A one-shot from the mind of Red John all those years ago...
Fire and Brimstone
I sat on my black leather couch, sipping a coffee and watching the colourful advertisements flickering across the screen. It was midmorning, the sun gradually rising, glowing orange through the curtains. The steady hum of traffic was just audible under the noise from the television.
Finally what I had been waiting for appeared on the screen. A particular chat show had been advertising all week that they had an exclusive on a certain serial killer. That I had to see.
A man with neat blonde hair, a shiny suit and a wide, gleaming grin appeared on the screen next to the hosts. He seemed incredibly self-assured, and I immediately took a dislike to him.
I reached for my remote, turning the volume up a few notches and settling back into the sofa. The man, it turned out, was a psychic. Well, he called himself a psychic. My dislike for him increased. Psychics do not exist. When would people finally realise that, and stop giving away their money to frauds?
After the token psychic reading, the man returned to his seat, and the interesting part began.
He was asked by the hosts of the show about him assisting police with their investigations into a serial killer called Red John, and the looks on the presenter's faces brought a smile to my own. They showed fear, uncertainty. Those emotions gave me power.
The man, Patrick Jane was his name, had a very different reaction. He seemed confident, and not threatened in any way. I felt the blood rush to my face as pleasure turned quickly to anger.
But that anger was nothing compared to what I felt when he next spoke. The presenter asked if he had been able to read Red John. I will never forget the words he spoke next. He called Red John - he called me - 'an ugly, tormented little man'.
From the very second he spoke those words I knew he had to pay. Nobody could get away with such slander. Nobody could cross Red John.
I threw the remote at the TV is disgust, and the screen smashed, leaving the room completely silent. I felt my body rise as if it was controlled by some unseen force. That force was my rage, and it would not be contained until that man had paid for his insults. And his stupidity.
Red John is not a little man. He is far, far from it. Red John is an artist, a showman. He has control over those around, who fear him, but also admire him. Red John will one day become a legend, to be worshipped by all. And legends cannot be made fun of. By anyone.
My laptop was already open on the table, waiting for me. I typed two words into the search engine, and waited impatiently as it loaded. Patrick Jane. He was a famous psychic, so there would no doubt be information on him.
Sure enough, his horribly smug, smiling face appeared in front of me, along with his address, which was exactly what I needed. Most importantly, however, was the knowledge that he had a wife and young child. Perfect.
It was one thing to take the life of someone who has wronged you. But it's another to make them suffer for the rest of their lives, still alive but mourning the deaths of loved ones. Death is an escape. Greif and guilt are a lifetime's worth of torture.
A plan was forming in my head as I opened a new document and began to type.
Patrick Jane,
No, not good enough. I am superior. He was foolish enough to believe he could flat out lie about my character and get away with it.
'Dear mister Jane,'
Perfect. Mock politeness. I like it.
'I do not like to be slandered in the media, especially by a dirty money-grabbing fraud. If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm, you wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child.'
Yes, this letter would haunt him for the rest of his miserable life. Day and night, awake and asleep.
If he ever slept again.
I watched as the printer chugged, etching my message onto paper. Carefully I picked it up, holding it out in front of me at arms length.
I imagined the scene in my head, the fake psychic walking into his fancy expensive house completely silent and dark. I imagined him walking to the bedroom door, surprised to find a letter stuck to it. And I imagined that surprise turn to pure dread as he read the message, and then slowly open the door.
The first thing he'd see would be the red, dripping face smiling back at him. And he would know what I'd done. He would feel horror and guilt. And he would regret ever crossing Red John. No one ever crossed Red John and got away with it
This very afternoon my revenge would begin.
I drove, listening to the rumbling of the engine and peering out into the sunset. The sky was pale pink and blue, like a watercolour painted across the horizon. The glaring orange/yellow light lit up the windscreen, and the road ahead.
It was very peaceful, driving along. Being evening there were very few cars out, and I watched the sun disappear further and further behind the horizon as I came closer and closer to my destination.
After what felt like minutes but was in fact hours, I pulled up outside a huge beachside house, very modern and fashionable, but in my opinion a hideous waste of money.
A soft yellow glow was just visible upstairs behind a flowing curtain, and the sound of water rushing through pipes filled my ears. I had already checked that Mr Jane's return would be hours away. I had all the time in the world. But first I'd wait until they were sound asleep.
Whilst I waited I strolled along the beach,, listening to the waves crash loudly against the soft white sand. Despite the peaceful setting, my heart fluttered with excitement, as it often did before I killed.
Very few people know the feeling of taking somebody's life. That feeling as the knife slits there throat and the depth disappears from widespread eyes, leaving them glazed and empty. That feeling of power, and the rush of adrenaline. Nothing else achieves that feeling but murder.
I felt a smile spread across my face at the memory. The remorse had left me long ago, and now I couldn't even remember what it felt like. After all, without darkness, there cannot be light.
As I continued along, my shoes sinking into the squeaking sand, my mind began to recite the poetry I so enjoyed.
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
My favourite poem, by William Blake. Very few people these days truly appreciate good poetry .
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings did he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
Even less appreciate the true meaning of poetry.
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
This poem in particular has a very interesting meaning. Along with its sister poem, 'The Lamb',it is very symbolic. The lamb is innocence and the tyger is evil. They are both made by the same creator, yet they are complete opposites. Without one, the other cannot exist.
Tonight I am the tyger. And Mr Jane's wife and child are the lambs. Ready for slaughter.
Little over an hour later the house went dark, as the final light globe flickered off. The time I had been anticipating had finally arrived.
I climbed the path up to the large wooden door. I slipped the paper clip out from my pocket along with a pair of latex gloves. I pulled on the gloves, the popped the lock in seconds. It was now routine. Inside felt dull and lifeless with no lights or people around, almost creepy. I moved around a small pink tricycle and climbed the stairs silently.
At the top, directly ahead, was a plain cream door. Behind it I could hear slow, steady breathing. From inside my coat I pulled the note I'd printed out earlier, and stuck it on the door. Then I turned the knob as quietly as I could, and pushed the door open.
There, lying together on a king sized bed was the women and her small child. The girl was dressed in pink pyjamas decorated with tiny purple butterflies, her blonde ringlets spread across the pillow she slept on. Her tiny chest moved up and down with every breath.
The room was filled with the scent of sickly sweet strawberries and cream, some sort of children's shampoo.
Had this been my first time I would have backed out, unwilling to kill a child so young. But time and experience had taught me otherwise.
An image of Patrick Jane flashed across my mind, and the rage and anger I had felt whist watching him make fun of me on national TV flowed through me. He was about to pay for that mistake.
I reached my hand into my pocket and clasped the handle of the newly sharpened knife.