The Goodreads Killer: The Trilogy: The Goodreads Killer, #4

By Dave Franklin

Thomas Ultorem's burning desire to make it as a writer has broken him. And in the chaotic world of his disintegrating psyche, someone's got to pay...

 

The Goodreads Killer - Talk is cheap, but murder costs nothing.

 

 

Dave Franklin is the author of ten novels.

 

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baby Ice Dog Press
• Release date: May 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781498973052

Dave Franklin

Dave Franklin is a Brit who lives Down Under. He has also written ten novels ranging from dark comedy and horror to crime and hardcore porn. His naughty work includes Looking for Sarah Jane Smith (2001), Begin the Madness: The Straitjacket Blues Trilogy (2014), The Muslim Zombies (2018) & Welcome to Wales, Girls: A Violent Odyssey of Pornographic Filth (2018).

Book preview

Table of Contents

Part One: A Revenge Fantasy

Part Two: The Contest

Part Three: Artistic Differences

Part One: A Revenge Fantasy

Dear reader,

I guess there’s a chance – just the tiniest chance – that I might hunt you down. Beforehand I’d always let such a frivolous impulse fade but these days – and I am not proud of this – the pictures lurking in the corners of my mind are gaining in colour, detail and intensity. I fight them, I really do, but the scenario seems to have a life of its own, slowly taking shape and maybe dreaming of the day it gets unleashed into the real world. Becomes flesh and blood, if you like.

And despite my very best efforts at restraint, I’m afraid I’ve already started... planning. You know, plotting a bit. Gathering details about your movements and habits. That sort of thing. And if I’m pushed, I might admit to lingering on the finer points of your demise, perhaps even gorging on the sight of your stricken face as I finally take centre stage in your life.

You see, I guess I’m just tired of your lack of appreciation. Let’s face it, I’m not exactly the first name on your Christmas card list. I’m still waiting for you to swing by for a cuppa and a few kind words. Hey, a simple email would have been enough. Don’t you know how precious a bit of encouragement can be?

And here’s the rub: for as long as I can remember I have been on my knees in front of you only to be treated like the invisible man. You’ve repeatedly ignored my imploring face and open arms, although occasionally you’ve stopped and dallied, causing my heart to skitter wildly. I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to be noticed. It’s so... nourishing. After all, a flower can’t bloom in the dark.

But then it dawns on me that you’re not committed to our fledgling relationship. In fact, it’s just a flirtation and soon you’ll be skipping on your merry way. Whatever trifling affection you have shown, it’s clear you’ll never bang the drum for little old me.

And don’t think I don’t know about the others. The ones you fawn over. Just tell me – why are you so in thrall with their rampant mediocrity? Hell, maybe they’ve somehow infected you, skewed your take on things and made you unable to sort the wheat from the chaff. Perhaps I should offer condolences but the fact remains that kneeling before you with my heart in my hands only seems to result in you jumping into bed with them. Do you not understand how much love I’ve lavished on you? Call me tetchy, but some days you simply seem unworthy of my great sacrifice.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All is not lost. For here we are again meeting as equals and this time I know I have your attention. I can only hope you have lost the desire to bait me, or God forbid, spit in my face.

So help me. Accept my tender embrace.

Or one day, dear reader, you might find the invisible man taking shape right in front of your disbelieving eyes.

And you’d only have yourself to blame.

THOMAS ULTOREM PULLED over just before the small bridge, the car hitting the kerb hard enough to jerk the wheel from his hands. A moment later it lurched and stalled. He chuckled, blared the horn a few times and shoved open the door. On the other side of the road a ginger cat slinked beneath a white truck that had rust bleeding down its wing. The creature stared at him from the shadows and then seemed to grin. He waved, skipped round to the car’s rear and opened the boot.

Inside were a boom box and a large green canvas bag. He carefully put the MP3 player on the pavement before unzipping the bag and checking the contents: a torch, a metal tray glued to a couple of empty plastic Coke bottles, a selection of literature, a family-sized chicken and vegetable pie, a six-pack of Bud, a canister of lighter fluid and a meat cleaver. He tucked the torch into a pocket and gazed at the river thirty odd metres away, the warmth and impending sense of release flooding through him so strongly that his face began to tingle.

It was there by the waterside that freedom awaited.

Thomas jumped at a loud bark from behind. He turned to see a black-haired young woman struggling to control a Timber Wolf.

‘Hi.’ He beamed. ‘Want some pie?’

She halted, the sizeable animal whining as it strained at the leash. ‘What?’

Thomas delved inside the canvas bag and retrieved the pie in its thin cardboard box. ‘Chicken. Already cooked. Yum yum. Not a veggie, are ya?’

She stared, a hand on her hip. ‘You’re drunk.’

He stuck out his bottom lip, head rolling from side to side. ‘It’s true, I have had a little drinky or two.’ He pulled off the pie’s cellophane wrapper. The wolf’s excitement grew, causing her to shout at it. ‘But that’s because I’m finally a free man.’ He threw his head back and bellowed. ‘I AM A FREE MAN!’ He broke off a portion and held it out. ‘C’mon, have some pie.’

She looked disgusted before striding toward the gap between his badly parked car and the wall. He cut her off and she froze.

‘You stay away, mister. I’ve got a dog.’

‘Have you...?’ Thomas grinned and looked round. ‘Where?’

‘I just want to go home. Now let me pass.’

He raised an open palm, balancing the pie on the other one. ‘Hey, hey, it’s ’kay. I’m notta bad man. Honest. Just wanna party a little. It’s not poisoned or anything. Look.’ He tilted his head back and dangled a strip into his mouth. ‘Yummy, yummy.’

‘Mister, for the last time get out of my way.’

‘Huh? What’s wrong with you? I just wanna talk. Have some fun. Look, I’ll show you I’m a nice man by feeding your doggie.’ He dropped to his knees and wagged a finger at it. ‘Now no wolfing it down.’ He giggled at his joke and proffered the food, causing the wolf to lunge and clamp its jaws onto his left hand. He yelled and fell backward as the rest of the pie tumbled to the ground. The woman repeatedly yanked on the leash but the manic creature managed to devour half of it before she pulled it away. Thomas dragged himself back against the car bumper, mournfully staring at the bleeding punctures beneath the knuckle of his index finger. His hand was trembling. He blinked back the sting of tears, glancing up at the white-faced woman as she covered her open mouth.

‘Fuckin’ mutt!’ He flung an arm out to his left. ‘There’s a cat over there. Why don’t you go ‘n’ fuckin’ scoff that too, yer greedy bastard?’

‘I told you not to go near him! That’s your fault! You can’t blame me.’

She started making a wide circle into the empty road before he began to scrape the pie off the pavement back into its box. His hand throbbed and he couldn’t move the index finger. ‘Just wanted to share some pie...’ he muttered. ‘That so bad? Really?’ His head drooped. ‘Christ, it’s hard to make friends in this town... Ah, sod ya.’

He got to his feet, shoved the pie back into the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He stooped for the MP3 player, awkwardly picked it up with three fingers and headed for the easily accessible creek that ran off the river and under the bridge. It was a warm, humid night and he was already sweating. Descending the gently sloping embankment, he crunched through a patch of gravel as the uneven ground gave way to knee-high grass. He switched on the torch, picking out some kind of outhouse and a broken bench. Nearby a shopping trolley filled with crap rested against a tall, thin tree.

Ahead lay a break in the rubbish-speckled vegetation that would allow a scramble down to the creek’s edge but he halted as the beam revealed a dishevelled shape in the grass. He frowned, realising it was a homeless man lying beneath a few sheets of paint-spattered cardboard, his bearded face mostly obscured by a baseball cap.

Thomas grinned. ‘Hey, buddy, fancy some pie?’ No response. He scratched his head. ‘Why’s no one wanna dine with me, except a bloody werewolf?’

He was about to turn to go when the gloom around the tramp thickened and seemed to shimmer. Thomas squinted, his stomach shrivelling as small dark shapes started to crawl over the guy. Rats! Maybe he was dead, all half-chewed and rotting. Thomas swayed, trying to make his feet move as some sort of feverish animal chatter reached his ears and the torch beam began to lose power. He shook it and finally took a step toward the writhing mound as an acrid stink of burning rubber assaulted his nostrils. He peered into the darkness until the tramp let out a great snore and turned in his sleep.

‘Shit!’ Thomas exhaled heavily and glanced skyward. ‘Party on, dude.’

He headed for the gap in the foliage, misjudged the metre-long drop onto the stony mudflat and half-fell, his right foot sinking into ankle-deep ooze. Somehow he managed to keep hold of everything as a noxious gas arose.

‘Bastard...’

The moon came out, enabling him to see swallows zipping along the creek’s calm surface and out to the river before doubling back and disappearing into the small dark mouth under the white bridge. Something silvery flashed inside, as if beckoning him. He spat and was about to put the boombox on a flat rock when he heard a distant ker-plunk. It sounded like someone had kicked a stone into the shallow water. He strained his ears, hearing a vague buzzing and nothing more.

Thomas set down the stereo before pulling out the metal tray. Three books – his books – were taped onto it. He put a hand on his second novel The Cursed Man only to be jolted by a mental picture of wriggling, saw-toothed wasp larvae bursting out of a moribund caterpillar. He removed his hand from the book and the image disappeared. His stomach churned and a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm. He stood still, concentrating on the glowing tendrils of mist creeping across the creek toward him. Then he delved into the canvas bag and retrieved what was left of the pie before smearing it all over his novels.

Through clenched teeth, he hissed: ‘Enjoy your last meal, motherfuckers.’

He wiped his fingers clean and picked up the cleaver, gingerly checking the blade’s sharpness. Thank God that stupid hound hadn’t bitten his right hand. He arched an arm until the corner of the rectangular blade touched the centre of his back. A faint sobbing seemed to be coming from under the bridge. He shot a look at it as a triangular fin broke the water’s surface and glided toward him. Another wave of dizziness barrelled into him as tyres squealed on the road. Someone whispered his name. His cleaver-holding hand trembled as the gleaming mist thickened around his feet. Then he yelled and the blade was thudding into The Cursed Man.

‘Feel the power of the pie! Feel the power of the pie! Feel the power... of the... feel the...’ Blow after blow rained down, gouging, destroying and liberating. ‘Feel the power...’

Gasping, he tossed the heavy knife aside and fell to his knees in the stinking mud, elated at the sight of the mutilated novels. He groped for a celebratory Bud; all his uppers were gone but he was sure the king of beers would do him proud. He yanked off the ring pull and chugged the chilled alcohol down in one go, pain flaring in his temple. He grunted and rubbed his head before finishing off another beer and hurling the empty cans away.

Then he squirted lighter fluid over the books, set fire to the tray and pushed it out onto the water. Switching on the stereo, he sprang back up as Jailbreak’s edgy three-chord power riff kicked in and the gentle current took the floating bonfire out into the middle of the creek. He shifted his weight onto his left leg, jerking his head and heel in time to the beat as the song rolled forward and Phil Lynott’s thick rasping voice began belting out the do-or-die lyrics. Thomas started to strut in the sucking mud, fist pumping the air as he wailed along to the soaring chorus.

The instrumental break came, filled with blaring alarms and wailing police sirens. He grabbed another Bud, the beer spilling down his chin as something buzzed around his ear, causing him to flap at his face. He danced, jumped and spun, feet sometimes jarring against rock and at other times threatening to skid away from under him. A refreshing wind picked up as he caught a hint of that long-sought after and utterly intoxicating scent that could only be identified as freedom.

Out on the main river a series of whoops and drunken shouts were emanating from a brightly decorated paddle steamer. Thomas bellowed at his fellow revellers until they either noticed the fire or heard him. A handful cheered and waved – a tiny but glorious moment of connection – as the Thin Lizzy vocalist warned he was busting out of prison dead or alive.

The floating fire dimmed and was extinguished as the Coke bottles punctured, listed and sank. For a while the bright after image remained before his eyes, causing him to slow and stop. He swayed, thought he was going to puke, and switched the music off. He sat on the metre-high bank, aware of the cold clammy grip of his wet lower trousers as he tried to catch his breath. The world retreated into soft focus murk.

It was over. No more screaming into the void. He was finally free.

He collapsed onto his back with his upturned hands interweaved above his head and both feet still in the mud. Above him the moon was once again shrouded by thick, clinging clouds. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Peace. Blessed peace.

‘You woke me up, boy.’

Thomas jerked his eyes open to see the homeless man looming over him, silhouetted against the moon. Meat cleaver flashed through his mind but as he went for the weapon, the tramp trod on his interlaced hands, effectively pinning him to the ground. Intense pain flared and he immediately lay still, certain that the slightest movement would make all the bones in his hands shatter like glass.

‘My hands...’ he gasped. ‘Please stop... My hands... Please.’

‘You woke me up.’

‘Sorry, Jesus Christ, I’m sorry! Is that what you want – ’

‘You call that a celebration? Huh? Letting those bastards win?’

The tramp stooped, the movement somehow intensifying the pressure. Thomas pictured the blood racing to his fingertips, ballooning and bursting. The man’s weathered face drew closer as a rank smell of decay clogged his nose. His beard was pulsating. A second later Thomas saw small brown insects crawling through the matted hair.

‘You despicable little quitter.’

‘Please, my hands. It hurts...’

‘Stop blubbing, boy. Otherwise I’ll take that cleaver and chop off your fingers. That’s when you can quit. OK? When you’ve got no fuckin’ fingers left.’

‘OK, OK, just please – ’

The man stepped off his hands, removed his beanie and wiped his brow as Thomas whimpered and tried to get up. He held his hands in front of him, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else. He was about to blow on them when a foot shoved him over. As he struggled to right himself, a vicious kick exploded against his ribs and left him writhing. His mouth opened but no sound came out. He couldn’t seem to breathe as every muscle strained for air. He managed to suck in a great wheezing breath but then the heavy coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, making him gag and vomit. Even after his stomach emptied, he kept retching and snorting out the stinging acid from his nose. He curled into a ball and waited for the next blow, vaguely aware of the man pacing.

‘You have to suffer. Don’t you understand, boy? That’s all part of it. You have to suffer. But you don’t quit. You never quit. Especially on my watch.’

‘Yes...’ His ribs throbbed horribly. Thomas managed to look up as the man reached into the pocket of his dark shapeless clothes. For a moment he was convinced he was going to withdraw a long bladed knife. Instead he pulled out a small white card.

‘Please don’t hurt me anymore...’

The tramp screwed up his face. ‘Oh, shut yer yapping, you whiny little fuck and listen. You’re gonna call the number on this card and make an appointment with Mr Pasco first thing tomorrow.’

‘Yes...’ Thomas gingerly got to his hands and knees, spitting out ropey strands of blood and saliva and sick. ‘Call the number.’

‘This is a chance to redeem yourself. Maybe your only chance.’

Thomas nodded.

The tramp reached down and patted him, his hand lingering. ‘Good boy. There, there.’

He felt absurdly grateful for the sudden affection until the stroking fingers grasped a handful of hair and jerked his head back.

‘But if you don’t call, I’ll know.’ He stabbed a finger in his face. ‘Then I’ll come find you again.’

Thomas tried not to cry. ‘I’ll call, I’ll call.’

‘And if you put me to any bother again, the kicking I just gave you will be nothing compared to the next one. Understand, boy?’

‘Yes, yes. Please... I’ll call.’

The man grunted and flicked the card. Its sharp corner hit Thomas in the side of the face and by the time his shaking hand groped for it in the long grass the man was striding away.

THOMAS LEANED UNSTEADILY against a parking meter and shielded his eyes to glance up at the city centre building. Sandwiched between the headquarters of a bank and a four star hotel it was the picture of normality. He hobbled to a bench and sat, checking those passing through its busy revolving door. No one loitered or appeared to be taking any interest in him. They were just ordinary people going about their business. Still, he did not move. He pulled out the white business card, scanned its meagre, neatly printed information for the umpteenth time and tapped it against a thigh.

After returning home from the river (and despite his stricken, bleeding state), he’d called the phone number straightaway only to get polite voicemail outlining the company’s business hours. The next day he’d rung dead on 8.30am to be told by some starchy receptionist that