30 Days in June Read online

  Gordon laughs. "These things are never easy. She'd be a fool not to fall for you, son. Good luck with it."

  "Thanks. I might need it."

  "Fancy coming down and watching some TV with us? We don't see much of you these days."

  Jeffrey shuffles on the bed. "I'm just going to finish reading this article and then I'm going to do some more study."

  "Fair enough. I'm not going to keep you away from your studies."

  Gordon stands up and walks to the door. His little man to son chat hadn't gone particularly well, but at least he could tell Yvette that there was a girl on the scene.

  "Dad?"

  Gordon turns to his son.

  "Thanks for asking, yeah."

  "Any time, son. Anytime."

  Gordon shuts the door and climbs down the stairs. He just hoped that anytime would be some time soon, before it was too late.

  DAY SEVEN

  7TH JUNE 2018

  Back in my day these places served a single, definitive purpose. The shelves were jam-packed with (primarily hardback) books. Revellers rarely spoke and, if they did, they did so in raspy whispers. The librarian was usually old and dusty like the books and they chose to work in a library because they didn't want to speak to other people. The library was where you came to read free books, or where you came to take books away so you didn't have to pay for them.

  I hovered around my local library in the months before Emma was born. I was looking for an instruction manual. I wanted to be the best daddy in the whole wide world, I just didn't have the foggiest idea what I was expected to do. And how do you identify normal baby behaviour? As it turned out, the first couple of years, despite the chronic sleep deprivation, were pure bliss. Really, I should have searched for books about the Terrible Twos. For some reason, probably because I didn't pay much attention before I had my own child, I assumed they had something to do with number two's. I'd been dealing with them ever since I changed Emma's first nappy, so what was the big fuss? How wrong I was! I'd dealt with every variety of adult in work, yet I had no idea what to do with a toddler lying down in the middle of a crowded shopping centre, refusing to move.

  The world is much more complicated now and, I observe with interest, the library has moved with the times. Today it appears to serve a multitude of purposes. My eyes flicker at the posters as I enter the foyer. What is all this about? Rhythm and Rhyme. Baby Yoga. When did babies take up yoga? I sniff in the fragrant, musty air. Somebody is asleep on the sofa, smothered by plastic shopping bags. Old men browse the newspapers, no doubt already bored with talk of Theresa May's backstop to avoid a hard Irish border. There are rows and rows of other punters with headsets on, listening to music, applying for jobs and watching videos. The attractive librarian is happily speaking to a customer. Taking in my surroundings, my jaw drops.

  The rucksack digs into my shoulders. Taking my seat at a solitary table in the corner, I'm overshadowed by the high and commanding bookshelves. I pull the books I collected out of my bag and offload them onto the table. The books slope, reminding me of steps on a staircase. Opening the book on the top of the pile, I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for, just certain that I have a sudden thirst to find out more.

  I quickly realised that the crime section was one of the largest in the library. I started at the beginning and my feet shuffled to the right, and they kept on shuffling until finally I was met by a book about cats. Some of the books were about gangsters. Others were about football hooligans. Most, though, were about serial killers. My eyes widened when I realised just how many books there were. It was a simple matter of supply and demand: people wanted to read these books. I knew there was interest; I just didn't realise that the fascination was this broad and widespread. What was the appeal? Was it an escape from reality? Most likely, for the huge majority. But what about for the minority? Were there people out there who got turned on by this stuff? Did others use the material for inspiration?

  The pages are faded yellow. My cheeks cool as I flick through the book. The photos of the first two victims stare back at me: John and Valerie Watts. This was where it all began, a terrible nightmare that opened one Wednesday morning, presumably like any other, on the first day of June. The black and white images remind me of passport photos. Both husband and wife are remarkably void of expression. Their eyes are wide, sullen and sad. I can't help but imagine what their faces looked like in the moment before they were both stabbed to death with a cut-throat razor.

  I blink the image out of my mind. It is replaced by another. I imagine my own face in the final moment before he made my world turn black. I force my eyes to stare at the words on the page, just to stay focussed on something - anything - other than that image. Seconds pass. Eventually I start absorbing the words. The dark clouds part and my mind clears.

  The media tore into these two much more brutally than he ever did. It was a frenzy. I woke up one morning two days after the first killing and I could just tell from the atmosphere in the kitchen that something was wrong. My dad was quiet and my mum glanced nervously at her beloved newspaper. This was my cue to grab for it. My mouth dropped when I read the first page. I devoured every single word much more eagerly than I ever devoured my morning toast with butter.

  The paper didn't disclose the full details, but they exposed as much as they could. The killer hadn't fled the scene immediately. He stayed around and carved one straight line down the chest of Valerie and then two straight lines down the chest of John.

  I run a finger over my chest now, across my pink scars, just as Erica likes to do. An image floods my mind and I wince. I quickly pull my hand away.

  The police said that the lines were most likely Roman numerals. The newspapers said that he was keeping count, recording a tally of his victims on their dead bodies. Baldwin gave a quote. He'd get slated for it over the coming days and weeks. They said that he'd created a media storm, that he had incited fear in the public. Baldwin said that it meant he intended to kill again and again. After all, who counts up to two? It was a public relations disaster. The media jumped on this, quickly gave the killer a name.

  Spartacus was born.

  The names they give to killers are rarely imaginative; they are usually simplistic. The media reaches out to the mass population, to lay people with limited knowledge and understanding. Everybody could relate to the significance of the name. Unfortunately, there was an element of grandeur to it. Even more unfortunately, the names often do.

  And just as quickly as the name was born, just as Baldwin predicted, more people started to die.

  My eyes flick over the pages. It floods back. Details of John and Valerie's alternative lifestyle trickled through on a daily basis. For a few days, they were the big story, not Spartacus. We didn't even know who he was, of course, but their dirty laundry was there for everybody to see. I dragged my seventeen-year-old self out of bed and ran down the stairs in the mornings to pick up the newspaper before my mum or dad just so I could discover what new obscenities had been uncovered about them. She liked to whip. He liked to watch. My parents pleaded for me not to read it, said that no good would come of it, but I ignored them. The stories about John and Valerie were just too fantastic to ignore; they sucked me in.

  They'd been to a club in Cardiff the night they were killed. The paper made it clear that it was not a normal club that their respectable readers would ever contemplate visiting. Their motives were not innocent. And they went to the club together, for the same purpose. It wasn't just John (as the red-blooded male) who was a deviant; they both were. They were, it was revealed, sexual predators. John and Valerie often frequented the club and, by all accounts, they often brought singles or couples back to their house. Not for coffee or a game of Cluedo. For sex. John and Valerie were perfect fodder for the papers. They became the butt of jokes in the workplace and the playground.

  The police interviewed a whole range of people who had seen them at the club that night. A handful admitted they'd previously engaged in intimate rela
tions with John and Valerie. Their faces appeared in the newspapers. Most were middle-aged and unattractive. They were all women. None of them saw John and Valerie with anybody else that night. Definitely not a man. Many vouched that they left alone. The police concluded that John and Valerie Watts must have picked Spartacus up on their way home.

  I turn the pages of the book and then, suddenly, it feels like somebody has punched my chest. Hard. I wipe away a layer of cold sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. This was the murder where it really hit home. This was the first victim I could really relate to; whose life was even remotely anything like my own.

  Marie Davies.

  She was the fifth victim, killed on the 16th night of June. The fourth victim, Judy Spencer, a middle-aged housewife who, by all accounts, was the victim of domestic violence, was found dead by Julie and Kate Phillips on the 8th day of the month.

  Marie's pretty, plump face stares up at me, the large oval eyes burning my skin. I run the tip of my middle finger along the edge of her outline. She was only nineteen when her throat was shredded - two years older than I was - and she looked younger. The smile is wide, gap-toothed and innocent. The murders started in Cardiff and they had been getting closer and closer to home. This was the first - but not the last- in Bridgend. It was only after this murder that people in my home town truly felt that they were at risk on a night out. Cardiff was close, but still far enough. It was still happening somewhere else, in the newspapers and on the TV. They walked past this murder scene on a daily basis. This was when it truly got real. This was when my parents really got concerned.

  Marie was on a night out with her friend in Sinatra's nightclub. They were enjoying a drink when Marie got up and left. Her friend saw Marie leave on her own. They were sat together when Marie just stood up, gave her friend the briefest of waves and walked out without uttering a word. Apparently, her friend considered going after her, checking that she was alright, but then thought better of it; she assumed she was just a bit worse for wear and had popped out for some fresh air. It was only when Marie didn't return ten minutes or so later that she started panicking. She went looking for her outside the club, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  The doormen confirmed they saw a girl matching Marie's description leave the club at the approximate time her friend said she just upped and left. They said she turned left out of the club; this tallied with where she was found dead the next morning. And, most importantly, the doormen confirmed that she left alone. Sure, people came and went shortly after her, but they headed in different directions. The two knucklehead bouncers were adamant that nobody followed her; the police had no reason to suspect they weren't telling the truth.

  The police investigation, headed up by DCI Baldwin, concluded that, just with the first two murders, Spartacus most likely came into contact with his victim on her way home. It begged the question, though: who picked up whom?

  I slam the book shut. Circle my forehead with my fingers. Open up another book. There I am. Me. Staring back at myself. Only, it truly does feel like a previous version of myself, from a past life. I am seventeen and clean-cut, without a glimmer of a hair on my chin. My cheeks are puffy, my skin is oily and there are black shadows under my eyes. The blond hair is cut short at the sides and is spiky on top. My heavy eyes look tired and uncertain.

  I'm ravenous now, desperate to view more of my old life. It was a closed book for so many years and now - literally - I've opened the book again. I open another. There I am again. The photograph is almost a replica of the first; it is just as unflattering. I long to read what is written about me, but I dare not. Richard's whispering, disapproving voice taunts me. The horrific memories knock on my front door and somehow I need to keep them on the doorstep. It is futile. I am suddenly an addict, desperate for my next hit.

  I open the final book and the title chapter is big and bold.

  Jeffrey Allen - A lucky escape?

  I stare at this title until the words are a blur. I blink my eyes to re-focus. There is nothing particularly extravagant or creative about this title. It doesn't vary much from the titles of the numerous books I picked up. None of those captivated my attention. The hairs on my forearms didn't prickle like they do now. There is a solitary difference with this title. What is it? The question mark. It changes everything.

  I flip to the back cover and look at the photograph of the writer in the bottom corner. I stifle a smirk. Was this the best photograph he could find? It looks like a police mug shot. The writer could be a serial killer himself. I make a mental note of the name; I'm not quite sure why.

  Something flashes past my eye line on the far side of the book shelves. I glance up; nothing is there. I lower my head and start reading the pages of the book, but almost instantly I'm distracted again. I jerk my head up. Nothing, or nobody, is there. This time I keep looking, certain that as soon as I lower my gaze it will appear again. I keep looking, but nothing appears, and nothing disappears.

  I tell myself that this is a slippery slope to paranoia. I remind myself what DCI Reeves said: it is probably nothing, that I should just forget about it, that I should just get on with my life. I curse myself for even being here, for letting Spartacus back into my life, for opening the door even though I know he is an uninvited guest. Richard will not be impressed.

  I leave the books on the desk and rise to my feet. The light on the other side of the window is fading. The librarian announces that the library will be shutting in ten minutes. I glance around. The rows of computers are mainly vacant. Newspapers have been scattered on tables. I've been oblivious to the time passing. There are only a few people left now; they are probably homeless or don't have a home they want to go home to. I am neither of those things. I have a beautiful girlfriend waiting at home for me. It is time I head off, go home.

  I don't do this. Instead, I pick up a newspaper that has been left on a table and head to the toilets. The librarian glances over her glasses at the newspaper and raises her eyes. I feel like I've been caught with my trousers down. Again. I expect her to tell me to put the paper down, to remind me again that the library is about to close. She returns to her computer screen. I walk on tiptoes, trying to be oblivious. It crosses my mind that this might not be a good idea, that it really isn't worth the effort or the guilt. Then I curse myself for being so melodramatic. Who do I think I am? I'm only popping to the toilet for a quick browse of the paper, for God's sake. What difference can ten minutes make? They are hardly going to lock me in now, are they?

  I dutifully follow the signs directing me upstairs and then I climb the wide, concrete spiral staircase. Nobody is about. It is just me. Bliss. I shut the cubicle door. Pull the lock across. Take a seat. Unfold the newspaper and take a cursory look at the headings. I have a thought. A wonderful one. I dig my hand inside my rucksack, all the way to the bottom. I cup an orange, then an apple. I packed them in my bag with the best of intentions, but I know I'll throw them both out once they start moulding. That is more like it. I pull out my cigar and then light up. Inhaling, I savour the aroma. I never had any doubts that this was worth the effort.

  The rest room door opens. I am no longer alone.

  My mouth is full of smoke, but I'm afraid to exhale. I blow out my cheeks to the point that they're ready to pop like a couple of balloons. I lower my head between my knees and blow the smoke in the direction of the floor. Then I close my legs to act as a barrier to stop the smoke from rising. I wave my hand in the air.

  "Cleaner!"

  What am I expected to do in these circumstances? Am I supposed to notify the cleaner that I am in the cubicle? I stay silent, and I remain motionless. My eyes momentarily return to the newspaper, but my focus is broken. I'm aware that the library will lock the doors in just a few minutes. Unless I leave now then I may be locked in after all. I stand up to pull across the lock.

  The cleaner starts humming a tune. I sit back down.

  My buttocks are glued to the toilet seat. My eyes stare at the blank canvas of the
toilet door. There is something about the tune that grips tightly at my throat, that strangles my windpipe. Or maybe - just maybe - it is the way he hums the tune? It is jovial and upbeat. It is passionate. Nothing untoward there. But it is in dire conflict with the tune. It becomes louder. He is walking towards me. The footsteps are slow and measured, but he is definitely getting closer. Then he stops. I crouch down and glance under the gap at the bottom of the door, like an excited kid at the swimming baths for the first time. I can see his shoes. He is stood just a few feet from the door. I flinch and silently move away.

  My hands grip the side of the plastic toilet seat. I try to calm my nerves, to think rationally. But why is he stood on the other side of the door? What is the worst that can happen? I realise that if it is him then the worst that can happen is I am bludgeoned to death with a razor blade. Thinking rationally doesn't help. I decide not to think at all. I shut my eyes and try to focus on the words that he is humming.

  Don't fear the reaper - Baby I'm your Man.

  And then the words stop. I can hear his footsteps on the tiled floor. He is walking away. It feels like the vice-like grip around my neck has been released. I wait for the toilet door to open. I keep waiting. He hasn't headed for the door. He hasn't left. He is still in the room. What is he doing? I stare at the floor, at the spidery cracks in the tiles, counting down the seconds, waiting for the inevitable. My time has finally come, thirty years and seven days after it should have come.

  The toilet door opens and then - seconds later - it closes.

  I begin to think clearer. I have become paranoid. It was just the cleaner, pissed off because I was smoking in the toilets. It was against all the regulations. The fire alarm could have gone off. The guy was just trying to intimidate me. It worked. Hell, it worked, but not for reasons he could ever realise. I shake my head and emit a loud, excited laugh. The cleaner could smell my smoke. I push my hands down on the seat, jolted into action, suddenly focussed on what really does matter. The library is about to shut, and I need to get out of here quick.