The Games We Play, page 1
Copyright © 2024 Alistair Hayward
First edition 2024
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.
The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.
Published by Alistair Hayward using Reach Publishers’ services,
P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631
Edited by Alanis Smithee for Reach Publishers
Cover designed by Reach Publishers
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E-mail: reach@reachpublishers.org
Alistair b. Hayward
alistairbhayward@gmail.com
Prologue
One man was shouting orders at the other.
“Stop being such a fucking pussy!” he yelled as the other man vomited.
A third man lay on the side of the dark road. Even in the dark, it was clear that both his legs were severely broken. The left shin bone had pierced through the skin, and an enormous puddle of blood was forming on the road. The man wore a headlamp, offering the only light. The man appeared dead; his face a mushed-up mess. Their car had stopped further down the road, its headlights pointing away from where the man lay.
“Get the fuck up and help me!” the first man shouted again. The second man had stopped vomiting, and was now whimpering.
“I can’t!” he yelled back at the first man, who walked to where he was kneeling.
The first man bent over and slapped the second man hard, causing him to fall. He then grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him up. “Help me move him,” he said calmly.
They both walked back to where the man was sprawled, unmoving.
“Grab his legs,” he ordered.
The second man did as he was told. He leaned over to grab the left leg, and felt the warm puddle of blood. “Fuck!” he said, then faced away from the leg and vomited again. The first man grabbed the corpse by his wrists and lifted him, careful not to get any blood on himself. The second man took hold of the man’s legs again, with more success this time. Both carried the body to the back of the car.
“Open the trunk. Hurry,” the first man said calmly again.
After fumbling for the keys, the second man opened the trunk. They placed the body inside and stood staring at it for a moment. Suddenly, the man in the trunk gasped for air and tried to sit up.
“Finish it!” he yelled at the second man. “Use that,” he said, pointing to the tyre iron. “Now! Hurry!”
The second man grabbed the tyre iron, took a small step back, and swung it hard at the man’s head, cracking it open with one blow before dropping to his knees for a fresh round of vomiting. They both looked at the runner’s lifeless eyes, knowing he was undoubtedly dead this time. The man placed the tyre iron next to the runner’s head and closed the boot, then dropped to his knees, retching again.
That was the first time the first man had ever seen someone kill another person. “We have to go,” he said calmly, reaching over and pulling the second man up by his shirt. “We need to go now.”
The second man walked around the right side of the car to get into the passenger seat.
“No! You’re driving,” the first man said.
“But, I’m—”
“You are fucking driving,” the first man said slowly.
“Okay,” he said, defeated.
They left the scene without any traffic passing them.
***
The second time he witnessed someone kill another person was years later, in a different city, in another country, under entirely different circumstances. The same two men had kidnapped a girl and taken her to a forest. They tied her to a tree in a dark, secluded area they had found at the end of an old pathway. This time, both men participated in the torture, but the first man stood back to watch the other man take the girl’s life.
Chapter 1
It wasn’t very cold considering the time of year, but a slight breeze had picked up, dropping the temperature just enough to give me shivers. My knees shook and my jaw trembled. I wasn’t sure if that was from the chill or the adrenalin, knowing what would happen.
It was early November 1997, and the sun had already set over London’s skyline. Rain had fallen the entire day, softening the dirt beneath my feet and dampening the rustle of the leaves as I walked. I moved away from the path and walked in the shadows under the trees until I reached the spot I’d visited numerous times in the last few weeks, certain it was perfect for what I intended. I stopped and took a deep breath, relieved that the time had come.
The day had seemed to drag on forever. It was one of those days where every minute took an eternity to flow into the next dull moment. Anticipation of this evening had preoccupied me the entire day, making it almost impossible to concentrate on work. It had been a while since my last hunt. I breathed out and watched my breath fade away into the night.
The evening had an eerie quietness about it, interrupted occasionally by the wind as it picked up and died down again.
Relax. Breathe slowly.
From where I stood, the view was spectacular. To my left, I could see the towering image of One Canada Square amongst the Canary Wharf buildings, its top glowing in the night, illuminating the clouds above it—a red light on the pyramid-shaped roof flashing on and off, warning any aircraft of the impending danger the buildings posed.
I enjoyed all the views from my hiding place on top of the hill in Mudchute Park. I’d found this spot some time ago while out jogging. Running was a perfect opportunity to scout remote parts of the urban jungle, looking for locations I could use in my favourite pastime: killing.
Today’s events now seemed a lifetime away—all that mattered was how this evening would play out. It was time to put everything out of my mind and focus entirely on what would take place. Attention to every single detail was paramount. After all, this attention to detail was what had kept me from being caught for so many years.
It seemed like I’d stepped into another world; one filled with cold darkness. It was almost hard to believe I’d been in my brightly lit, warm office only an hour ago. The walk from our offices to where I now knelt wasn’t very long, taking me alongside Canary Wharf, past the London Arena, to Asda. I’d stopped briefly in the trees next to the parking lot to watch all the people stream into the supermarket like ants entering and exiting their hill. I enjoyed watching people go about their daily lives completely oblivious to what and who was around them. This was something I loved doing when I lived in New York—especially in Central Park and Times Square—sitting quietly on a bench in either location, simply watching people. Imagining who they were, where they were going, what they were thinking. Oblivious to the game I was playing.
I had walked along the dark treeline towards the entrance to Mudchute Park, keeping in the shadows, watching carefully, making sure I wasn’t noticed. Since finding this spot some weeks ago, I’d returned almost every night, ensuring I was familiar with the surroundings.
No surprises.
The sun set incredibly early in London this time of year, so it was dark by the time I left the office. It was much easier to move around this concrete jungle unnoticed after sundown, and even easier under the deep darkness of the trees. The night felt even darker by the time I got to the park’s steel gates. I had looked around again, training my eyes on the few parked cars nearby. Satisfied no one had noticed me, I pushed the cold iron of the turnstile gate and entered a whole new world.
My playground, where I still had many people to kill.
I walked up the gravel path, which wound its way up to the top of the hill. My footsteps were the only sound breaking the silence of the darkness. When I reached the top, I ducked under another line of trees, through some bushes, and carefully took my place behind the large tree. Before leaving the office, I’d changed out of my suit into black pants, a black polo and a pair of black sneakers, the tread of which I’d worn down to make the sole as smooth as possible with no trace of the make or brand. I left the office looking the way I did every other evening: wearing my black gloves, black beanie, and black coat.
My breathing had slowed down, and I managed to get my heartrate back down to its regular, relaxed pace. The tremor in my knees had disappeared, and so had the breeze. I was relaxed and ready for what lay ahead. From my coat pocket, I removed a clear plastic poncho and the new black scarf. I unwrapped the poncho and carefully unfolded it, mindful not to rip any part of it. I lifted the open end over my head and slipped it over my clothes. I was ready.
From here, the world seemed so far away. I breathed out slowly and watched again as my breath turned to white mist and disappeared.
Focus.
My senses had adjusted to my surroundings, my ears tuned into every sound, my retinas opening wide, completely adapted to the darkness. I’d rehearsed this almost every night for the last two weeks: standing in this spot, quietly waiting for her to walk along this path, unaware that I was watching her. It was a horribly dark path for someone to take, especially alone and at this time of
I’d followed her out of the park twice and watched as she retrieved the key from her bag and entered a house. On both occasions, I had seen another lady, a bit older, watching TV in the living room. I wondered who she was to my lady—her sister, her lover, or maybe just a flatmate? It wasn’t important. I wondered if my lady ever felt scared walking home alone in the dark. Did she ever think one of those nights might be her last?
Quietly I would walk back down the path towards the iron gates, ensuring I wasn’t seen. On only one occasion did someone else walk up that path after I’d watched my lady disappear through the trees. Hopefully, fate would be in my corner tonight, and no surprise guests would join our party.
I waited patiently for the next twenty minutes, listening to every crack and rustle, listening for the sound of her feet on the stones. The wind picked up again, making it harder to hear anything. Thunderstorms were expected later that evening, and I hoped the storm would hold off until my lady reached our little rendezvous point where we could play my game.
Please don’t rain yet.
Suddenly, the wind died down, as if on cue. It took me a moment to register the silence. Just as suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of someone pushing open the iron gates. It turned only once, assuring me that there was only one person.
My prize.
I hid behind the tree, stretching the scarf between my hands, ready to wrap it tight around her neck. I kept my breathing shallow to conceal the mist. As the seconds passed by, my breathing slowed even more. My heart beat loudly in my ears and adrenalin built up in my veins, causing the knee tremors to resume. I could hear the footsteps more clearly now as the silhouette in the dark moved closer and closer. Again, I tightened my grip on the woollen scarf. Again, I stretched it taut between my hands.
The footsteps were close now, and I could hear the rustle of a plastic shopping bag. I could make out her features. She was carrying two bags, one in each hand. The bags rubbed against her legs as she walked, the noise thunderous. She sounded to be muttering or singing to herself. At about eight feet away from me I could see she was short and skinny, even under her coat. She walked past me, oblivious.
She sang quietly to herself, the song turning to mist as it left her mouth. It would be the last good thing she would ever hear.
I stepped out of the trees right behind her. In one swift movement, I wrapped the scarf tightly under her chin, instantly restricting her breathing and making it nearly impossible to make a sound. She dropped the bags, raising her hands to the scarf, trying to free herself from my hold. She kicked the air. I was a lot taller, and I quickly pulled her back and up. She lost her footing and struggled to return to her feet. I moved back into the darkness beneath the trees, keeping her from regaining her stance. I used her unsupported body weight to strangle her. I tightened my grip, pulling harder. I watched as her chest heaved under her coat, trying unsuccessfully to inhale air.
I wished I could look into her eyes as she struggled to remain conscious. I moved one end of the scarf into my other hand and turned her around to face me, tightening the scarf even more.
She’s beautiful.
I guessed her age to be about thirty years old.
Cut short in the prime of her life.
I twisted my hand to tighten the scarf even more, but it was as tight as I could get it. All I had to do now was wait. It didn’t take long; maybe thirty seconds. I could picture the small blood vessels starting to burst in both eyeballs, the larger veins now erupting in her neck under the pressure of the scarf, causing major haemorrhaging. Her eyes closed slowly as the blood struggled to reach her brain, depriving her body of oxygen. Her legs buckled as all strength left them.
She was gone.
I lowered her to the ground, still clutching the scarf, noticing how swollen her beautiful face had become.
I dragged her further into the undergrowth of the trees and lay her down, returning to the path to get her shopping bags. I placed the bags beside her and leaned in closer to ensure she was dead. I have never walked away from a victim without making very sure they were dead.
I clasped both my hands around her head and twisted sharply, listening for the crack. It was louder than I expected, but it didn’t matter—no one else was around to hear it. I put my head right up to her face and listened for any trace of life.
Nothing.
In my early days, I would have removed my glove to feel for a pulse, but I knew better than that now—the law of transference: when two things come into contact, something always transfers from one to the other.
That law would apply tonight, and it was up to me to keep transference to a minimum—no fingerprints, no blood, and a minimal chance of footprints because of the leaves. I hadn’t brought anything with me except for the poncho and scarf, the poncho reducing the risk of transference even more. I kicked around the surrounding leaves to disturb whatever impression I may have made. I put the scarf into my pocket, glanced down at her one more time, smiled, turned around, and left.
Chapter 2
On my walk back to the office, I wondered if the lady watching TV in the lounge was worried that her friend, sister, or lover had not returned home yet.
The exhilaration I would typically feel after playing this game had subsided.
I’m bored.
After an hour of battling through traffic, I pulled into my driveway and parked the car in the garage. Climbing out, I noticed the drop in temperature. It was a lot colder out here in the suburbs. Stanmore was on the outskirts of London, connected by the tube.
I grabbed my briefcase from the passenger seat and reached into my coat pocket for the scarf. I examined the scarf under the garage light for any evidence of its purpose, but none were apparent, so I wrapped it around my neck then grabbed my gym bag with yesterday’s sweaty running gear from the back seat. I would burn the scarf later in our fireplace.
Where were you after work?
I went for a run.
Chapter 3
Boredom. I needed to change the game. I had thought about adding an additional player for some time now. Maybe not player—pawn was probably the right word. Usually, I would steer well clear of any conversation when a topic regarding killers came up, but the perfect opportunity presented itself.
Linda had gone out with Jane; ‘a girls’ night out’ they called it. Usually this gave me some time to myself, but lately, a girls’ night out meant Pete would come over, or I would go over to their place.
I need more time to myself.
Pete arrived about an hour after Linda went out to meet Jane. Their girls’ night out was a change from their regular cocktails with friends. They were attending a fundraiser for abused women at the National Women’s Hospital in the city. Jane and Linda had lost a very close friend to domestic violence years ago when we all lived in Boston.
By the time the pizza arrived, Pete had polished off three beers and I was slowly sipping on a glass of Grant’s whiskey, about to watch a movie.
“Happy first anniversary in this cold, wet city,” I said, lifting my drink. Pete almost knocked his beer over, trying to reach it.
“All thanks to you, my friend, for getting me the job,” he replied, smiling and clinking his beer against my glass. I knew he didn’t mean it.
“Well, you haven’t embarrassed me yet!” I laughed. “Did I tell you Steve thanked me the other day for getting you in there?”
“He did? That guy’s such a dickhead—I don’t care if he’s my boss,” he replied.
We both laughed.
The B-grade movie we watched was about some stupid idiot who murders someone and gets caught in the end. Simple and predictable. No one seemed to come up with genuinely brilliant movie ideas anymore. I missed the days of movies with original plots ending with a twist. Movies had become so similar: the same basic storyline with a few minor adjustments and character changes. But Pete laughed the whole way through the film, commenting on how stupid you’d be to not get away with something as simple as these murders. I enjoyed hearing his ridiculous views on killing and murder. Sometimes it sounded as if he’d forgotten about the guy we killed a few weeks after we met, but I reminded him when I needed to. I reminded him of how he killed the guy, and I helped him cover it up. I reminded him that I had the murder weapon and the car he drove, hidden in storage.
