Charity Begins at Home

By Robert Harris

SERIAL KILLER OR SECRET SAVIOUR?

 

Even after all this time, there are still certain people operating within the fields of criminal investigation and criminal psychology who argue about whether serial killers are actually a product of nature versus nurture, or perhaps a bit of both for those who can't quite make their minds up and like to sit on the fence.

 

But what if they're all wrong? What if some serial killers aren't born with bad wiring and homicidal desires or shaped by their environment from an extremely young and impressionable age to commit murder? What if there's a third option? What if some serial killers are simply created out of sheer necessity? What then?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Harris
• Release date: Jan 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223815563

Book preview

Prologue

It has often been stated by experts and those within the industry itself, that behind every great work of fiction there is an element of truth to be found, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to decide for yourself whether you believe this to be true or not in the case of this particular story.

You see, it’s not completely beyond the realms of possibility that I discovered this dusty, old diary amongst a bunch of long-forgotten stuff during a recent house clearance in Bristol and decided to type it in verbatim, pretty much, in order to ensure that the grisly, harrowing tale contained within its many yellowish, fading pages didn’t end up getting lost in the mists of time.

Then again, it’s also quite conceivable that I’ve just got an overactive imagination and rather enjoy the challenge of conjuring up different kinds of serial killers – irrespective of their age and gender.

Of course, I may also have always wanted to write a book from the perspective of the killer, as well as wanting to write a book in the form of a journal, and therefore I’ve just used this gruesome idea – whether factual or fictional – as a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

But don’t sweat it, though, as you’ve got at least until the end of the book before you need to make a firm decision. And that should give you plenty of time to come to a sensible conclusion one way or the other.

Not that you’ll ever know whether you’re correct or not, mind you. Which really, really sucks . . . big-time!

But then, what’s life without a little mystery?

Sunday – January 1st 1989

Dear Diary,

I don’t actually know if this is going to benefit me or not, but my NHS-appointed therapist said that it might make me feel less alone in the world, so I figured it was worth a try.

I mean, it certainly couldn’t make things any worse than they already are from my point of view. And if keeping a diary of my thoughts and feelings is not technically making things worse, then common sense and logic would dictate that there’s a chance that it might, indeed, make things better, right?

I dunno. I’m only 15. To be honest, I don’t really know much about anything at the moment. My therapist, Megan, on the other hand, is super-old, like well into her 40s, and seems pretty smart, so I’m going to trust that she knows what she’s talking about – at least until I find out otherwise.

And it’s not like I have to write in it religiously every day; just as and when I feel like it; when I’ve got something important to share that shouldn’t be kept bottled up inside me.

Megan also explained that keeping a journal would help me to deal with my loss. Her choice of word, not mine. Using the word loss makes it sound like I misplaced my parents somehow, but I didn’t lose them. They were taken from me. My mum and dad were suddenly ripped out of my life during the tragic Clapham Junction rail crash on December 12th 1988 that killed and injured over 500 people and left me an orphan.

But I seriously doubt I was the only orphan created on that terrible day.

I honestly think it would have been a lot better for me, personally, if I’d been either a great deal younger or a great deal older when my parents died. And I’m well aware of how selfish and fucked up that sounds, believe me.

I mean, if I’d been a lot younger, then I would have been too little to really comprehend what was happening to me and the whole dreadful ordeal would’ve just passed me by in a haze of ignorant bliss. And if I’d been a lot older, then I would have already established some sort of life for myself, and would therefore be in a stable situation with a support mechanism in place that would’ve enabled me to cope far better with losing the 2 most important people in my life.

But suffering the loss of my parents at the age of 15 is like the worst possible scenario imaginable, because I’m old enough to understand what’s happening to me, but I’m not old enough to be able to deal with it, to process it, without turning into a complete basket case.

I haven’t finished school yet. And after that, there’s college and university to consider, followed by getting a job. All stuff that I was expecting my mum and dad to help me with. Not to mention getting married and having kids and buying a house at some point in the future.

How am I supposed to figure all that out on my own for God’s sake?

Technically speaking, I’m not on my own. I’m living with my aunt Rachel, her husband Tom, and their daughter Sadie in the city of Bristol, but I’m not sure how much help they’re going to be in the long run.

I mean, I don’t want to sound like an ungrateful bitch or anything, because they did step up and agree to take me in, rather than letting me get dumped into the foster care system, but there’s definitely something wrong with them that I can’t quite put my finger on.

The whole family dynamic seems a bit off to me.

Still, it’s very early days yet and I could well be imagining things; which wouldn’t be all that surprising really, given what I’m dealing with and the fact that I just ruined any chance they had of having a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

On the other hand, though, my dad always told me to trust my gut. He said that our 1st instincts are often correct; something to do with our prehistoric lizard brains and having to survive as cavemen on nothing but our wits.

Then again, the Lucas family might just be treading on eggshells because of me and therefore things will gradually get better with time. I mean, I am the cuckoo that’s just invaded their warm, cosy nest.

That’s me, Charity Cook. Cuckoo in more ways than one.

Talk about confusing!

Saturday – January 14th 1989

It’s official. It’s not me. I’m not crazy. There’s definitely something wrong in the Lucas household.

I’ve been residing here for almost a month now and all 3 of them are still acting really weird. And it’s not just around me, either. Their behaviour towards each other is far from what you would call normal for a single-child family comprising of a mother, father, and daughter. And I should know, as up until quite recently, that was something I had an intimate knowledge of.

Compared to my own parents, the interaction between Rachel and Tom is clearly strained and devoid of warmth, which I personally find rather upsetting.

Rachel reminds me of my mother, you see, and seeing her so unhappy is understandably distressing. My mum and Rachel weren’t identical twins, not even close, but there’s still a definite family resemblance, which means that seeing Rachel every day is partly comforting and partly heartbreaking for me. A constant visual reminder of half of what I’ve lost.

Anyway, it’s obvious to anyone who isn’t blind that Rachel is far from happy with her lot in life at the moment, and I’ve got 20-20 vision.

The daily interaction between Tom and Sadie is even worse.

There are none of those father-daughter moments that I still vividly remember sharing with my dad when I was 10.

I would always be glad to see him when he got home from work and excited to show him the latest picture I’d drawn, and he would always ask me about my day and what I’d been up to at school, before helping