Making a Monster

By Stephen Walker

Peter Pouley is a very ordinary man who is tricked into becoming the main suspect of a drug related double murder. He escapes arrest, witnesses another murder and avoids being killed by the birth of the monster inside himself. This alternate ego develops its own strengths and behaviours, and grows stronger when there is any form of stress.
After the murders of his ex-wife and his son, Peter cannot stop the monster from seeking revenge. He targets the detective who is heading the hunt for the now infamous Peter Pouley and and learns who who gave the order for the murder of his wife and son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Walker
• Release date: Nov 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310896163

Stephen Walker

I am and I try to be.

Book preview

Making a Monster

by

Stephen Colhoun Walker

Published by Colhoun Walker at Smashwords

Text copyright © 2014 Stephen Colhoun Walker

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Ben Colhoun

Preface

The newspapers and television loved me. They like monster stories so I was a media dream. The press said I was a monster. The chilled meat in police morgues confirmed I was a monster. I was a monster.

My photograph was on television crime programs more often than any other wanted criminal. At one time my face sold more copies of tabloids than any of the Royals. Lurid documentaries have been made about my reign of terror. Members of parliament asked questions about me in the House of Commons and my freedom was an embarrassment to the government.

Yet the police did not want me arrested. Nor did the government. Nor did the grey moneymen who own this country. They were afraid that the embarrassment of me caught would be worse than the embarrassment of me free. The only way they wanted me was dead. But first they needed to know that any information I had was neutralised.

My story begins with the destruction of the very ordinary Peter Pouley and continues with the creation of me from my conception and painful birth to my monstrous adulthood.

Introduction

Peter Pouley was a wet little shit. As one of life's failures he was the perfect almost man for the virtual reality of the modern world.

Peter’s father was from Dublin and his mother from the east end of London. Peter was born in 1964 and in 1976 the family was encouraged to move to the new town development of Peterborough. The encouragement came in the form of an urban renewal scheme in north London that began with the land clearance of the street that held their rented house.

Peter enjoyed the usual childhood mixture of happiness and embarrassment, sprinkled with small successes and general failures. He did not achieve much at school and left in 1980 with a job as an apprentice in Perkins Diesels. In 1982 his mother went back to London, leaving his father to continue the strange suicide pact he had made with alcohol until he finally achieved permanent oblivion by cirrhosis of the liver.

In 1983 Peter gave up being a mechanic because an allergy to dirty oil made his skin blotchy and his fingers swell up. Next he worked for an engineering firm, doing simple welding jobs and assembling components to make cigarette machines, until the anti-smoking lobby forced restrictions on their use and he was made redundant. He found himself a job in a warehouse and rose to the dizzy heights of van delivery before being made redundant again.

In 1987 Pete married his childhood sweetheart, Sharon Rogers, who gave birth to a son, David, some seven months after the wedding. Pete loved his son, but never really learnt how to talk to him. After the divorce he remained on good terms with his son, his ex-wife her and his erstwhile best friend who'd been fucking Sharon for at least a year before she finally left Pete in 1991.

In November of 1997 Pete was thirty-three, balding and developing a beer belly. He took his son to see Posh every second Saturday and every Sunday went to watch him play in the Under Twelve Sunday League. Other than this concession to duty, Pete pleased himself. His idea of a good night was three pints, a bag of fish and chips and a dirty film on the telly.

Pete was one of life's watchers. He didn't do, he watched. He watched life in general while sitting in a pub, or real life on TV, or he read real books - thrillers, westerns and murder mysteries. Books with a bit of violence, a real hero and a strong sprinkling of sex.

Pete watched from the sidelines. He accepted his position as a substitute in the game of life, merely watching, not wanting to play, and never being called on.

Pete lived his real life in his head.

Chapter 1. Conception and Birth

Pete looked out of the window of his one bedroom, first floor flat. It was a cold clear day in early November and he needed to go to Boots to renew his prescription for hand cream. He'd done some work on his car and the old trouble had flared up again.

He hitched up his jeans. Time to get the wagons rolling, he said, but first I think I’ll mosey on down to the saloon and get me some hard liquor.

He was out of milk.

He pulled back from the window when he noticed that the door of the house opposite was opening. He watched surreptitiously as Tracey West walked to her car, unlocked it, got in and drove away.

He held an invisible hand radio to his mouth and whispered, Subject on the move. Am following. Over and out.

Pete hurried down the stairs, checked that the area was clear and dashed to his car.

I think I got out without being spotted, he said to his invisible hand held radio, but I’ll check that I’m not being tailed.

He coughed into his hand as a neighbour walked towards his car and waved. Pete waved back. Feeling slightly foolish he started the car and drove to Sainsbury’s car park.

Pete scanned the area, checking that there were no plain clothed police watching for him while he purchased the illegal supply of drugs. He could always recognise them, they had a particularly flat-footed way of walking from their years on the beat.

The girl at the counter was good, she took the prescription as if it was a perfectly normal transaction and passed him the lethal concoction that was carefully disguised as hand cream. He left Boots to go to Sainsbury’s for some milk and cornflakes. And it was then that he saw her.

Like most men, Pete had always been a woman watcher. His eyes followed the usual scan mode. One glance at her face and a flick down to her shoes, followed by the slow tracking back up to the face. A woman watcher, like Pete, looks automatically and very occasionally is aroused by what he sees. This was one of his few pleasures in life.

Her face was strikingly beautiful, with a black beauty mark high on one cheek. Her classy high heels set off the length of leg that flowed into strong thighs outlined by the short, tight skirt. The tailored jacket pinched her narrow waist and flattered her prominent breasts. The red of a silk scarf, tied tightly round her long neck, was picked up in the ribbon woven through her black braided hair.

Over the years Pete had learned that women as beautiful as this never look back. But this time it was different. This one did. Her piercing blue eyes locked with his.

And she smiled.

An embarrassed Pete nodded and mumbled a good morning as he walked by. Being caught looking made his face feel hot, despite the cold draught of the wind tunnel that architects are so good at designing into shopping centres.

There are many beautiful women in the world. Films, television and magazines prove that all the time. But you don't often see a classy looking beauty in real life, especially walking through Bretton Shopping Centre at twenty to nine on a Wednesday morning.

Bretton Centre isn't the centre of the universe; it's just the centre of Bretton. And Bretton's just a down market, aging new town housing estate on the outskirts of Peterborough. And Peterborough, well, it's got a railway station and a Cathedral and it isn't worth travelling to one to visit the other. So you don't often see noticeably classy beauties in Bretton.

Pete went to Sainsbury’s and bought his cornflakes and milk. He walked out to the car park with a bit more spring in his step because a beautiful woman had smiled at him. To be noticed is good for the ego. He allowed a fantasy to grow in his head as he saved her from the attack of a gang of drug crazed teenage thugs. Then, the two of them alone, the woman wearing that same smile and black silk underwear - and those eyes - they carried an invitation...

Excuse me.

He turned. It was her again. She smiled at his wide eyes and slack jaw. Pete blushed and stepped back. He was better at handling the fantasy when it stayed inside his head.

Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.

Her voice was melted dark chocolate, with a large spoonful of honey.

No, Pete squawked, I was miles away. Sorry. How can I help?

The people I came to see aren't in, my mobile phone battery is flat and I need to use a telephone urgently but the phone directory is missing. I also have no money and the bank isn't open and the cash machine isn't working. Is there another telephone or a library nearby?

There's a library, just down the end and turn right. But it doesn't open till half past nine. Mr Cool had almost got back into Pete's head.

The shadow of a frown flickered across her perfect face and Pete felt as though he had failed her. Then she smiled again and shrugged.

Mr Cool took a deep breath and made the offer. You can use my phone if you like. I don't live far away.

Really? That would be awfully kind. It is important that I call as soon as possible. You wouldn't mind?

She spoke so well. The pink tip of her tongue wet her full lips as she finished speaking. Mr Cool was palpitating.

Of course not. Anything to help a beautiful lady in distress. My car's in the car park.

If his voice hadn't sounded so false he could have believed he was in control.

That's original. She smiled again, lessening the jibe.

Pete wasn't sure if she meant the crass line about beautiful lady in distress or where he'd parked the car.

Let’s go then, she shivered a little. It's cold here. She smiled again as Pete gestured in the direction of the car. He hurried towards it and opened the passenger door for her. He wanted to impress this vision.

The car started first time, so maybe the blotchy hands were worth it after all. He hoped she wouldn't notice them.

Mr Cool regained some composure, but felt embarrassed when he led her into his first floor flat via its dingy uncarpeted stair way and exposed the mess in the living room. The phone directory was under an empty pizza box. The phone was under the sofa. The vision was supplied with both.

Would you like a coffee? he asked.

That would be wonderful.

That smile again. It lit the room and brought a smouldering reaction to his crotch.

By straining his ears he heard enough of her conversation to work out that someone wasn't where she expected them to be. He took the coffee in when she put down the phone. She'd cleared enough room on the sofa to sit down.

Thanks. She took the coffee. Now I'm in deep shit. She laughed at the expression on Pete's face. I've shocked you, she said.

No, not at all. But she had. In Pete's internal world an angel didn't say shit, didn't do shit, didn't smell shit. She just smiled and took off sexy underwear. What's happened? Mr Cool asked.

I just phoned my friend. Unfortunately she's not there and not expected back until this evening. That leaves me stuck. My bags are at the station and I'm supposed to pick up a parcel by half past nine. I haven't the money for the taxi fare and if I did pick it up I'd have to hang round all day with my bags and a parcel that's supposed to be delivered this morning to some place called Wisbech. She shrugged. My train was late, so now I'll lose my job and an awful lot of money. She looked at him with wide eyes that seemed to hold so much promise.

I could run you into town, Pete said. We could pick up your stuff and drop it off in Wisbech. It isn't far.

Don't you have to go to work or anything?

I'm between jobs, Pete said. It'd be no bother.

Well, if you're sure. I'll make it worth you while. I promise. My name's Eleanor Williams. She held out her hand. We haven't introduced ourselves.

Pete Pouley.

She smiled again. That promise was enough. Pete was with a beautiful and exotic woman who smiled at him.

Pete drove her to the station and waited in the car. Eleanor returned in five minutes with a small suitcase and a large, but empty looking, sports bag. She passed him a piece of paper.

That's where it has to be delivered. I need some things from my suitcase so I'll sit in the back. She was used to being in control. That was a relief for Pete; Mr Cool could chill out.

His knowledge of the area, from his van delivery days, meant that Pete was able to find the right road out of Wisbech. He thought his luck was running well when he came across a postman that he could ask for final directions. He wound down his window as he slowed to a halt and called his request across the road. He was slightly surprised to see by his rear view mirror that Eleanor had ducked down in the back seat.

Straight on about half a mile. It's a bungalow on the left completely on its own, you can't miss it.

Pete waved his thanks and drove on.

Hiding? he asked.

I was trying to change my blouse, Eleanor said. "I didn't mind you peeking in the mirror but I don't want to show the whole world my underwear.

Pete laughed. She was changing her clothes in his car. He felt stirrings again. That sort of thing usually only happened when someone like Sharon Stone was on the small screen.

The postman was right about the place being impossible to miss. He pulled into a concrete yard in front of a modern bungalow that was the only building for miles in the unending, flat landscape.

Just wait here, I won't be long, Eleanor said. She got out of the car carrying the holdall and went to the door. She didn't knock, just pushed it open and disappeared inside.

Pete waited. He turned on the radio and settled back to listen to some golden oldies while the woman of his dreams completed her business. He felt good about being so useful to such a classy woman, almost as if he had finally found a real purpose in life. His vision in black silk underwear moved back into his head.

The sound of a car backfiring somewhere in the distance disturbed him from his reverie. He looked around, but couldn't see any vehicles, just the bungalow and the vast expanse of fenland sky. He turned off the radio.

Eleanor hurried from the house carrying the sports bag; it now looked a lot fuller. She got in the back of the car. Let's go, she said.

He started the car and drove back the way he had come, waving to the postman who had been so helpful. Eleanor had ducked down in the back seat as they passed him.

Where to now? he asked.

A good hotel, Eleanor said. Somewhere the other side of Peterborough.

The fuel gauge warning light had come on.

I haven't much petrol left. It was hard to say it. He didn't want to sound like a loser to this woman.

It's OK, I've got some cash now. She reached over to the front and dropped some notes into his lap. That's for the petrol. You wouldn't mind spending some time with me would you? You aren't expected anywhere else?

Apart from a longstanding appointment with his television set, Pete discovered that he could be free all day.

It will be my pleasure, he said, and the butterflies in his belly were singing.

He stopped for petrol a few miles further on.

You've done it again, she said. Every time I try to change this blouse you stop the car.

Pete laughed. She was lying flat on the back seat with only her bra on.

Hurry up, then. Or do you like seeing me stuck in the back of your car like this?

I like it, Pete said. Mr Cool was back and making his moves.

Then maybe I'll postpone putting on the blouse till we leave the garage. She lay on the back seat and smiled at him while he put ten pounds worth in the tank. She'd given him five twenties but he didn't want to presume. He went to the shop and paid.

She sat up soon after they left the garage and pulled on a different blouse. She smiled at him when she caught his eyes admiring her cleavage in the rear view mirror.

He drove round the ring road and out on the A47. She'd asked for a good hotel. That had to mean the Haycock at Wansford.

Before we go to the hotel, are there any of those road side cafe places near here where we could have some breakfast? I'm famished.

There's a Happy Eater just up the A1.

Let's go for it.

She'd pulled on a shapeless jumper and wriggled out of her skirt to pull on a pair of trousers before they stopped for breakfast.

Eleanor ordered for a hearty appetite and made him do the same, but she only picked at her food. While he was still eating she left him to make a phone call.

He paid for the food from the money she'd given him and then they drove to the hotel.

Eleanor took her sports bag and case out of the car.

You go and have a drink, I'll meet you in the bar in a few minutes. Have you enough money left?

Plenty.

Take this anyway. I prefer having my man buy me drinks and I've got expensive tastes. She slipped some notes into his hand. I'll see you soon.

My man! And she meant him. He didn't even think about where she was going, he just floated to the bar.

In the bar he felt a bit out of place. His shell suit was OK, but shoddy compared to the business types in their real suits. He bought a pint and sat well out of the way in a corner where he could watch for Eleanor's arrival. It had been quite a day. Almost three hundred pounds in his pocket, a full greasy English breakfast sitting heavily in his belly and a pint in his hand to wash the breakfast down. Better than all that, he was waiting for a really beautiful woman.

Time passed. His glass was almost empty and she still hadn't arrived. The reassuring feel of a wad of notes in his pocket stopped him from thinking that she'd decided to go off without telling him.

He was at the bar buying a second pint when he was paged. Could Mr Peter Pouley go to reception to take a phone call.

At first he didn't believe it was for him, but he went. It was Eleanor.

Sorry, Pete, she said. I've been delayed. I won't be long. I'm sorry I'm messing you around. I'll make it up to you, I promise.

It doesn't matter, Pete answered. I'm happy waiting.

You're so sweet. You saved my job this morning. I want to thank you.

You just have.

Not the way I want to. She lowered her voice. I know, let's have lunch together.

Lovely.

Together alone. Book into the hotel; get a room, a double. And we'll use room service for lunch. I want to talk to you about something in private. Have you enough money?

Plenty.

Then do it. I'll be with you soon. Her voice held a whispered promise of more than Pete could imagine.

Getting a room was not difficult. He explained that, unexpectedly, he needed a room for the day and one night. He paid in advance in cash, filled in a form, took the key, went to the room He took off his jacket and settled down to wait.

It was a nice room but he would have preferred to be in the bar. The phone rang five minutes later and Eleanor asked for his room number. He told her and returned to waiting. He didn't have to wait long. In under five minutes she was there. She was still dressed in her trousers and shapeless sweater and carrying her holdall and small suitcase. He was in a hotel room with a beautiful woman and it was not yet midday. This was living.

I'm sorry about messing you about. She dropped the sports bag on the floor and kicked it under the bed before putting the case on the bed. I had to make some phone calls and every one kept me waiting. I feel tired and grubby. Travelling by train always makes me feel like that. How about a drink?

She went to the mini bar. I bet you're a whiskey man, she said, and she smiled again, letting him know that she found a hard drinking whiskey man like him amazingly attractive. Pete nodded and smiled.

I'll pour us both one. Could you run the bath for me? I need to relax, it was a difficult morning.

Pete went to the bathroom and turned on the taps. Here he was in a hotel running a bath for a beautiful woman who was pouring him a drink. He couldn't quite believe what was happening, but he wasn't questioning it.

She was standing by the bed with two plastic glasses in her hands when he went back. She'd moved her case to the floor. She held out one glass. He took it.

Cheers, she said. She raised her glass to her lips and emptied it.

Pete mimicked her action, except that he didn't drink. He'd already had two pints and he wasn't going to mess up and miss out on this experience because of alcohol. He smacked his lips together and sighed.

That's good stuff, he said. Your bath's running. Do you want some bubbles in it?

Oh yes. I love being spoiled.

Pete smiled and returned to the bathroom. He poured the whiskey down the sink, suppressing his regret at the waste of good booze. He put some bubble bath into the water and returned to the bedroom that had a double bed and a beautiful woman in it.

The bath's half full, Pete told the beautiful woman. She took his glass from him and beamed her smile one more. I won't take long, just a bit of a relax and a freshen up. Lie down on the bed, you may as well be comfy while you wait for me.

Pete lay on the bed. She was back at the mini bar. She refilled his glass and gave it to him. He took it and sipped.

You really have been wonderful this morning. I don't know what I can do to thank you. She smiled. But whatever it is, it'll have to wait till after my bath. She pulled the jumper over her head and dropped it on the floor. I think there's some special sort of air they put in trains to make you feel sweaty and cold at the same time. She undid her trousers as if undressing in front of him was the most natural thing in the world. She dropped the trousers on top of the jumper.

You should slip off your shoes and have a little relax too, build up your energy levels. She smiled again. And don't offer to scrub my back. I want to relax in private.

She was undoing her blouse. Pete was concentrating hard on keeping Mr Cool in his head. He hooked one trainer against the other and slipped it off his foot. It fell to the floor. Her blouse was undone. He hooked the other trainer with his foot and pushed it off. She dropped her blouse on the pile of clothes.

Finish your drink and have a power nap while I have my bath. Then we'll both feel refreshed and ready for... she paused and smiled, … lunch. And as she said lunch she unhooked her bra and dropped it on top of her blouse.

Pete felt anything but relaxed. She had satin smooth pink skin and wonderful breasts. She smiled again and walked past him to the bathroom.

Pete breathed deeply. He had a level of ache in his groin that he hadn't felt since his teens. He raised the glass to his lips to savour the moment with a mouthful of scotch, but thought better of it. He heard her turn off the taps and get into the bath. Silently he slid off the bed and went to the window. It opened easily. He threw the contents of