Of Murder And Blood

Steve Truman approached the prison gates with trepidation. Was he really about to do this? He was excited to be working on the biggest story of his life, but as the metal gates clanged and slowly slid open, he felt like turning and running back to the station and catching the next train home. 

What had he been thinking in contacting the murderer? The killer was serving a life sentence for the murder of over a dozen victims in a ten year period. The killer’s name was notorious and reports of the crimes had made headlines and front page news. 

As he was ushered through the security scanners and signed the prison forms, he told himself to calm down, reminded himself that he was here for the story. He picked up his backpack from the plastic tray and slung it over his shoulder. He tried to regain his composure, tried to be professional. He was here as a writer, he was here for the interview, for the work. 

Steve was hoping to come away with enough material for a magazine article, or even, hopefully, a full-length book. It really depended on how things went with the prison visit. 

He was shown through to the visiting room. The large room was full of tables and chairs and reminded him of a school canteen. The room was empty apart from warders dressed in white shirts and black trousers, and the prisoner sitting at the table in the middle of the room. 

Claire Harper remained sitting down at the table as he approached. Steve sensed that the prisoners were to remain seated when visitors arrived. He had been told the rules, no physical contact, to keep his distance, to keep his hands where the warders could see them, etc. Claire had killed so many people, so brutally, Steve would obey the prison rules in the hope they would keep him safe. 

When he had mentioned to family and friends that he would be visiting Claire with the idea of telling the inside story on one of Britain’s most notorious killers, there had been a fascination, but also an understandable trepidation. Should he really be doing this? Was it safe? 

Claire was wearing the prison-issue grey tracksuit and handcuffs. The cuffs, Steve assumed, were for his protection. In the solitude of her prison cell, he guessed, the handcuffs would be removed. She was in her early thirties, and her dark hair was tied in plaits that hung down over her shoulders. 

‘Good afternoon, Claire. I’m Steve. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.’ 

Steve took the seat facing her, still quite unable to believe he was actually here, meeting her face to face. He had been writing to the killer for several months now, having originally written to ask for an interview for a magazine piece. The correspondence had been back and forth ever since. Steve had to remind himself that this was not a pen-pal, the letters were not from a friend, they were from someone who had committed the most awful crimes. The envelopes arriving stamped with the prison markings reminded him of that. 

‘I’m glad you came.’ She said with a smile. ‘It is nice to put a face to the hand-writing.’

Steve simply nodded and smiled. He had known exactly what the pale woman in glasses looked like. The television news had shown footage of her arrest, and as the full extent of her horrific crimes came to light, her face had been plastered on the front pages for most of last year. 

Steve kept his tone light and conversational, as he suggested they start by Claire giving him a little bit of background.

‘Where you grew up, what your childhood was like, that kind of thing. Your relationship with your parents, and so on.’ Steve added. 

Claire leaned forward suddenly, the handcuffs jangling on the table between them. She fixed Steve with an intense glare, her expression now deadly serious. He wondered how many of her victims had witnessed the glare shortly before being killed. 

‘Are you sure you want to hear my story? Once you hear it, there is no going back.’ She said. 

Steve knew the story would be a good one. This would be the making of him as a writer.

‘I would be honoured if you would share your story. I think it would be an insightful read. I think you and I could really produce something quite spectacular.’ Steve said. 

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it.’ Claire said, the warm smile returning to her face. 

Steve couldn’t help laughing, feeling suddenly relaxed in her company. He rummaged in his bag for his Dictaphone and notebooks. He laid everything out on the table, like a school kid taking their first exam. 

‘Let’s get started, shall we?’ He said. 

On the train journey home later that afternoon, Steve stared out the window, his mind racing. The initial interview with Claire had gone really well. She had detailed how her childhood had been remarkably unremarkable. Nothing really of note, just a normal Northern childhood really. She had been a middle-of-the-road pupil, passing her exams but only just. There had been caravan holidays to North Wales. 

Steve couldn’t help wondering how the quiet, pleasant girl, had transformed into the killer of the news headlines. What had happened? What changed? That was a conversation for the days and weeks that followed. 

Claire seemed to have enjoyed the interview. When visiting time had finished, when the warders had told them it was time, Claire had seemed genuinely disappointed. 

‘We can resume this next time, okay?’ Steve had said, packing his things away. ‘I’ll be back in a few days.’

‘Yes, I would like that.’

The genial warmth of the first visit continued in their second meeting. Claire enthused it was lovely to see him again. 

Half an hour into the visit, Steve turned the conversation to the dark heart of the matter. He asked gently, persuasively, if she would tell him about the first time she committed murder. Her expression changed, the warmth replaced by a chilling coldness, a faraway look in her eyes.

‘He was a fairground worker. The fair would pitch up on the waste-ground behind the supermarket every summer. I was back home from university, where I had been working on my dissertation. My friends and I went along to the fair. We had been enjoying the rides and the candyfloss, the chips and hotdogs. Then the heavens opened. The torrential rain began. My friends all headed for home. I knew I had something to do, to get out of my system before going home. 

‘I grabbed a large spanner that was tucked behind one of the rides. It felt good and heavy in my hands. I moved quickly through the rain, the flashing red and green lights of the fairground lighting my way. Then I saw him. The young man was tinkering with a carriage on one of the rides. He had his back to me. I charged forward, swinging the spanner as hard as I could. The sound as the weapon connected was a kind of crunching, snapping sound. He crumpled to the wet grass, eyes glazed over, blood spilling from his head. 

‘With that sound still ringing in my ears, louder than the funfair sirens, I retreated back, relishing in the shelter of the storm, the cover it provided. The rain meant you couldn’t see too far ahead. It was perfect really. I stopped to throw what the prosecution would go on to call the murder weapon in the Manchester Ship Canal, before finally heading back to my parents’ house.’

Claire seemed to come back from the daydream, looking at Steve once more. She gave a there-you-have-it shrug. Steve was startled by the revelation. He knew the rough details from the reports and accounts he had read, researching the killer. But hearing the details from Claire herself was just chilling. 

On the train home, he didn’t feel very well. His head hurt and he felt dizzy. The interview with Claire that afternoon had been tough going. He couldn’t get the horrid descriptions of the acts she had committed from his mind. 

He was struggling more than he thought he would. He had been naïve to think he could go along and listen to the killer’s accounts and not to be affected by it at all. He had been distracted by the potential success of publishing the work, and had not considered the affect it would have on him. He would have to immerse himself in the gory detail, almost witnessing each murder himself. For his story, it would be necessary to provide the reader with at least some details of each attack, each act. And so, Steve would have to go through each murder with Claire. The smiling, warm, friendly, funny prisoner would have to reveal every detail of her awful actions.

The next visit a few days later proved to be more arduous than the last. Claire described how she had found her next victim half-drunk in a kebab shop late on evening. This time she had taken a carving knife to her victim. She had followed him into a shadowy patch of street and lashed out with the blade until her victim was dead, and the murderous urges had passed. 

‘Did you really think you could get away with these murders?’ Steve asked.

‘It wasn’t about getting away with it. When the need took hold, nothing else mattered. It just kind of happened. It had to be done.’ 

‘But, I suppose what fascinates people, what our readers will want to know, is what compels a person to commit these acts?’ Steve said. 

Claire simply smiled at him and said nothing. 

That evening, as he tried to concentrate on the darts match on television, he couldn’t get the images of the murders Claire had described from his mind. As he tried to get into the darts match unfolding on the screen, with the dramas, the 180 scores, and the race for the title, all he could think about was Claire and the killings. 

As he lay in the dark bedroom, Claire’s words went around his head. Maybe he had been hasty in his choice of subject matter. Rather than focusing on the sensational topic and the magazines or books it would sell, he should have considered the affect, the toll, working on the story would take. 

The dreams, the horrific night terrors, started that night. 

He dreamed he was with Claire, in his living room. Suddenly his hands were covered in blood. He turned to Claire. She smiled softly and nodded at him. The knife appeared in his hand. In the distorted nightmare world, he was doing the killing, while Claire looked on, approvingly. 

He woke with a start, breathing hard. That was just awful. The dream that he, rather than Claire, was committing the murders, had just been so disturbing. Maybe that was his subconscious taking accountability for getting involved with the murderer. Perhaps somethings should not be written about, apart from in news headlines. The public’s gory curiosity should not be sated. These were horrific, violent acts, not the stuff of entertainment. Should he be writing about this?

Having showered and dressed, Steve felt better about things. Things always seemed worse in the middle of the night. In the morning light, he tried to put things in perspective. It was understandable that working on such a topic would have some kind of effect on him. Claire was a monster, but he was not. That, surely, was why he was feeling like this. Surely his reaction was normal and perfectly natural. 

He went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He was due to meet Claire later. A nice cup of tea would help sort him out. As he reached for the kettle, he stopped, crying out in alarm and terror. Lying on the worktop, beside his mug and tea-spoon, was a bloody knife. The knife from his nightmare. The blade of the murder weapon glinted in the morning sunshine. 

He stumbled back, in shock, his eyes transfixed by the blade. He lost his footing, tumbling to the floor. When he got to his feet the blade had vanished. He shook his head in exasperation and went to fill the kettle with water. 

As he sipped his tea he wondered just what would come of the interviews with Claire. He hadn’t expected things to get this strange. In his mind, he had imagined having a series of interesting meetings with her, to come away with everything he needed to write a book about her activities. And while he was getting the story, the details and nature of the tale, was deeply unsettling him. He had expected to be working on the story, not that the story would be working on him. 

As the sessions with Claire went on, as the weeks went by, the worse he felt about everything. He was getting all the gory details and coming away with more and more material for his book. But every night he dreamed about murder, killings and death. In his dreams he would be the perpetrator of these horrific crimes. And he would be grinning, smiling, delighted with the notion. It was only when he awoke that the fear and dread would kick in. He would wake in absolute terror each morning. 

And yet he couldn’t stop himself from visiting the prisoner. He had to get the full story, had to gather all the material for his book. Once his piece was complete, then he hoped, things would get back to normal. Once his book was finished, he could carry on with his life, and Claire could get on serving her sentence. He just hoped that when he was done the dreams of murder and blood would stop too. 

One evening he was chopping up potatoes and winter vegetables for a stew. He was slicing up all the vegetables, when something seemed to take over. He hacked and chopped at the vegetables with such rage and anger, slashing and stabbing away. It was as though his hand belonged to somebody else, as he drove the blade down over and over again. 

Finally he managed to regain control, tossing the knife into the sink. 

The next day when he bid Claire good afternoon, she raised her cuffed hands, pointing at him.

‘Is this a dagger I see before me?’ Claire said.

‘What did you say?’ He managed.

Steve was stunned. Did she know about the visions he was having? What was happening? What had he gotten himself into?

‘It’s Shakespeare, it’s a line from Macbeth, that’s all.’ She said.

She gave a shrug. Steve said nothing, still reeling.

‘I can compare thee to a summer’s day, if you’d prefer.’ Claire laughed. 

One afternoon the following week, he was standing on the busy platform, waiting for the train to take him to the prison. There was a young man in a thick winter coat standing in front of him. The man was listening to music on a large pair of headphones. 

The Tannoy system announced that the next train approaching the platform would be an express train, not stopping at the station. The announcement warned passengers to keep back from the edge of the platform.

Moments later, the ground rumbled beneath his feet, and the train came in to view. As the train charged along the tracks at high-speed, almost a blur, Steve found himself almost in a day-dream. He reached out a hand in front of him. He was about to make contact with the man standing in front of him, about to give him a hard shove forward, when he came to his senses. 

Stunned, Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets. Had he really been about to push the man onto the tracks, in the path of the speeding train? Steve wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Perhaps it was time to end the sessions with Claire. Maybe he should park this project indefinitely. Maybe someone else, a few of his friends were writers, perhaps one of them could take over and complete the piece. Yes, perhaps he needed help, a fresh set of eyes, and another perspective.  

Ten minutes later, with his head still spinning, Steve boarded his train. 

Steve was still shook up from the incident on the platform when he arrived at the prison. He placed his bag down and unpacked his things, trying to keep himself together. He bid Claire good afternoon. She smiled at his jittery demeanour. 

‘How are you today? You seem a little spooked.’ She said.

‘I-I don’t know. I think maybe things are taking its toll. This is hardly a light subject matter, after all.’ Steve replied, trying to play things down, and make light of how he was feeling. 

‘This is how it begins.’ She said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You asked me recently what compelled me to kill. My need to kill is not a compulsion. It’s a curse.’ Claire said. 

‘A curse? I don’t follow.’ He said. 

‘You will find out soon enough. It is only a matter of time. Soon your name will be in the newspapers, talking of your arrest and naming your victims. Soon enough your family and friends will be telling the press how they can’t believe you would do something like this. You will have blood on your hands.’ Claire said. 

Steve said nothing, quite unable to speak at the revelations. Claire continued with her explanation. 

‘I was once like you, sitting there on that side of the table, notepad in hand. I went along to Strangeways prison in Manchester, where serial killer Tony Carr was being held. I was working on my university dissertation. Meeting the Monster, that was the title I had in mind. Like you, I was eager for the story, wanting to make a name for myself and my writing.

‘I wanted to graduate from university with a glowing degree, and the promise of a career in journalism, and in literature. I wanted my dissertation to be a masterpiece. I was looking for a big story. In the end I got so much more than I bargained for. 

‘When I went to see him, before we got started, Tony Carr asked me a question. He asked me if I was sure I wanted to hear his story, that once it was told, there would be no going back. It was only later that I realised, far too late of course, that the curse was passed on by the telling of the story.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom