Behind Shadows: A Psychological Mystery Thriller (The Adam Stanley Series Book 1) (10 page)

Chapter 14

Brian

"It's almost ready, sweetheart," Brian said as he placed one of the frozen meals into the microwave. Since he’d retired six months ago this had become a daily routine. Barbara made the lunch most days, she always had more energy earlier in the day, but dinner was now his responsibility.

The microwave dinged, and he replaced the piping hot lasagne package with the frozen one and reset the clock.

He had tried to cook a meal from scratch several times, but it never turned out right. Cooking wasn't his forte.

Barbara had spoiled him when he was working; she always had his dinner on the table when he'd arrived home. Recently though, she'd been tired, and everything was a huge effort for her.

Brian, happy to share the load, now did all the household chores. All except for the laundry—he'd ruined too many garments so Barbara insisted on doing that herself.

He transferred the lasagne to a white, gold-rimmed plate, added a few lettuce leaves and some slices of tomato and cucumber. "Voila," he said, pleased with the results and then put the plate onto a tray and buttered two slices of bread.

He shuffled through to the lounge. "There you go, sweetheart," he said, placing the tray onto her knee. Another bad habit, but they didn't see the point setting the table for just the two of them. It was different when the children came to visit. Then the tablecloth and best crockery would make an appearance. Otherwise, they preferred to eat in front of the goggle box.

"Thank you, love," Barbara said her husky voice raspier than usual.

The doctor insisted she should give up the cigarettes, but there was no way she would. She'd been extra breathless the past few weeks though, and the inhalers didn't seem to make any difference.

"You feeling okay, Barbs?" He handed her a knife and fork, his forehead puckered.

"So-so," she croaked, before a bout of hacking coughs tore through her.

He gazed at his poor wife. Her grey, recently set curls bounced as she coughed, and her slitty eyes watered down her fat cheeks.

She'd been such a looker when they met, almost forty years ago now. Bizarrely, the smoking was one of the things that had attracted him to her; he'd thought she was sophisticated back then. He'd loved her so much.

He still loved her, adored her even, and he was terrified of losing her.

She glared up at him, her lips pursed, slight annoyance tinging her weary face.

He realised he was still staring at her.

"What now? Don't start again, Brian. I couldn't stand another bloody lecture. Go and get your dinner." She wheezed and placed one hand on the arm of the tray and the other on her chest as she began to cough again.

"Nothing—don't worry, I won't say another thing," he said and returned to the kitchen.

After they had eaten, he switched channels for the news, another of their routines. It seemed all their activities revolved around the TV. They never ventured very far. He used to have a couple of pints in the local after work, but now it was too much of an effort.

He was half listening when an image came onto the screen that had him choking on his cup of tea.

"Hey, Bri, isn't that the teacher you were friendly with?" Barbara rasped.

"Be quiet!" he snapped. "I worked with her. I wasn't friendly with her. I got sick of your insinuations the last time around."

"Sshhh, we're missing it. I wonder what she's been up to this time," she said.

...and according to police reports, the woman was found dead in her Peckham home from what appeared to be a savage beating. The officer in charge of the investigation, Detective Inspector Kate King, says her team are working to piece together the circumstances surrounding the death. Witnesses have placed her outside the Retro Bar on Peckham High Street at around seven-thirty on Wednesday evening. She was last seen walking towards her home with another woman. Police have not released any more information. The victim's body is now with the County Medical Examiner's office for an autopsy. The police are also trying to locate the victim's ex-husband, Dennis Kidd, who has been missing for the past two weeks …

The image on the screen changed, but in its place was another familiar image. Brian felt light-headed. His breathing caught in his throat, and he struggled to bring it back to a normal rhythm. Perspiration dripped down his face and into his mouth—he was vaguely aware of its saltiness. He needed to pull himself together. He couldn't let Barbara notice how this was affecting him.

"Hmmnn, that's interesting hey, Bri? She's dead. I wonder who did it. I wonder if it
was
Dennis or one of their poor molested victims. Bri, Bri, are you listening to me?"

"I … I'm sorry Barb, I think I'll go out to the shed for an hour or so—I'm sick of sitting in front of the telly night after night." He needed to get out and clear his head.

It was just past six o'clock, but it was already very dark outside. There was no moonlight or stars. He had to take shuffling, baby steps to cross the uneven cobblestones. When he bumped into the old wooden shed, he felt the rest of the way with his fingers and opened the door. He flicked on the light switch.

It was a typical shed. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the gaps in between the wooden slats created draughts, but he loved it. It was his sanctuary. Barbara never understood what he liked about the old place. She'd been nagging him for years to clean it up, but he never did. He was guaranteed his own space as long as he shared it with spiders—Barbara was petrified of them.

He shuffled through to the back, past old paint cans and gardening tools, and through a doorway in a dividing wall.

The enclosed area was approximately two metres square. There were no windows, and no cobwebs or spiders. He cleaned this part often. Shelves along the back wall were piled high with car and gardening magazines. A single bulb hung down from the ceiling. He had to be careful to duck as he passed under it; he'd singed the top of his head on more than one occasion.

The small armchair, his destination, sat in the corner. He contemplated many things from this chair, with no interference from his beloved, but opinionated and annoying wife.

Once in the chair, he reached down, moving a heavy box of books from underneath the lowest shelf. He had to sit back and catch his breath for a couple seconds. His ever expanding waistline made bending difficult.

The second box was further back, but not as heavy, he slid it out.

He sat staring at the tatty cardboard box for a few moments. He stroked the faded print that showed it originally held jars of Marmite. However, Marmite had occupied the box for a short time. For the past thirty years it had held the true Brian, all his secrets and souvenirs.

He knew he would have to get rid of the contents. He even had nightmares about someone finding it. Yet he didn't know what to do with it. Several times he'd lit a fire in the backyard, telling Barbara he was going to burn rubbish. Instead, he replaced the lid and stashed the box back into its hidey-hole under the shelf.

In the past few years, their friends had been dropping like flies, and he knew he wouldn't live forever. He also knew that if he died, Barbara or one of his children would find the box. That should have been enough reason to dispose of it, but he couldn't.

It was a sickness. He often felt sorry when he saw druggies and alcoholics on the street. He knew how strong the calling could be, regardless of what it was your body craved.

As he opened the lid, he felt the familiar stirring in his crotch. Once he had his hand on the first item, the pressure became too much, and he had to release himself from the restraints of his trousers.

His engorged penis flopped out of his opened zipper. He lifted handfuls of fabric from the box and arranged them onto the bare shelf in front of him. Bringing every second item to his face, he inhaled. His cock was leaping and bouncing unaided, as though it had a life of its own.

Once the shelf was full, he arranged several items on each knee. He took the last item from the box. It was wrapped in silky, ivory-coloured tissue paper and he unwrapped the contents.

He lifted the white cotton panties to his face and breathed deeply. These were the most recent ones he'd acquired, but the scent was fading fast. He knew once the smell had gone he'd need a new pair.

There was a shop in central London that sold them. However, it wasn't the same without knowing the girl who'd worn them. That was part of the fetish, visualising the wearer. He'd been lucky in his job. He had been able to feed his habit easily.

Opening up the panties, he sniffed at the inside of the crotch, his tongue darting out to lick the most intimate portion of the fabric.

He reached for a small pink pair adorned with yellow flowers and wrapped them around his huge cock then began to rub himself; the crotch of the panties encased the bulbous purple tip of his angry penis.

His breathing was getting heavier. Although he was excited, it wasn't enough. He needed something else. With his free hand, he reached into the side pocket of the armchair and pulled out a magazine. Young children, both boys and girls, adorned each page from cover to cover, all in various states of undress. He had piles of these magazines, bought from the same London supplier. Again, it was never quite enough. Nothing beat having pictures of children he knew and being able to recall the scent of each of the children in his photo collection.

Reaching the bottom of the box, he pulled out his photos. The first pile was of several small girls in the school gym. They wore nothing but navy blue knickers and white vests, all doing different activities. Some of the photos were new and others years old, long before gym-kits became the norm.

His favourite was of two young girls warming up on the mat. He had taken it through the window so the quality hadn't been the best from the start, but they were very dark now. He'd had them for such a long time.

The second pile was older still; they were the bikini-clad bodies of two young girls sunbathing on the beach. The heads were cut off in these photos. He was ashamed of these ones the most. The girls were his own daughters. Frantically pulling at his penis now—he was so close, but it still wasn't happening.

He knew why. It had been like this for months. The panties and the pictures were just not enough. He was scared of what he would have to do next.

Six months ago he'd taken the dog for a walk. It was a beautiful sunny day and the park was full of families. Some were having picnics, some ice-creams; all were having a wonderful time. He'd stopped for a while at the playground, watching some gorgeous kiddies. His hand in his pocket, he stroked his cock while he nonchalantly watched, and threw a stick to the dog with his other hand.

He'd been doing this for years and had mastered the art of seeming uninterested in what was happening around him. All the time he had one hand on his cock and his eyes on the little children.

That particular day he'd decided to walk towards the bowling green. It was no longer in use—the green and pavilion were unkempt.

Several times he'd masturbated there out in the open. The two paths leading to it were a good two-minute walk from either side of the green. He'd get plenty of warning if anybody approached.

As he reached the pavilion, he could hear voices but couldn't see anybody. Walking up the steps, he saw two little bare legs around the corner on the floor. He walked into the back of the pavilion without looking around and sat down, delighted to see two young girls around eight or nine years old.

The younger of the two jumped up and came running over to him. She had a mass of auburn curls and wore a pink top and short A-line purple flowery skirt.

"Aw, what's your doggie called?" She knelt on the floor in front of him, stroking the dog. She had one knee on the ground and the other bent giving him a perfect view up her skirt.

"Erm, Missy," he said and patted the poodle on the top of her head.

"Susan, come and stroke Missy, she's lovely," the little one called to her friend.

Missy was hopping about, licking the girl's face excitedly.

Brian couldn't believe his luck. His cock screamed to be released. He shifted its position so he was more comfortable.

Susan came over and sat next to her friend in front of him on the floor. She looked a little older than the first girl and had long black hair tied up with a yellow bobble. She wore lime green leggings and a yellow and green top.

"Are you here all alone?" he asked in a concerned-adult kind of way.

"Yeah," the first girl said. "We was wiv my sister, but she went off wiv her boyfriend," the younger girl said.

"Oh, that's not very nice of her to leave you alone like that." He smiled, all the time squeezing his penis through the fabric of his coat pocket. He'd undone the front of his trousers but was covered up by the coat. He'd made a hole in the lining of his pocket years ago.

Missy lay on her back. She loved the attention from the two girls, and they were besotted with her. This gave him a chance to watch them. If anybody came in there was nothing untoward going on. No one would be able to tell he was masturbating under his coat.