Psycho Candy Read online

  Feeling the despair in the dying man’s heart, Candy left the building.

  A harsh wind blew its way throughout the sprawling metropolis, throughout the vast labyrinth of pimps and whores and dealers of every description, selling their wares to the rich seeking thrills, who bought their relative safety with the sweaty bills they clutched in tight fists. There was danger yet. Thieves and worse walked the streets at these hours, mixing in harmony with street patrols of jaded cops who couldn’t give a damn. Emerging from the infirmary doorway, Candy was struck by the beauty of it all. It had been years since she had imbibed the essence of the city, felt it’s unique personality and for a moment she was overcome with a sense of freedom she had thought long dead, buried and forgotten beneath the pain she had come to accept as her life. The harsh siren of an ambulance pulled her from her reverie, and embracing her future she stepped out into the city streets. Upon leaving she had been aware of a slight drizzle, a feeling of coolness on her cheeks that had softened her; however the skies above now rained down heavy precipitation, and Candy sought shelter under the city’s network of doorways and balconies as she made her way deeper into the concrete mass before her.

  So much had changed since she had walked these streets; however she was confident her destination would still exist. She had no money and felt her attire blared obvious her deception, yet she reminded herself of the necessity of her actions and hurrying her pace, she continued on her way. Turning down an alleyway a sense of foreboding overcame her and she made to turn and retrace her steps when a strong hand wrapped itself around her right biceps.

  Pain shot up her arm and into her heart, a sense of pure evil giving birth to an image of cold steel within her mind’s eye.

  "What we got here, nursie?" said a voice, playfully yet menacing.

  Candy felt hot sewage breath on her cheek and tensed with disgust. She could feel the need in the man, could sense his longing and she wanted no part of it.

  "Seems like we could have us some fun," the voice continued.

  Candy caught a glimpse of the man’s face, white, badly shaven, a look of sheer malevolence in his eyes.

  "I don’t have what you want," Candy stammered.

  "You don’t know what I want. Do ya'?" the man replied.

  Candy felt the knife point rest against her neck. A sudden white flash erupted in her sight (Bite, bite destroy again) then a struggle and suddenly she held the knife and felt it plunge into a fleshy yielding mass. Again she stabbed, a feeling of ecstasy rising up her spine. She felt hot liquid against her tongue and tasted vile meat, which she chewed and spat.

  Then vision returned. The man lay on his back, his throat slashed. Deep gouges had been taken from his face, his body littered with stab wounds. It wasn't always this way; that is she didn't always see the white light when she killed. It only seemed to come at times when she was under attack. No, not just under attack, but in need of some extra help. The blinding light heightening the rest of her senses.

  Candy raised the knife again then brought it to rest harmlessly at her side. She had had no choice this time, nor any time previous to this. He had provoked and Candy had delivered. She felt no remorse, her only regret being that the encounter had ended so quickly. The body twitched beneath her feet. Candy reached down and intuitively felt inside his jacket. She withdrew a wallet which after brief scrutiny revealed two twenty notes and an out of date condom.

  Can't imagine this guy making sex safe, Candy thought.

  Glancing down at the nurse’s uniform and the red splashes of her assailants blood Candy silently commented on her bad luck. It was now going to be difficult for her to pass unnoticed through the city. She would have to find an alternative set of clothes. Leaving the body as it lay, Candy began again up the darkened alley and marvelled at her luck. Further up the narrow passage she could make out the sign for a Chinese laundry, hanging over head in the distance. As she got closer the hum of machines confirmed her suspicions. She still carried the knife, and did not want to part with it or the feelings of power it gave to her. Instead she compromised by hiding it behind some boxes beside the entrance to the all night convenience and stepped through the open doorway. A wave of heat from the washers passed over Candy, bringing relaxed warmth to her frozen body.

  The laundry was a small affair. One room contained all the mechanisms for the business and a small beaded partition separated this from what Candy assumed was the owner's quarters. On a small stool an elderly Chinese woman looked up from an indistinguishable book and gave Candy an appraising once over. Candy froze, imagining her appearance to illicit some horrific reaction from the woman. However the woman merely nodded and continued with her distraction.

  "Bad operation," Candy ventured, indicating her nurse’s outfit.

  The woman gazed up again and smiled.

  "Yes very bad. Much mess," the woman replied with a disinterested smile, preferring the anonymity of her book to any revealing conversation.

  Suits me fine, Candy thought, sharing the others desire for privacy. She felt very little from this woman in terms of her empathic gift, and concluded that the woman was as uncaring about most everything else as she was conversation with her clientele. Moving behind a row of machines where she was partially hidden from view, Candy quickly undressed. Dropping the bloody garments onto the floor she reached into a random drier and pulled out a handful of assorted clothes. The woman was still engrossed in her book, so Candy took a quick inventory of the items in her arms. A pair of blue denims looked as if they might fit, as did a garish orange shirt. She still had the shoes she had taken from the nurse in the infirmary. They were sticky with her victim’s blood, but hopefully this would go unnoticed. She dropped the rest of the clothing beside the nurse’s outfit and began to dress, praying her actions would go unnoticed. However, a shout in a foreign tone from the front of the laundrette told her this was wishful thinking.

  "What you do? They no your clothes!" Candy looked on in anguish as the woman flailed wildly with her arms gesturing her disapproval.

  "I can explain," Candy shouted back. "I can pay. Money."

  Candy proffered one of the notes at the woman. The sight of currency seemed to calm the owner's shouts.

  "Then you go? Trouble here. No good," came the woman’s answer, as she reached to retrieve the bill from Candy’s shaking hand. This encounter had shaken her much more than the previous one in the alley. There was a brief touching of flesh during the exchange, and Candy felt an aggressive spark mingled with fear and, much more, curiosity from the woman.

  Then Candy was gone, back out into the cold damp night, clutching the remaining bill that would hopefully buy her own place of relative safety. She reached down and picked up the knife, finding comfort in its weight. She then ran her fingers through her hair, felt her face dripping with sweat and could only imagine what she looked like.

  However, the warmth of her newly clean attire gave rise to a feeling of new identity. She was now just another person in the city, an anonymous statistic within the vast metropolis. She was also nearing her destination, and hoped the small amount of money she carried would buy her entrance inside. If not there was still her extra security, the bloodied blade tucked into the waist band of the still warm jeans.

  She relished the thought of the killing to come. It would be unavoidable, she knew. This was the only way, her only chance of saving herself, of reclaiming part of the person she had been before. She stopped before an unmarked doorway, battered and worn. Candy was not fooled. The door would withstand enormous pressure. Pausing a moment to gather breath, Candy knocked heavily on the door, delivering a rhythm of blows. Moments later a hatch slid open, revealing a gaping darkness behind the door. Without word, Candy slid the note through the hatch and waited. There was a few moments pause and then she heard the sound of bolts slipping free. They were opening up to her.

  A crack appeared in the entrance and Candy stepped through with her left hand on the hilt of her blade. She recognized the place
immediately. The same caved interior, devoid of decoration. The candles, lit only once, never to burn down. And the corridor, the dark stretching passageway that lead to possible demise.

  "Back again, Candy?" a hooded figure spoke to her from behind.

  "Back again," she replied.

  She was back again. It was as if she had never left.

  "Are we walking today? Quick satisfaction guaranteed," the hooded man laughed, obviously delighted at this witticism through shared knowledge.

  "It would be nice," Candy replied evenly.

  She had understood what this person mean. She could walk. She felt it would help her personally, would give her the satisfaction she desired, even if it was just momentary. Yet time was short. "I can't though. I need something else. I need a reminder. Where I've just come from, the drugs they use ... man, it can take away the freshness of a person’s memory. I need you to help me remember. I need to remember the game. My game, not just what happened but the memories they gave me. I want them all. All of them."

  A scream resounded from somewhere originating down the passageway. The sound made Candy smile. It brought back memories.

  "Good times, eh Jack?" Candy said to the hooded figure.”

  "Good times, Candy," he replied. "I still believe we’re owing you on a few things, Candy. I would have thought you’d want them… considering," said the hooded figure, known as Jack.

  "I’ll be back to collect in my own good time, Jack. You can count on it," Candy replied, lightly fingering the blooded blade.

  "Then count on it we shall."

  "So onto the reminder, Jack? Can you give it to me?" Candy asked.

  The man reached out a hand from beneath the purple cowl he wore and placed it on Candy’s forehead. A white glow began to emanate between the two and Candy began to convulse as her eyes closed and rolled into her head. A smile grew on Candy’s face, deepening with each passing moment.

  And then it was done.

  Candy opened her eyes.

  "Let me ask you something, Jack. Why do they call you Jack?" Candy asked with an unmistakably fresher tone to her voice.

  "Because I’m stone cold babe, and I don’t care jack shit ‘bout anyone or any God-damned thing," came the response.

  Candy smiled her understanding in return. And then she was gone.

  TWO YEARS EARLIER

  CHAPTER TWO

  HAPPIER DAYS IN THE YEAR TWO THOUSAND AND TEN

  The bell rang three times, casting out its call to the variety of students who wandered the universities halls. Classes were once again resuming. From her comfortable seat in the students lounge Candy imagined a pair of mental hands over her ears, wishing she could somehow use her mind to block out the incessant ringing. Her class did not start for another hour and she needed all the time and concentration in between to study the thick volume which sat astride her knees. It was currently turned to a page showing diagrams of brain functions in relation to the pineal gland, a gland which she knew to be mostly useless. She sighed. Last night had been a long one.

  Hell, the whole month had been a long one, and it was with weary cheer that she looked forward to her planned outing to the town’s new nightclub. Blast had been open a few weeks, and despite what Candy thought of as a cheesy name it did play good music and there seemed to be no shortage of drugs kicking around the place. Of course Sarah could sort that out for them anyway. Given enough time and resources Sarah could probably acquire the legendary SOMA the people of India took so long ago.

  In the far corner the television flickered as a heavy gale hit hard against the far window, rattling the glass with a seeming contempt, that was of course impossible. However it was enough to draw Candy's eye from window to television, where a soap opera had been interrupted by a news report. Candy could not remember the daytime drama's name, only that the one time she had attempted to watch it she had found the storyline as bland as tap water and the acting as wooden as a forest glade with some of the actors looking every bit as green.

  She quickly moved from her place on the cushioned settee to the T.V and fingered the volume control, cursing the idiot who had misplaced the controller, and settled back on her seat.

  The reporter was standing outside one of the city's large brownstone apartments, where a number of cops moved in the background, doing what cops did in these situations Candy supposed. She could see that the entrance to the building had already been sealed off with the yellow tape she had only seen used before in movies.

  She tuned into what the reporter was saying -

  ". . . ninth known slaying of a young woman within this area and the cities inhabitants are already panicked as to who may be next. The question that is on the tips of everyone's tongue is what is being done about it-" There was a pause from the reporter and as if on cue from someone behind the camera she craned her head around in time to see a tall man in a beige trench coat walk out of the building towards a nondescript parked car.

  The reporter hurried over.

  "Detective Malone, what have you got to say about the murder that has occurred here. Is this connected to the other slaying? Or is there a link to them all? And what is your department doing about it?"

  The detective seemed to take a weary sigh of inward breath, as if he had little time for reporters and this one in particular. However, instead of ignoring the question, an expression of consideration passed across his wizened face and he rubbed two days worth of stubble before answering.

  “I think we can safely say that, yes, at this time, we of this city have a serial killer loose on our hands, and that is the only thing we can say with regards to safety. Our advice is to go about your business as normal. So far as we can tell whoever is doing this isn't dragging people off the street, although we would say to the young woman of the city – if you are going out, do so in a group.”

  “So would you say that the killer is definitely male?”

  “I have nothing more to say, especially anything definite."

  Candy watched as the Detective turned and made his way back to the car, the reporter chasing wildly at his heels like a yappy dog who smells perhaps the scent of something tasty, then returned to her place on the settee. The murders had started a while back, the girls generally about Candy's age, and although most people could remember them last entering a specific bar, nobody seemed to be able to remember what they actually did there or even worse, when they had left or who with. It was not only a popular news story on the local television channel.

  The papers were having a field day with it too.

  Not much had been given away by the papers, so Candy supposed by the police themselves, at least officially. Information had leaked, supposedly from somewhere inside the police department and found its way onto a variety of gruesome websites. There were rumours that one of the girls eyes had been gouged, beneath which tear marks had been found, a common occurrence in all the murders. What had freaked Candy the most had been that DNA testing had shown that not all the tear stains had belonged to the victim.

  Candy shuddered. She very much did not fancy being a victim. She turned her attention to the television again, and just for an instant she thought she saw something, something beyond her range of vocal expression, so what exactly she could not say. However, if she had been really pushed, she could have sworn it was the face of a goat, except the goat had been smiling, exposing row upon row of needle sharp teeth. Then a heavy wind must have hit the aerial because the image had disappeared into a confusion of white static, and Candy, just the tiniest bit spooked had turned her attentions again to the medical text in front of her.

  Been hitting the books too hard. You're starting to see things.

  Then she had giggled and the incident had been forgotten. Still she was spooked. Of late she had been dreaming heavily about the murders and awaking to find herself covered in sweat; yet despite the deepness of the sleep, the dreams themselves were always fresh on her mind.

  What she would not admit, not to anyone else at
least was that she was the killer in the dreams. Not that she could make herself out. Just that she was seeing it all from her point of view. But they were just dreams! Disturbing and depriving her of well needed rest. Perhaps that too would explain the brief, well; could she call it a hallucination? Whatever. She needed to turn her mind to other things, and fast.

  She had a lecture on diabetes in about an hour’s time and she needed to swat up on what they would be covering. And she knew Sarah kept Valium for sleeping. She had been offered, not that Sarah knew about her nightmares, just the evidence of poor sleep. Bags under her eyes, that kind of thing. So, yeah, she would get enough for maybe a two week course off her friend, who had enough for a two year course Candy was sure and get her sleeping back to normal. No need to bother a doctor when you were training to be one.

  An hour later and she struggled gamely through the white tiled halls with her large array of text books, some denoting the application of various chemicals to the human body, its surrounding blood stream and its array of cells. Others contained essays with titles as forthcoming as 'Self reported impressions of insulin Detemir among patients with type 2 diabetes: insulin – naive versus prior insulin users'.

  Candy could recite at least some of the previously mentioned by heart, something she was secretly proud of although this was something she would never confess. It was the kind of thing one did not brag about to ones friends, if one wished to have any kind of credibility within those other halls.

  The halls of residence. Here the topics one wished to appear knowledgeable about were sex, drugs, the latest in techno music and alternative bands, and again sex, namely who was fucking who, who had fucked who, who wanted to fuck who, and who could fuck right off should they dare ask for a fuck.

  With both hands full of books and now confronted with the classroom door she could see no other option than to try another alternative. Her left leg left the floor, leaving her slightly unbalanced and set its course for a wooden door marked D12, when she felt a hand on her left shoulder. The unexpected touch caused her to jump and her books slipped from her hand. They landed with their pages splayed open, depicting images you would be more inclined to expect in a serial killers scrapbook than any medical journal.