The Butcher and the Wannabe Journalist
Monday, early morning.
Gloom swallows the park, mist lapping at my ankles as I gaze miserably into the trees. I can never sleep at this hour, mind skipping between thoughts, like bees darting from flower to flower. And Oli snores.
A faint but distinct shuffling pulls me to attention. Fear grabs at my throat as a figure, male, dressed in a dark puffer jacket, trudges down the street towards me, shoes sweeping at the damp leaves. I grip my phone, squeezing it between my frozen fingers, ready to bolt if I need to.
He doesn’t stop, and the dread inside me dwindles. I walk home the long way, glancing back occasionally, but the street is deserted, faint streetlights flickering in the cold winter air.
Monday, later.
“Stabbed thirteen times” are the first words I hear as I step out of the rain and into the dimly lit office. I glance at the two journalists curiously then head past them and place my bag down at reception.
“Morning.” Maud greets me flatly, not bothering to look up.
“Morning.” I reply glumly, mimicking her melancholy tone. “There was a murder?”
Maud nods but doesn’t stop what she’s doing. I try again.
“Where was it?”
“Lusk Circuit. This morning at around two thirty. And before you ask, I don’t think it’s a serial killer and no, none of the journalists want to talk to you.”
I wrack my brain, trying to remember where Luck Circuit is. Maud notices the look on my face and adds.
“First street when you turn off the motorway.”
I shudder.
“I was there.” I say, and Maud looks up for the first time, “Only a few streets away.”
Maud still looks skeptical. She shrugs and her attention flicks back to her computer as an email comes through.
“Well,” she says, in that leave me alone tone that seems to be her default these days, “I suppose you could talk to them. For once, you might have actually seen something.”
I think back to the last time I spoke to the journalists, picture their sniggering faces, and grimace. My computer flickers to life.
“I could always knock on a few doors. Maybe – “
“That’s the police’s job.” is Maud’s blunt reply. “Your job?” she motions to a ringing phone, “Is to answer that.”
I sigh, pick up the phone, and spend the remainder of the day mindlessly taking calls, trying, unsuccessfully, to push the murder from my mind.
Monday, evening.
The park is as eerie as ever when I pass it on my way home. It’s the kind of eerie that resonates through the entire neighbourhood, a quiet but ominous force. I spot a jacket and know for a fact it wasn’t there yesterday. It’s a puffer jacket, like the man was wearing last night, a deep navy colour that could easily be mistaken for black. That, paired with a suspicious stain on its right sleeve, just doesn’t sit right in my stomach.
Oli, however, is less than impressed. I pull the jacket out after dinner and inspect it. He stares at me, then at the jacket, face flushed with irritation.
“Ally, that’s your jacket.”
I peer at it again, running my hands over the synthetic material – the kind that makes your fingers twitch – then sigh when I realise that he’s right.
“Oh.” I frown, “Must have dropped it on the way to work.”
“See? Stop jumping to conclusions. There’s usually a logical explanation.”
He hangs the filthy jacket over the back of a chair and the zipper clangs against it. He climbs into bed, and I lay down beside him. The room goes silent, but my mind continues to race.
“I’m going to look in the park again tomorrow morning.” I say. Oli hums sleepily. “The jacket wasn’t his, but maybe he left something else. Do you think – “
“Go to sleep, Ally. Please.”
“Sorry. I just wonder, what if – “
Oli turns around suddenly.
“Jesus Christ, Al. Can you let it go? You’re not a detective. You’re a receptionist. You’re not going to suddenly solve a murder.”
His fists are balled up, so tightly that the duvet bulges out the sides and his knuckles turn the colour of snow. I stare at him. I’ve seen him angry before, but this is something else. Something far more extreme. Menacing, even. He sighs heavily.
“Sorry, I’m just stressed. Work was a nightmare. One of the new guys ruined an entire batch of rissoles. Utter chaos.” He pushes himself up, off the bed.
“I’m gonna have a smoke. Please, stop obsessing. It never does you any good.”
But theories won’t stop spinning, twisting through my mind like miniature tornadoes. My eyelids close before Oli returns. I decide, sleepily, to apologise tomorrow.
Tuesday, morning.
“There’s been another one.” I inform Maud as I settle at the desk the following morning. “They’re saying the killer is a doctor. He removed her kidneys, so he must have known where they were.”
“Then again…” I add thoughtfully, “some are saying he might have no medical knowledge at all.”
Maud ignores me. I want to tell her about the strange man, but Oli’s word’s echo in my mind. Instead, I read through my emails and bite my tongue.
Wednesday, morning.
The knife is covered in a brownish-red substance that is definitely not rust and, as I lift it cautiously out of the bathtub, I catch he faint but distinct scent of blood. Immediately, dread begins to spread through me.
“It’s a cleaver, Al.” Oli says when I confront him, addressing me as you would a small child, “I got it from work. For the roast we had on Sunday.”
“Oh.” Was all I could reply. As usual, I felt stupid.
“Please stop this, Ally. You’re going to get someone in trouble. Someone innocent. What, you really think I had something to do with those people being killed?”
The hurt in his eyes makes me want to plunge the dirty cleaver into my chest. Instead, I hang my head and continue getting ready.
Wednesday, evening.
Oli isn’t home when I push the heavy front door open and trudge sullenly inside. I sigh, exhausted and cold from the evening air, gather my sweatpants and dressing gown and head to the bathroom, desperate for a scalding shower. I glance around the room briefly as I turn the shower on and spot the blood knife, still in the bathtub.
I try to follow his advice and stop the thoughts and theories from racing through my mind. It’s the same knife. Oli must have forgotten to take it with him.
He still isn’t home when I get out of the shower, and I can’t help but worry that something terrible has happened.
Wednesday, midnight.
Pressure on the mattress beside me sends me into a panicked state. I bolt upright and glance around in terror, then relax when I hear Oli’s calming voice.
“Ally, it’s only me.”
“Why are you so late? I murmur sleepily as I nuzzle into the blankets again.
“I was upset. I went out drinking with the guys. Needed some space. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
I smile absently.
“S’okay. I probably shouldn’t have accused you of murder.”
Oli laughs.
“Probably not. You go back to sleep. I gotta wash this blood off my clothes.”
“Blood?” I all but screech, sitting bolt upright again, staring at his clothes and gaping in alarm.
It’s dark, but I can practically hear him roll his eyes.
“From work, not my latest murder victim. Go to sleep, Al.”
I want to press him further, ask him why he hasn’t left his bloody clothes at work and why the knife is still laying in our usually pristine bathroom. Instead, I remember the fight and dive under the covers again.
Thursday, morning.
The following morning, I can’t keep my thoughts to myself. I sit at the table while Oli bustles around making toast and coffee for us both.
“Hey,” I say, “Why is the knife still in out bathtub?”
Oli pauses in the middle of spreading jam on a slice of sourdough, then rolls his eyes.
“I caught the bus yesterday, Al. I don’t exactly want to take a bloody knife with me on public transport.”
Yeah, probably not the best idea.
“I wasn’t accusing you of murder again.” I defend, “It’s just that blood stains easily and I’d like to clean the bathroom sometime soon.”
He places the toast and coffee in front of me, then settles down in the seat opposite.
“I’ll get rid of it today. Promise.”
Thursday, midday.
“My husband’s clothes had blood on them last night.” I say, breaking the heavy silence and causing Maud to raise a skeptical eyebrow.
“Ally, your husband is a butcher.”
“I know, but don’t they wear aprons? And shouldn’t he like… change clothes before he leaves? He usually does.”
Maud shrugs.
“I don’t know much about butchers.” She says distractedly, opening another file on her computer, “But if you want your marriage to last, I’d think twice before accusing him of murder. Besides, they’ve already caught the guy.”
“Without your help.” She adds.
She actually looks up at me as I slump into my chair, and I’m almost sure there’s a hint of a smirk on her face.
Thursday, later.
I return from lunch to see a group of journalists gathered beside the elevator. Their voices are hushed, and I can only just work out what they’re saying.
“It can’t be him.” One says, “Didn’t you hear? There was another one last night.”
“…Might not have extensive knowledge of anatomy.” Says another, “…maybe a slaughterer or a butcher…”
Butcher.
The word bounces through my skull and sends my pulse drumming through the rest of my body. I stare after them as they climb into the elevator, bound for the first floor. I flash back to the fight yesterday, run through everything that was said, remember the blood on his clothes when he returned last night.
I leave work. I don’t tell Maud where I’m going.
Thursday, afternoon.
The knife isn’t in the bathtub where Oli left it. I scan the room, open a cupboard, and rummage inside. My hand brushes against something cold and sharp hidden behind an old soap dispenser. I scour some more and bring out an unfamiliar wallet and an all-too-familiar apron. I gag, trying my hardest not to vomit as the smell of blood overwhelms me. I flip open the wallet and freeze. Staring back at me is a woman’s license, a credit card that isn’t his, a house key that doesn’t match ours.
I sit, slumped and shaking on the cold tiles, transfixed, until I hear the front door open. Blood rushes into my ears and every muscle in my body stops working. I hear the hall light flicker on, close my eyes, and prepare for the worst.