"We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere and there will be more of your children dead tomorrow"
Ted Bundy – convicted and executed for the murder of 30 women in the USA.



Chapter One

“You are my slut slave …do it now bitch”
The message appears on the yahoo instant messenger.
Her fingers skip across the keys of the computer keyboard.

Well trained. Efficient.

Her eyes never leave the screen. A shimmer of blue light plays across her pale face. Cathy Eddowes has been looking at the screen for hours. That’s not unusual.
She has a talent, a gift.
She wished she had never discovered it. Wished she never had to use it. She was having nine instant messaging conversations simultaneously.

Broadband made things simple. Connections and downloads were easy. She was nine people, she had nine lives. She would trade them all, given them all up, to find him.

She typed. She chatted. It was a small scene, people knew each other, they looked out for each other. The community always looked out for its own. The vanilla world didn’t understand. Called them freaks, perverts and tried to pretend that the Bondage Discipline Sado-Masochism world didn’t exist.

He would resurface.
He couldn’t stay incognito forever.
No, not his type.

They all have a ‘tell’, they all have a style - she knew his. She could spot it in the messages, tags and headlines he left online.

A door slammed upstairs. The sound of leaden feet bounced overhead. Mike was awake.
Cathy looked upwards. She gulped. She blinked. She knew what was coming. The muffled sound of slamming kitchen cupboards replaced the sound of footsteps.
He would be hungry.
Time to leave the basement office.
Time to live the truth of her daily life.



Chapter Two
It’s seven am. The radio alarm has clicked on and the dulcet tones of Sarah Kennedy from Radio Two fill the bedroom. She used to annoy me. Now, I tolerate. It happens with age.

The baby isn’t awake yet. Not a total surprise but a welcome start to the day.
My boy. My darling boy.

She’s still asleep. The snores are guttural. My wife the sexual camel, one kiss can sustain her for months.
I should have come to bed earlier last night. I needed the sleep.

A price will be paid.

The shower feels good. I’m glad we upgraded and installed this pump fed monster. It can’t quite blast away the dull ache that is lack of sleep. It pounds me into readiness for the day. I focus on the electric whirr of the pump.
I soap.
I rinse.
I clean.

Angel_69 – what did you do to me last night?

My cock swells at the memory. That imagined sweet, petite little woman. How did she know about such things? Why does she know such things? Did I know such things when I was 21? What do I care…my hand takes hold… the water feels good and the memories swell.

It doesn’t take long.

Water. It’s cleaned away the sins of folly for centuries.
The water’s off. I can hear the baby. I snap back to the world. How long has he been crying? I open the door and look for his mother. She has him. She’s sat upright in bed, cajoling him to feed. Disinterest is his mood.
I know the feeling.

As I dress she watches. Those brown eyes focused. There is no interest, she looks at my stomach. I know what she sees. I recognise the look. I wear the same when I see her in that pink bathrobe.

I don’t rise to it. Silence is my weapon. I haven’t risen to her looks for sometime. I hunt for clean jeans. I fail. I locate fresh pants and socks. The stocks are running low. I know she is watching. My boy ignores the breast.

“I have to go”. I offer, as the last sock is tugged on.
“Fine…you should dry your hair properly first”.
I towel it to a matted straw like mass. I pad it down. I see the look.
“Will you put some gunk in it?”
“Does it matter?” my answer is practical.
“Yes”. The riposte is weak. I know I should add gunk. She knows I want to.
I didn’t want to be told.
“I was only asking”. Defensive. A pre-emptive strike. She’s right. She did only ask. It wasn’t rude or judgemental. I’m getting paranoid.

Memo to self: Don’t look for criticism. There is enough already.

Angel_69 – there are no looks. Only words, jumbled garbled instant messaged words.

“You came to bed late." It’s just a question, stay focused.
“Not too late… I thought you were asleep.” I dodge and weave.
“You woke me.” She scores a hit. Can’t feint, I have no counter.
“Sorry… not sleeping well at the moment.” I know what’s coming. I need to escape.
“Mmm, you should spend less time in front of that computer screen then.”
It’s valid. It’s true. I do spend too much time on the computer.
I should stop, for so many reasons she doesn’t understand. I must stop.

“I have to go.” I kiss her. It hits her cheek. I run my hand over my boys head. Disinterest turns to gummy grin. His hair is reassuringly soft. He is lovely. He should be my world. I hate myself.
I don’t put gunk in my hair. I walk for the train. Dishevelled.

As I am at the second stop on the line, I get a seat. The train swells with commuters. Sniffs and coughs abound.
I breathe bacteria and virus.
I stare at the window. I see those brown eyes. I see her face and that look. Guilt flows.

Angel_69 – asks me questions, seeks my view of pleasure. I’m keen to oblige.

Sad faces adorn the heads of the travellers. Suited or otherwise, the frown is the same. A mask of anonymity. All avoid eye contact. Treasure their personal space.
The train’s contents sway and move with the jolts and swerves of the train. Nylon brushes Gortex that rubs shoulders with wool that caresses cotton.
Jackets with shirt and ties, shirts without ties or jackets, jeans with shoes, trainers and suits - the uniform changes, the people remain the same, the journeys are the same.

Our vanilla life.