Meet Me in the Darkness

The axe’s blade sank into my victim’s forehead as though it had finally found its place in the world. The wooden handle jutted out like an extra limb.

How I loved the sight!

And how skilfully I’d made it happen! The axe had arched through the air like a falling star. A single blow, and the victim was dead.

Clean, considered, precise.

My murders were works of art! And I was their conscious auteur. I never settled for compromises.

If only you could have witnessed the magnificence of it all! But because you can’t, you’ll have to settle for my description. Over the years, I’ve sent an impressive number of suits to an early grave. The list is so long that if people knew how many victims I’d actually claimed, they wouldn’t believe it. How could I have killed so many people without getting caught? These men toppled into their graves like dominos, as though their sole purpose in life was to be murdered by me.

Maybe it was.

Why are murderers never rewarded for their achievements? I imagined myself on a podium—in first place, of course—taking a bow in front of a cheering crowd. Once the fanfares died down, I gave a speech. I thanked myself. I accepted the applause.
I snapped back to reality, to the victim’s bedroom. I’d grabbed the designer lamp on the bedside table and was gripping it in my hand like a microphone.

I put the lamp back on the table, then raised my hands in front of my eyes and peered between my fingers. If you could crop the axe out of the picture, everything looked peaceful. My victim was lying in bed, relaxed. It was almost as though I’d put him out of a long, drawn-out misery.
If only he knew how dignified his death had been. I’ll probably die of old age, ancient and worn-out. Unless I hire an assassin to take me out before I get there.

If I could just take a selfie alongside my creation… I wanted to immortalize the body and the axe. But I didn’t want to fill my phone with incriminating evidence.

I felt the urge to press my bloodied fingers into my victim’s cooling forehead, to leave my fingerprints as proof that it was me who had committed this murder, to make sure nobody else could take the credit for it or steal it from me.

But I didn’t have time to hang around. I took a packet of disposable wipes from my bag, wiped down the foot of the lamp and the bedroom door handle. I hadn’t touched any-thing else, and even then, I’d been wearing a pair of nitrile gloves. But you can never be too careful. By sticking to this principle, I’d never been caught for my crimes, and I wasn’t planning on getting caught now either.

I glanced out of the window. A drunken man staggered out of the door of the Watering Hole across the street. I could have easily picked up another victim from the pub if I’d wanted to.
I hurried into the hallway. Only then did I see it.
There among the dirty boots and old, misshapen trainers was a pair of pink suede high heels.
I only ever killed single men—and for good reason. I didn’t want anyone to surprise me halfway through the butchering. Was my victim married or just living with a girlfriend?

Wife, lady friend—it didn’t matter. The burning question was: where was his sweetheart now?
My jubilation was gone in an instant.

What if she’d heard us coming into the victim’s apartment together? Or seen me take out the axe, got frightened and hidden somewhere?

Sweat tingled on my brow. I’d never killed a woman.

And I didn’t want to start now. But there might be no avoiding it.

Was she hiding in the hallway? What if she was armed? A gun? Something heavy? An antique brass candlestick? A ten-kilo kettlebell that she could use to smash my kneecaps to a pulp?
I had to find her. I couldn’t leave until I’d done so. What if she wasn’t at home after all? In that case, I needed to get out of here before she came back.

Again, I took the axe out of my bag. I hadn’t wanted to leave the murder weapon at the scene for the police to pore over. No, though it suited my victim’s head perfectly.

I looked around. My eyes lighted on an old walnut ward-robe, the kind that led to Narnia.
I wrenched the door open. It was flimsier than I’d imagined, and I stumbled back at the lack of resistance. I gripped the door frame at the last minute and managed to stay upright.

I pushed the raincoats and gabardines to one side.
There was nobody in the wardrobe. I moved on to the living room.

The space was dominated by a large, luxurious Chippendale sofa upholstered in black velvet. It was so low to the floor that there wasn’t enough room underneath it for anybody to hide there. The peach-coloured curtains on either side of the windows were translucent. The bookcase was flush against the wall; no one could have squeezed in behind it. The room was empty.

Next was the kitchen.

The edge of the rose-decorated waxed tablecloth was short, so I didn’t have to peer under the table. There was only one possible hiding place in the room, but even in the cleaning cupboard there was just a vacuum cleaner, a mop and a bucket.

The only place left was the bedroom. I clenched the axe in my sweaty hands and crept over the threshold.

The lady friend couldn’t have been there either. Could she have witnessed her beau’s demise without a peep? My victim had bellowed in horror when he saw the axe above his head.
But I had to inspect the room all the same. I cautiously gripped the bedspread.

There was nobody under the bed.

The danger was over. Still, the victim’s partner could turn up at any moment. I took out the wipes again and began hur-riedly backing out of the apartment, quickly wiping all the surfaces I’d touched on my way.

I ran out of the apartment, down the staircase and all the way to the front door. I carried on running until I reached the bus stop. I needed to get out of Vallila, fast. I took the first bus that appeared, walked right to the back seat and sat down. It was only then that I realized my hands were trembling.

I’d never been that close to getting caught.

I glanced around. The bus was almost empty. Apart from me, there was nobody else sitting at the back.

From my bag, I took out a thick notebook and a ballpoint pen, and I started writing.

The axe’s blade sank into my victim’s forehead as though it had finally found its place in the world.