away, holding it tight by the wrist, digging in his fingers, not letting go.
‘Oh no you don’t, bitch. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you’re in control. It’s always “Marcus this” or “Marcus that” with you. Do you think I might forget who I am without the endless reminders, you ridiculous woman? I don’t like you very much. You may have realised that by now. You remind me of my mother. That vile skank was a bitch too. And as for my job, you can stick it where the sun don’t shine. I’ve won the lottery, Doc, almost twelve million quid. I’ll be moving across the country. A big flash house, a new car and new interests in which I’ll have ample time to indulge. I won’t be your problem any more. I hope you’ve enjoyed my company as much as I have yours. Looking at you cowering there like some pathetic, powerless victim is quite a turn-on.’
The psychologist wiped her face with a hand, blinking repeatedly, her voice faltering. ‘What m-makes you think I w-won’t go to the police?’
Gove laughed, genuinely amused. He’d never heard anything funnier.
‘The police? Because of a lick and a little grab? Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. We both know the system. It’s your word against mine. There’s only you and me here. Where’s your corroboration? The CPS would drop it like a stone.’
She shouted now, close to tears. ‘Go, and close the door behind you. I want you gone!’
‘Oh, dear, so not very professional after all. You can go fuck yourself. I’ll leave my uniform in the bin on my way out.’
2
FIVE YEARS LATER
Gove wiped himself with a tissue as his erection slowly subsided and he let out a long, audible groan that reverberated around the room, echoing off the walls. His exhilaration slowly faded now, feelings of great happiness replaced by the familiar sad regret that inevitably followed each killing. Not because a life was lost, not because he’d murdered again, robbing another young woman of her promise, but because it was over. He’d lived out his imaginings in what he considered a glorious frenzy of uncontrolled violence – visceral, explosive and orgasmic – with none of the self-imposed limitations indulged by weaker men who would never understand what was truly possible if one embraced one’s darkest desires without restriction. Frederick Harrison had known that, and he knew it too. But for now, the pleasure was at an end for another day, nothing but a memory. The worthless bitch was dead, her torment in the past. She was free of him, and that hurt. It ate away at his peace of mind, engulfing him mercilessly, threatening the black shadow of depression as her blood began to slowly coagulate, forming semi-solid stains on his hair and clothing.
Gove reached down to touch her broken hand – three fingers missing, the nails torn out – and lamented the fact her suffering was no more. If only he could go back, do it all over again and slow down time. The killing was a wondrous experience, but it passed all too quickly. As enjoyable as it was, there was only so long the final act could last once he lost control, cutting her throat from ear to ear while simultaneously shooting his load. It all happened so fast, in a heartbeat, as the endorphins flooded his system.
Gove looked around the room now, taking in the details: the total lack of furniture, the high ceiling, the bare floorboards stained with various body fluids, and he felt another deep pang of regret as the remains of his latest victim caught his eye. There was always the intention to take it slowly, inflict as much pain as possible before death, take pleasure in the victim’s suffering, and savour the terror in her eyes, her desperation as she pleaded for her worthless life. But the excitement always got the better of him. The desire to inflict that final blow, driving the life force from her body, tearing her apart, became utterly irresistible in the end, as predictable as night and day. Whether he used a blade, his hands or some other implement of execution, the outcome was always the same. And the blood, he so loved the blood. He was erect again now as he thought of it, his penis standing to attention, throbbing. Blood seduced him. The colour of it, the way it flowed, its scent, the taste, the metallic tang on his tongue as he sank in his teeth and tore his victim’s flesh from the bone. Yes, he loved everything about death, killing, the suffering of others, but not his own. It was his needs that mattered, his and his alone. He was a man devoid of a moral compass, that moronic sense of right and wrong that lesser men indulged. He felt no guilt, no remorse. Not for her, not for any of them. The girls who’d suffered at his hand, who breathed their last breath as he loomed over them, appreciating their final moments on Earth as the light faded in their eyes.
