Sally was my Summer Girl. She was warm and languid and gentle, her hair shone with the highlights of ripened wheat rippling in the soft breeze, and her eyes were the deep and cloudless blue that I had searched so hard for.
I brought her home in July, on an endearingly hot day that made her face glow. We lived and laughed and loved together all through those radiant weeks, lazy in the sunshine, warm in the night, with bedroom windows open to the cool breeze.
I buried her at the end of August, in the last golden light of the summer.
For many days, I remembered her. I visited her grave, honouring the person she was and acknowledging what she had been to me and what we had been together. I sorted and organized all the images and video clips of her that I had collected, laying them down, safe and secure, on an encrypted hard drive in my hidden office. I did not say goodbye, for now she was with me forever.
But when the wind strengthened and turned chill, when the great oak that shaded her resting place began to change its green for shades of red-brown and gold, then it was time to move on. The season was changing, and it was time to go looking for my Autumn Girl.
I went a little way north, where the season's changes were further advanced, the better to feel the mood and sense of the world's turning, and to be guided in my search. It had taken me too long to find Sally, depriving us of precious time together. I was determined not to repeat that mistake. My Autumn Girl was the last, and all should be perfect.
I already had some ideas of how she should be. Red hair, of course, and eyes perhaps the grey of storms, through that would be a very unusual combination. But more important than appearance was personality.
I had realised that only after many failures, many imperfections. It was my Winter Girl who had shown me my error. I had been fortunate to find her back in January, at the opening of the year, when frost and early snow had whitened the ground. Victoria Tan, Chinese and English. Hair and eyes shadow-black, skin as smooth and white as untrodden snowfall.
The stark contrasts of her colouring attracted me at once, for they were the very epitome of winter. But my initial approaches were rebuffed so soundly that I all but gave up and moved on.
Instead, I remained, and watched, and saw that I was not alone. No one got close to her. She maintained a distance between herself and, it seemed, the entire human race. In a rare and wonderful moment of epiphany, I understood that this was her perfection. In her isolation, her remoteness – her coldness, indeed – Victoria was the very soul of winter, its embodiment.
But winter has a warmth at its heart, however deeply buried. The hidden life of creatures that hibernate snuggled deep in cosy nests. The security and comfort of a home, closed against the winter storms to conserve the precious heat within. The fierce glow of life, enduring the darkness.
I felt entirely certain that my cold Winter Girl would have that same light and heat and life buried within her. And so it was. It was not even difficult to find, once I understood what to look for.
Finding out entailed some risk. I made a surreptitious entry into her home – technically a burglary, I suppose, though with entirely different motivations from the normal burglar. And in only a few minutes there, I found the knowledge I sought.
Victoria was a bibliophile. Her rooms were full of books – old books, for the most part, rare books in many cases. All lovingly cared for.
I found what I sought, and left, leaving no traces, no signs of my presence. A few days later she contacted me in response to an advert I had placed. A rare edition that would complete a series she had, and offered at a remarkably low price. Of course, I made a loss on the transaction, but what of it? Money was not my concern.
I had touched her heart, and her life was opened to me. We spent the remaining months of winter together, and when the warmth began to return to the world, I buried her high on a bare and empty hillside. The wind blew strongly up there, and I knew that my Winter Girl would remain cold in her earthen bed, whilst I alone knew her hidden warmth.
Mindful of that lesson, I sought a definition of autumn.
I started in the usual places. Bars, restaurants, shopping centres. Places where people mingled freely, where they could be observed interacting. It is often thought that we only show our true selves in private and in public present a false image. But the truth is that it is in our association with others that we show who we are. We lie most convincingly to ourselves. A practised observer such as I can learn much by how someone seeks to present themselves. The choice of mask is revealing.
My Spring Girl was an excellent example of that. As it happened, I first saw her at her place of work – the reception desk in the hotel where I was staying. Her long brown hair, thick and glossy, was tied back in a tight bun. Her eyes were hidden behind shaded spectacles, her soul behind the prim, smart uniform and the personality that went with it. It was the corporate look, the corporate style. Polite, efficient, professionally friendly. A look which I suspected had been designed by someone who was afraid of people.
But it wasn't her. It wasn't Keena. I could see at once that there was a very different person beneath the artificial shell, someone desperate to break free. And even if I hadn't been seeking for my Spring Girl, I think I would have helped her do that. Just to see who the real person was.
It wasn't hard to arrange a 'coincidental' meeting away from the hotel. She was hungry for new experience, desperate to expand her life. She wanted to grow, and that was the very epitome of spring. I was almost certain of her within the first five minutes of conversation. But when she removed her glasses and I saw her eyes my mind was made up. Green is a spectacular combination with brown hair, and hers were the bright fresh shade of new growth.
Within a week she had left her job, and I had set her free to enjoy every new experience that we could cram into life. We skied and dived and hiked. We rafted through white water, drifted over African plains, gambled in Las Vegas, rode the world's biggest roller-coaster and ate fresh caviar.
As the exuberance of spring began to settle into the calmer rhythms of summer, I took her home. I did not bury her – that seemed too confining for her free spirit. Instead I burned her body entirely to ash, flesh and bone alike, and cast her into the wind to blow wherever she might.
We are guided by experience, and mine had taught me to look for the real person, not the appearance or the social mask. So I was wary when I saw the flame-red hair of the young women in the restaurant. She was in deep and animated discussion with companions over a light lunch: I took a seat nearby and eavesdropped on the conversation. Easy to do, the technology is freely available.
What I heard was exciting.
They were discussing art, and to me there is no subject of greater importance or interest. In particular, their debate centred on the effect that commercial pressures had on what an artist produced. Whilst her companions pointed out that patronage had been behind many of the greatest works of art, she argued passionately that the truest and purest art could only be produced when the artist was influenced by their vision alone.
Could it be that I had found a kindred spirit? Someone who would truly understand and appreciate my muse?
I drank coffee, ate some rather dry gateaux, observed and recorded.
She and her companions finished their meal. One of them generously insisted on paying the bill, which was a little annoying for me, but at least she paid by card.
I returned to my hotel, opened up my laptop and put several specialized (and expensive) programs to work. In short order I had accessed the accounts of the restaurant, and obtained a list of that day's transactions. Knowing the exact time the bill had been paid, I had the name of the generous companion. Looking at her social media links soon identified the others. But not, unfortunately, the flame-haired women whom I was already certain would be my Autumn Girl.
She did not seem to have an online presence. At least, not one easily identifiable.
I took my search further, hacking into the e-mail accounts of each companion, cross checking names and searching each reference.
After an hour's hard work, her face came onto my screen. I sat for a while, savouring the pleasure of a difficult task well completed, and looking at my Autumn Girl.
Jacqueline Vane.
Even in a still image her face seemed animated, full of life and vitality. Her eyes stared straight at me. Light blue. The blue of a storm washed sky, cold and clear. An autumn sky.
The picture was on her business website, and it made very interesting reading. She was an independent IT consultant, whose services included cyber security. Which probably explained why she wasn't visible in the social media. A professional would, I supposed, have a natural antipathy towards putting too much information on line.
It also meant that I would have to be more cautious than usual in researching her. Though I have a great deal of ability in this area, any direct attempt to hack into her systems would probably be detected.
No matter, there were more subtle ways for the hunter to pursue his quarry. Armed with her name, I began searching more widely, and soon had several hits. Jacqueline – Jackie? Jack? - had many interests, it seemed. Her name came up in connection with several charities, as a member of an amateur dramatic society, in the list of participants for a local half marathon. There were no links to schools, which implied no children, no indication of any spouse, past or present, no suggestion that there were any 'significant others' - or at least, not so significant as to leave a mark on her life.
One reference was particularly interesting. She was in a local Ramblers Club, a regular participant it seemed. And their site offered an open invitation to the next event.
The Ramblers met on a damp Sunday morning in the car park of a village pub. I got there early, introduced myself and chatted pleasantly to people as they arrived. My Autumn Girl turned up only at the last minute. I took note of the car and it's registration without making it obvious, and made no attempt to talk to her at first.
In due course we set off along a muddy riverside path. I stayed behind the main party, deep in a conversation about local history with a rather obsessive middle-aged couple. After a while she dropped back and joined us.
"I've been sent to rescue you!" she said with a laugh. "These two have a track record for scaring off new members!"
They took it well. "We're not that bad!" the gentleman protested.
"Yes we are!" said his wife. "Jacqui - this is Steven, who is far too polite to tell us how boring we are. Steven, this is Jacqui, who (unlike us!) has more than one topic of conversation. Why don't you two walk on ahead? There's some totally unimportant ruins nearby that we're very interested in looking at."
We did as we were told; leaving the gentleman insisting that a fourteenth century farmhouse could never be considered 'unimportant'.
Our conversation lasted for the rest of the day.
In person, my Autumn Girl was a little shorter than I'd expected, and perhaps a little older than her on-line image suggested. But what no picture could convey was the energy that pervaded her, the mercurial personality that was interested in everything. She did indeed have more than one topic of conversation. Sometimes several in one sentence.
And her mood was as varied and changeable as the topic. Excited about new scientific discoveries; angry about cuts in funding. Laughing over a play she had seen recently; saddened by a tragic news story. Full of wonder and delight as the sun broke through the clouds and sparkled on the river. Annoyed by what pollution was doing to the natural world.
My excitement grew as we talked, for it became more and more evident that she was truly the Autumn Girl, incarnating all the beauty and darkness and changefulness of the season. At the same time my strategy also became clear. I must be her complement, her balance; meeting her darkness with light or matching her passionate storm with a solid calm.
So when she became gloomy about climate change I cheered her with hopeful statistics. Her diatribe against corrupt government I countered with examples of politicians quietly doing good work. When she laughed aloud, I merely smiled, when she became sad I gently teased until she smiled. When she stated an interest in spiritual matters, I proclaimed myself an atheist. She challenged me to come to a church with her that evening. Since it was important at this stage not to appear too eager, I pleaded another commitment, but suggested that we get together later in the week so she could tell me about it.
She agreed.
Over the next few weeks we spent more and more time together, our relationship developing and deepening in a very satisfactory fashion. We did not get to the point of physical intimacy, but that was not a major concern at this stage. Bearing in mind her religious leanings, I did not force the pace in that area. I was quite confident that we would reach that point in due course. One way or another.
Nevertheless, the season was moving on, I had a schedule to keep to, and I judged that enough progress had been made to take the next step.
Over dinner, after an evening at the theatre, I raised the subject.
"I'm thinking of taking a break. Going home for a week or so."
"That place in the country you mentioned?" she asked, referring to an earlier conversation.
I nodded. "It's beautiful round there this time of year. I want to get some walking in before the weather turns. And there's a Literary Festival on nearby – just a small affair, but it's usually worth a visit. You'd enjoy it."
She raised an eyebrow. "If that's an invitation, thanks, but I do have a business to run, you know."
"So bring your laptop. I've got good internet connections. You can do a few hours a day, just to keep things ticking over, and then we can have the rest of the time together."
I put on a carefully prepared look of hopeful expectancy, whilst feeling a certain amount of apprehension. Jacqui's personality made her hard to predict, and seeing her pensive frown I wondered if my approach had been wrong after all.
"I suppose I could manage a few days," she said. "If we went down this weekend I could stay till Wednesday or Thursday. Friday evening OK?"
I smiled. "That would be perfect!" I told her. I didn't need to hide my pleasure. If she came for the weekend, I would have my Autumn Girl forever.
I went early, to make preparations. I was a little apprehensive in case she changed her mind, but when Friday evening arrived, so did she.
She was surprised by the size of the place, and its style. "More modern than I'd expected," she said.
"It's all those big windows," I explained. "They don't balance with the brickwork. You expect to see them flanked with steel and concrete – but that's just cultural conditioning. It actually works really well, and it gives a huge amount of natural light inside. Come and see!
The sun was just touching the horizon as we entered, streaking the fields with a red-gold wash as they flowed away into shadow. The light came in at an oblique angle that flooded the front of the rooms and as she stood close to the glass, staring out, her silhouette seemed to be rimmed with fire. Highlights I had never seen before were struck from her hair, glints of orange and gold amidst the red, and I felt a deep contentment settle over me.
My Autumn Girl. Here with me at last. All was complete.
I stepped up behind her, put an arm round her and rested my head against hers. For a moment I felt her stiffen, but then she relaxed into me, and we stood together with the sunset.
I contemplated taking advantage of the moment to move the agenda along a little further. But it would have been foolish to spoil things by rushing. Besides, I was hungry, and I knew that she would be as well.
As the light faded from the sky, the house lights came on gently. When it was fully dark outside, the curtains closed. Some background music discreetly entered the room. Cellos.
"I'll show you to your room. Dinner in half an hour?"
The meal proved to be quieter affair than I had hoped. She was in a pensive mood, her conversation forced. When I mentioned it, she pleaded tiredness.
"I've been pushing it a bit, the last few days. Clearing the decks so as I wouldn't be thinking of work the whole time I was here. Would you mind if I went to bed early? Tomorrow will be different, I promise!" She forced a smile, but it was so unlike her normal uninhibited brightness that I became genuinely worried. For her to become ill would spoil everything that I was trying achieve.
"Not at all," I assured her. "Come and go as you please. You're on holiday! And you need to be well rested for tomorrow – I've got a lot planned!"
After she had gone to bed, I tidied up, loaded the dishwasher, and went to bed myself, taking my tablet PC with me. Before I settled down for the night I checked the CCTV.
She was already asleep, laying on her side with the duvet wrapped close around her shoulders. I switched cameras, hoping for a glimpse of her face. But it was deeply buried in the pillows, and I could see little more than the curve of her cheek and the fall of her hair.
Nevertheless, I watched her for a little while, savouring the perfection of the moment and anticipating all that was to come. Tomorrow promised to be a significant day, I thought, and a good night's sleep was needed in preparation. I checked that all the cameras were recording, switched off the tablet and settled quickly into sleep.
I am normally a sound sleeper, so when something disturbed me I knew at once that it must have been something unusual. A noise or a movement that did not belong in my house. I lay still for a few moments, listening.
It wasn't loud. A rustle, a scrape, on the very edge of my hearing. Too faint to give any direction.
The bedside clock showed that it was just after two in the morning. By the faint light of its display I surveyed the room. Nothing was out of place, nothing moved. But the noise was repeated, more loudly this time, enough to give me some sense of direction.
Down. Down by the floor, down near the bottom of the wall, down where the ducts for the house climate system ran. Heating, air conditioning, de-humidifiers, all controlled and generated from a central system in the basement.
Right next to my office, in fact. My private office. The concealed one that only I knew of, only I ever went to.
That was impossible. No one could be there! Only Jacqui was in the house with me, and she knew nothing about it. Besides which, she was sleeping soundly. If she had left her room I would have known.
Nonetheless, I checked the CCTV. With some relief, I confirmed that she was still there, exactly as I had last seen her. As I watched, she moved slightly.
Exactly as I had seen her do before.
Incredulous, I ran the footage backwards over the past hour. In all that time she had made just that one move. A move repeated every ten minutes.
The loop was so perfect that I couldn't see the join, even though I knew what to look for.
A storm surge of utter fury exploded within me, so intense that for a moment I was paralysed by it, muscles locked in place. Partially, it was directed at myself – I knew what her profession was, why had I not taken more precautions? - but mostly it was at her. She was threatening to ruin everything! All my hard work, all its beautiful perfection, was put at risk by her actions.
Another faint noise came from the vents.
I hurled the tablet at the wall – it was already broken, the screen cracked by the pressure of my grip – snatched up my dressing gown and ran out of the door, pulling it on as I went.
Three floors down to the basement level, and the entrance was at the far end of the house. Which gave me just enough time to bring myself under control. So when I saw the office door – disguised as a blank concrete wall – standing ajar, I didn't simply rush in. Instead I swung it fully open and stood for a moment. Outwardly calm, but I was aware of my fists clenching so tightly that my nails were in danger of drawing blood.
She was sitting at the workstation, wearing a blue dressing gown over incongruous flowered pyjamas, with her laptop open in front of her. I had made the PC secure from casual access, even if the room was somehow discovered and the power supply was protected by a keypad. But she had avoided that problem entirely by removing the hard drive and accessing it directly from her laptop. The other security precautions I had taken, the multiple layers of password protection, had clearly been no more effective. Most of the screen showed a steadily scrolling list of files, whilst a series of images came up in a separate window.
I recognized them all. All my work from the past year. All the carefully planned, exquisitely crafted, painstakingly recorded creations that I had put so much of myself into. All my girls. All being unceremoniously torn out and exposed without regard for order or context.
It was like a kick in the guts. I felt sick, I felt violated.
She turned and met my gaze. I couldn't read her expression. Horror, perhaps. And fear. But was there also disappointment? I thought that perhaps there was, and that gave me an opening, a chance to regain control.
I buried my emotions, and spoke calmly.
"You didn't have to do this. I would have told you everything. At the right time."
"And when would that have been? Just before you killed me?" She spoke quietly, but with tension in her voice.
I shook my head. "No, Jacqui. You're different. You're special. You would understand what I'm trying to do here."
I took a step into the room, extending a hand, intending no more than a reassuring touch. But it was too soon. She snatched something out of her pocket, held it up. A vivid arc flared across contacts as she pressed a switch.
"One more step and I will put you down!" She held the stun gun menacingly.
I stopped, held up my hands. "OK. No need for that." I moved to the side, leant against some drawers. “We'll just talk. Is that alright?"
She glanced at her laptop, checking the progress of her download, then nodded.
I wasn't worried by what she was downloading. Furious at the intrusion, but not worried. She wouldn't be leaving with the laptop. She wouldn't be leaving at all.
"I'm surprised you managed to find this place." Speaking calmly. Just two friends having a conversation.
She shrugged. "I assumed you must have somewhere like this. I ran a trace on your wiring, found where all the sockets were. Not hard to work it out from that – and the door wasn't even locked. Careless."
I nodded. "Yes. But I hadn't anticipated such a level of expertise. How did you know how to do that?"
"Not everything about me is online. My real job, for example. Cyber Security is just a part of it."
I felt a sinking in my guts. The idea that there were things I didn't know about her, important things that I had failed to find out, suggested a dangerous loss of control.
"So what do you do, then?"
"I'm a Forensic Consultant on Cyber Crime and all things computer related."
The feeling in my guts had become a tight knot. "You work for the Police."
"For several Police forces, actually. Here and abroad. When they have a problem they can't solve in-house, they come to me. Sometimes they need things doing that they can't officially know about. Hacking into the systems of dodgy companies, for example. Naturally, that's not the sort of information I put into the public domain."
I shifted position slightly, dropped my hand to rest casually on a drawer handle. She flicked the switch on the stun gun, another crackle of high voltage, and I stopped. "You're full of surprises. But you were looking for this place. You came here expecting to find it. Why was that?"
She shrugged. "I caught you snooping. Checking me out online."
"What?" I was incredulous. "How?"
"In my job, a little paranoia is inevitable. Like, for example, I keep track of every website that even mentions my name. Professionally or socially. When every site was accessed from the same source within a couple of hours, it put up a flag."
She glanced at the laptop again, and I took the opportunity to get a firmer grip on the drawer handle.
"So I did a little snooping of my own," she continued, looking back at me. "One of those links you followed to me was booby trapped. While you were trying to find out about me, I was in your hard drive, finding out about you."
"There was nothing there to find." I had wiped that drive completely after every use.
"Oh, but there was. You should have realised, the only way to be certain of removing all the data on a hard drive is to destroy it."
I had realised that. I just hadn't anticipated that anyone would have reason to look that carefully.
"I found a name," she continued. She kept glancing at the laptop as she spoke. That divided attention might give me the opportunity I needed. But not just yet. I wanted to hear what she had to say. I had made mistakes. I wouldn't repeat them.
"A name?" I prompted.
"Sally Higson. Your Summer Girl, I believe?"
There was no point in denying it. "But why would that name mean anything to you?"
"It rang a bell. I checked. She was reported missing a month ago. No leads, but the Police are trying to trace a man seen with her. Quite a good description. I recognized you as soon as I saw you."
"On the walk."
She nodded. "Once I read your files, I knew you were stalking me. I was expecting you to turn up. Looking for your 'Autumn Girl'”.
"But even knowing that you still met with me?"
She nodded. "I had to get evidence. One name wasn't enough. Not to go to court with. I had to let you get close to me in order to get close to you."
I controlled my anger; let a little leak out as chagrin. "And all the time, I thought I was being so cool!"
"You were," she said. "I began to hope that I was wrong. I almost convinced myself I was. "
I smiled. It was what I had seen in her eyes.
"But then I found this." She gestured at the screen. "Winter, Spring, Summer. What sort of sick fantasy are you living out here? Sex, murder and the Four Seasons? Is that how you get your kicks – seducing women, getting them to trust you, to love you even ...”
She broke off and took a breath. "Do you play Vivaldi while you're killing them?"
I was appalled by her failure to understand – though the Vivaldi idea was one that I had considered, before dismissing it as rather obvious and perhaps pretentious.
"Of course not! Sex and death are just part of what I'm doing here! Can't you see it? I thought that you of all people would recognize what I'm creating."
"Creating? You call this creating?" She hit a button, froze an image. Winter Girl, in her last moments. Red blood against white skin on black sheets.
"That was about the vivid contrasts of colour. Such darkness epitomizes the season. But it's unfair of you to make a judgement on the basis of one image. You need to see it in the context of the whole work."
A shock wave of comprehension in her eyes. "This is meant to be art? You waste lives for this?"
"Waste? How could you think that? I waste nothing! I have cherished those girls! Every significant moment is recorded. I gave a meaning to their lives that they could never have achieved otherwise!"
She shook her head. "A pointless death, buried in an unmarked grave. Where's the meaning in that?"
"OK. Think of it like this. All of us, every human life, is like a musical note. On its own, just a sound. It may linger a while, but then it fades and dies. Thrown together at random with other notes, as life does, it's just a cacophony. But if an artist, a composer, takes those notes and arranges them, balances them, puts them into order – then something beautiful is created! Something greater than the sum of its parts!"
I held her gaze with mine. Perhaps she would understand? Perhaps she would share the vision?
"Everything dies," I continued quietly. "The important thing is that life and death alike should have significance."
"And how would you give me significance? By cutting my throat? By hanging or drowning me?"
As she spoke, she brought images up on the screen. Winter Girl, Spring Girl, Summer Girl. I sighed, disappointed, and slid the drawer open whilst her attention was distracted.
"I don't know yet. It'll come to me."
I reached into the drawer, gripped the pistol, and in one smooth movement brought it out, cocked it and aimed it at her head.
But even as I did so, I knew something was wrong. The gun was too light.
"I found that first." She held up the loaded magazine in one hand, stun gun still in the other. "And I got the chambered round as well, in case you were wondering."
I had been. But I had an alternative plan, and hurled the pistol directly into her face.
Her head snapped back as it impacted, the thud of metal on flesh drowned by her wordless shout. I gave her no time to recover. Before the pistol hit the floor I had snatched the stun gun out of her hand, jammed it against her neck, and triggered it.
She screamed and convulsed, every muscle in her body going into spasm as the current hit her nervous system, jerking her off the chair and onto the floor. Kneeling down. I gave her another jolt, a full five seconds worth.
"I do wish you'd left things alone," I said. "I had hoped for something more elegant to complete the work with. But I suppose that's the essence of art. You have to operate within the limitations of the material." She made no answer other than a low moan. I turned my attention to the laptop, began shutting it down. "I just hope you haven't lost any of the data. What was your plan, I wonder? Did you think that you'd be able smuggle this out and go to the police with it?"
I folded the screen, and then saw the device which had previously been hidden. A small box with flickering LEDs and an LCD display. I knew at once what it must be.
There was no direct line out of the room, and the entire house was shielded against mobile transmissions. Which had led me to make unfounded assumptions. But what I was seeing was some sort of relay mechanism. It would be linked to another device, probably a sat-phone, up in her room. And that would be connected to a Police control room, where every downloaded file from my hard drive had been sent.
For a moment I was paralysed, the implications of that little box racing through my mind.
All my careful plans were destroyed. The completion of my work, the editing and refining, the spectacular public release – none of that would happen. The grand vision I had pursued for so long and at such cost would be seen only as a series of grubby little murders. Something to splash across the front pages of the tabloids, which would no doubt focus on the sex aspect, with no care for deeper nuances.
I groaned at the thought. I looked down at my Autumn Girl, still twitching where she had fallen.
"You don't know what you’ve done," I told her, and in a spasm of fury, kicked her in the side.
But even as I succumbed to the impulse, the thought came that this turn of events was still consistent with the whole work. Autumn had shown even me just how wild and uncontrollable it was.
Then so be it. I would accept this and make it part of my vision. I would use the material as it came to hand.
I would have to hurry. The abrupt cessation of the data flow would have alerted the Police, and they would be on their way. I wouldn't have long. But a plan was already forming itself, even as I ran out of the room.
At the rear of the building, behind the garage, was an outbuilding used for gardening equipment. Keys on the rack by the front door, so I went out that way.
Flashing blue lights were coming up the lane towards me.
I had even less time than I had thought. But the gates were secure and solidly built. They wouldn't be coming through them in a hurry – not unless they'd brought an armoured car, which isn't standard issue in British police forces. And the walls were ten feet high, topped with electrified wire. Not a lethal voltage, unfortunately, but enough to be a significant deterrent.
I had time, and I knew just what to do with it. Forcing calm on myself, I walked briskly to the outbuilding, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
I hadn't used any of the tools for a while, not since I'd buried Summer Girl. I had people come in to do the lawns, and they used their own equipment. But I kept it tidy and well stocked, for looking after the special places that only I went to. The places where my girls slept.
I kept a can of petrol at the back of the shed, and picking it up, I judged that there was at least three litres left. More than enough.
There were loud noises coming from the gate now, a pounding and clanging as they tried to force their way in. It bothered me not at all. Instead, I felt a strange mixture of peace and excitement as I walked back to the house. The culmination of all my work was before me. Not as I had envisaged it, indeed, but all the more authentic for that reason. My art would reflect life's capriciousness in its conclusion.
Back in the office, I found that she managed to move herself a short distance and was half-sitting, propped up against the wall, and staring at me as I entered. I wasn't entirely surprised. A stun gun won't actually render someone unconscious, but the massive shock generates huge amounts of lactic acid which makes the subject all but helpless for a while. Her limbs must have been feeling like jelly. Between that and the blow on her head, she'd done well to move at all.
"You're friends have arrived," I told her. "But they've been a little delayed at the gate. I'm afraid they'll miss the final part of my work." I held up the petrol can. "Not what I had in mind. I've had to improvise. But it occurred to me – what could be more evocative of autumn than a bonfire?"
She stared at me. It was hard to read her expression. The gun had left a nasty cut across the bridge of her nose, and blood had run down across her face.
The gun.
I had forgotten about the gun, which I had thrown at her. And the loaded magazine, which she had had already.
She raised her hand from where it had been concealed, down by her side. The gun was in it, cocked and loaded and pointing at me.
"Put it down and step back," she said. Her voice was quiet; her words a little slurred, but clear enough.
I sighed. "That's the problem with improvisation," I said. "So easy to overlook things when you make it up as you go along."
"Put it down!" she repeated.
The muzzle wobbled as she tried to aim it. It wasn't a big gun. Just a .22, and she was holding it in both hands now. Even so, her weakened muscles were struggling to keep it pointed at me. If I kept here talking for a few minutes, she would have to drop it.
"Jacqui, think about this," I began. "Do you really ..."
I saw the frown on her face, the concentration in her eyes as she tried to keep the pistol steady, the tightening of her fingers as she squeezed the trigger, and I flung myself sideways.
The report, in that confined space, stung my ears. At the same time something stung my fingers and the petrol can was wrenched out of my grasp. For a moment, I thought that I'd been hit. Then the sweet stench of petrol reached me, and I saw the can lying on the floor, with liquid bubbling out from the neat little hole in the side.
I picked myself up and looked at her. The recoil had nearly made her drop the pistol, but the trigger guard had caught around her fingers and before I could react she had regained her grip.
We stared at each other. I smiled, then began to chuckle.
"I love the way things work themselves out sometimes. Like they're just meant to be. Is that what Fate is, do you suppose?"
"What?" Her voice was a whisper.
"Can't you smell the fumes?" I indicated the petrol can. "If you shoot now, the muzzle flash will set it off. But if you don't ..." I held up the stun gun " ... then this will do the job."
She shook her head frantically, denying the inevitable. "But then we'll both die! And there's no need, no need at all."
"So what's the alternative? That I spend the rest of my life in prison? Where's the meaning in that? Where's the art? No, this is better. I become part of my work! And how wonderfully ironic, that the final decision on how to conclude the piece rests not with the artist, but with the subject!" I laughed aloud at the perfection of it.
"You are mad," she said.
"That's a pathetic last line," I told her. "If you can only speak in clichés, better say nothing."
Above there was the sound of breaking glass, shouts, heavy footsteps.
"Ah. Company. Times up, Autumn Girl. Will you do it or shall I?"
Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered the pistol.
I nodded. "Very well then." I raised the stun gun, finger poised on the button.
She flipped the loose end of her dressing gown over the pistol, and fired.
Sally was my Summer Girl. She was warm and languid and gentle, her hair shone with the highlights of ripened wheat rippling in the soft breeze, and her eyes were the deep and cloudless blue that I had searched so hard for.
I brought her home in July, on an endearingly hot day that made her face glow. We lived and laughed and loved together all through those radiant weeks, lazy in the sunshine, warm in the night, with bedroom windows open to the cool breeze.
I buried her at the end of August, in the last golden light of the summer.
For many days, I remembered her. I visited her grave, honouring the person she was and acknowledging what she had been to me and what we had been together. I sorted and organized all the images and video clips of her that I had collected, laying them down, safe and secure, on an encrypted hard drive in my hidden office. I did not say goodbye, for now she was with me forever.
But when the wind strengthened and turned chill, when the great oak that shaded her resting place began to change its green for shades of red-brown and gold, then it was time to move on. The season was changing, and it was time to go looking for my Autumn Girl.
I went a little way north, where the season's changes were further advanced, the better to feel the mood and sense of the world's turning, and to be guided in my search. It had taken me too long to find Sally, depriving us of precious time together. I was determined not to repeat that mistake. My Autumn Girl was the last, and all should be perfect.
I already had some ideas of how she should be. Red hair, of course, and eyes perhaps the grey of storms, through that would be a very unusual combination. But more important than appearance was personality.
I had realised that only after many failures, many imperfections. It was my Winter Girl who had shown me my error. I had been fortunate to find her back in January, at the opening of the year, when frost and early snow had whitened the ground. Victoria Tan, Chinese and English. Hair and eyes shadow-black, skin as smooth and white as untrodden snowfall.
The stark contrasts of her colouring attracted me at once, for they were the very epitome of winter. But my initial approaches were rebuffed so soundly that I all but gave up and moved on.
Instead, I remained, and watched, and saw that I was not alone. No one got close to her. She maintained a distance between herself and, it seemed, the entire human race. In a rare and wonderful moment of epiphany, I understood that this was her perfection. In her isolation, her remoteness – her coldness, indeed – Victoria was the very soul of winter, its embodiment.
But winter has a warmth at its heart, however deeply buried. The hidden life of creatures that hibernate snuggled deep in cosy nests. The security and comfort of a home, closed against the winter storms to conserve the precious heat within. The fierce glow of life, enduring the darkness.
I felt entirely certain that my cold Winter Girl would have that same light and heat and life buried within her. And so it was. It was not even difficult to find, once I understood what to look for.
Finding out entailed some risk. I made a surreptitious entry into her home – technically a burglary, I suppose, though with entirely different motivations from the normal burglar. And in only a few minutes there, I found the knowledge I sought.
Victoria was a bibliophile. Her rooms were full of books – old books, for the most part, rare books in many cases. All lovingly cared for.
I found what I sought, and left, leaving no traces, no signs of my presence. A few days later she contacted me in response to an advert I had placed. A rare edition that would complete a series she had, and offered at a remarkably low price. Of course, I made a loss on the transaction, but what of it? Money was not my concern.
I had touched her heart, and her life was opened to me. We spent the remaining months of winter together, and when the warmth began to return to the world, I buried her high on a bare and empty hillside. The wind blew strongly up there, and I knew that my Winter Girl would remain cold in her earthen bed, whilst I alone knew her hidden warmth.
Mindful of that lesson, I sought a definition of autumn.
I started in the usual places. Bars, restaurants, shopping centres. Places where people mingled freely, where they could be observed interacting. It is often thought that we only show our true selves in private and in public present a false image. But the truth is that it is in our association with others that we show who we are. We lie most convincingly to ourselves. A practised observer such as I can learn much by how someone seeks to present themselves. The choice of mask is revealing.
My Spring Girl was an excellent example of that. As it happened, I first saw her at her place of work – the reception desk in the hotel where I was staying. Her long brown hair, thick and glossy, was tied back in a tight bun. Her eyes were hidden behind shaded spectacles, her soul behind the prim, smart uniform and the personality that went with it. It was the corporate look, the corporate style. Polite, efficient, professionally friendly. A look which I suspected had been designed by someone who was afraid of people.
But it wasn't her. It wasn't Keena. I could see at once that there was a very different person beneath the artificial shell, someone desperate to break free. And even if I hadn't been seeking for my Spring Girl, I think I would have helped her do that. Just to see who the real person was.
It wasn't hard to arrange a 'coincidental' meeting away from the hotel. She was hungry for new experience, desperate to expand her life. She wanted to grow, and that was the very epitome of spring. I was almost certain of her within the first five minutes of conversation. But when she removed her glasses and I saw her eyes my mind was made up. Green is a spectacular combination with brown hair, and hers were the bright fresh shade of new growth.
Within a week she had left her job, and I had set her free to enjoy every new experience that we could cram into life. We skied and dived and hiked. We rafted through white water, drifted over African plains, gambled in Las Vegas, rode the world's biggest roller-coaster and ate fresh caviar.
As the exuberance of spring began to settle into the calmer rhythms of summer, I took her home. I did not bury her – that seemed too confining for her free spirit. Instead I burned her body entirely to ash, flesh and bone alike, and cast her into the wind to blow wherever she might.
We are guided by experience, and mine had taught me to look for the real person, not the appearance or the social mask. So I was wary when I saw the flame-red hair of the young women in the restaurant. She was in deep and animated discussion with companions over a light lunch: I took a seat nearby and eavesdropped on the conversation. Easy to do, the technology is freely available.
What I heard was exciting.
They were discussing art, and to me there is no subject of greater importance or interest. In particular, their debate centred on the effect that commercial pressures had on what an artist produced. Whilst her companions pointed out that patronage had been behind many of the greatest works of art, she argued passionately that the truest and purest art could only be produced when the artist was influenced by their vision alone.
Could it be that I had found a kindred spirit? Someone who would truly understand and appreciate my muse?
I drank coffee, ate some rather dry gateaux, observed and recorded.
She and her companions finished their meal. One of them generously insisted on paying the bill, which was a little annoying for me, but at least she paid by card.
I returned to my hotel, opened up my laptop and put several specialized (and expensive) programs to work. In short order I had accessed the accounts of the restaurant, and obtained a list of that day's transactions. Knowing the exact time the bill had been paid, I had the name of the generous companion. Looking at her social media links soon identified the others. But not, unfortunately, the flame-haired women whom I was already certain would be my Autumn Girl.
She did not seem to have an online presence. At least, not one easily identifiable.
I took my search further, hacking into the e-mail accounts of each companion, cross checking names and searching each reference.
After an hour's hard work, her face came onto my screen. I sat for a while, savouring the pleasure of a difficult task well completed, and looking at my Autumn Girl.
Jacqueline Vane.
Even in a still image her face seemed animated, full of life and vitality. Her eyes stared straight at me. Light blue. The blue of a storm washed sky, cold and clear. An autumn sky.
The picture was on her business website, and it made very interesting reading. She was an independent IT consultant, whose services included cyber security. Which probably explained why she wasn't visible in the social media. A professional would, I supposed, have a natural antipathy towards putting too much information on line.
It also meant that I would have to be more cautious than usual in researching her. Though I have a great deal of ability in this area, any direct attempt to hack into her systems would probably be detected.
No matter, there were more subtle ways for the hunter to pursue his quarry. Armed with her name, I began searching more widely, and soon had several hits. Jacqueline – Jackie? Jack? - had many interests, it seemed. Her name came up in connection with several charities, as a member of an amateur dramatic society, in the list of participants for a local half marathon. There were no links to schools, which implied no children, no indication of any spouse, past or present, no suggestion that there were any 'significant others' - or at least, not so significant as to leave a mark on her life.
One reference was particularly interesting. She was in a local Ramblers Club, a regular participant it seemed. And their site offered an open invitation to the next event.
The Ramblers met on a damp Sunday morning in the car park of a village pub. I got there early, introduced myself and chatted pleasantly to people as they arrived. My Autumn Girl turned up only at the last minute. I took note of the car and it's registration without making it obvious, and made no attempt to talk to her at first.
In due course we set off along a muddy riverside path. I stayed behind the main party, deep in a conversation about local history with a rather obsessive middle-aged couple. After a while she dropped back and joined us.
"I've been sent to rescue you!" she said with a laugh. "These two have a track record for scaring off new members!"
They took it well. "We're not that bad!" the gentleman protested.
"Yes we are!" said his wife. "Jacqui - this is Steven, who is far too polite to tell us how boring we are. Steven, this is Jacqui, who (unlike us!) has more than one topic of conversation. Why don't you two walk on ahead? There's some totally unimportant ruins nearby that we're very interested in looking at."
We did as we were told; leaving the gentleman insisting that a fourteenth century farmhouse could never be considered 'unimportant'.
Our conversation lasted for the rest of the day.
In person, my Autumn Girl was a little shorter than I'd expected, and perhaps a little older than her on-line image suggested. But what no picture could convey was the energy that pervaded her, the mercurial personality that was interested in everything. She did indeed have more than one topic of conversation. Sometimes several in one sentence.
And her mood was as varied and changeable as the topic. Excited about new scientific discoveries; angry about cuts in funding. Laughing over a play she had seen recently; saddened by a tragic news story. Full of wonder and delight as the sun broke through the clouds and sparkled on the river. Annoyed by what pollution was doing to the natural world.
My excitement grew as we talked, for it became more and more evident that she was truly the Autumn Girl, incarnating all the beauty and darkness and changefulness of the season. At the same time my strategy also became clear. I must be her complement, her balance; meeting her darkness with light or matching her passionate storm with a solid calm.
So when she became gloomy about climate change I cheered her with hopeful statistics. Her diatribe against corrupt government I countered with examples of politicians quietly doing good work. When she laughed aloud, I merely smiled, when she became sad I gently teased until she smiled. When she stated an interest in spiritual matters, I proclaimed myself an atheist. She challenged me to come to a church with her that evening. Since it was important at this stage not to appear too eager, I pleaded another commitment, but suggested that we get together later in the week so she could tell me about it.
She agreed.
Over the next few weeks we spent more and more time together, our relationship developing and deepening in a very satisfactory fashion. We did not get to the point of physical intimacy, but that was not a major concern at this stage. Bearing in mind her religious leanings, I did not force the pace in that area. I was quite confident that we would reach that point in due course. One way or another.
Nevertheless, the season was moving on, I had a schedule to keep to, and I judged that enough progress had been made to take the next step.
Over dinner, after an evening at the theatre, I raised the subject.
"I'm thinking of taking a break. Going home for a week or so."
"That place in the country you mentioned?" she asked, referring to an earlier conversation.
I nodded. "It's beautiful round there this time of year. I want to get some walking in before the weather turns. And there's a Literary Festival on nearby – just a small affair, but it's usually worth a visit. You'd enjoy it."
She raised an eyebrow. "If that's an invitation, thanks, but I do have a business to run, you know."
"So bring your laptop. I've got good internet connections. You can do a few hours a day, just to keep things ticking over, and then we can have the rest of the time together."
I put on a carefully prepared look of hopeful expectancy, whilst feeling a certain amount of apprehension. Jacqui's personality made her hard to predict, and seeing her pensive frown I wondered if my approach had been wrong after all.
"I suppose I could manage a few days," she said. "If we went down this weekend I could stay till Wednesday or Thursday. Friday evening OK?"
I smiled. "That would be perfect!" I told her. I didn't need to hide my pleasure. If she came for the weekend, I would have my Autumn Girl forever.
I went early, to make preparations. I was a little apprehensive in case she changed her mind, but when Friday evening arrived, so did she.
She was surprised by the size of the place, and its style. "More modern than I'd expected," she said.
"It's all those big windows," I explained. "They don't balance with the brickwork. You expect to see them flanked with steel and concrete – but that's just cultural conditioning. It actually works really well, and it gives a huge amount of natural light inside. Come and see!
The sun was just touching the horizon as we entered, streaking the fields with a red-gold wash as they flowed away into shadow. The light came in at an oblique angle that flooded the front of the rooms and as she stood close to the glass, staring out, her silhouette seemed to be rimmed with fire. Highlights I had never seen before were struck from her hair, glints of orange and gold amidst the red, and I felt a deep contentment settle over me.
My Autumn Girl. Here with me at last. All was complete.
I stepped up behind her, put an arm round her and rested my head against hers. For a moment I felt her stiffen, but then she relaxed into me, and we stood together with the sunset.
I contemplated taking advantage of the moment to move the agenda along a little further. But it would have been foolish to spoil things by rushing. Besides, I was hungry, and I knew that she would be as well.
As the light faded from the sky, the house lights came on gently. When it was fully dark outside, the curtains closed. Some background music discreetly entered the room. Cellos.
"I'll show you to your room. Dinner in half an hour?"
The meal proved to be quieter affair than I had hoped. She was in a pensive mood, her conversation forced. When I mentioned it, she pleaded tiredness.
"I've been pushing it a bit, the last few days. Clearing the decks so as I wouldn't be thinking of work the whole time I was here. Would you mind if I went to bed early? Tomorrow will be different, I promise!" She forced a smile, but it was so unlike her normal uninhibited brightness that I became genuinely worried. For her to become ill would spoil everything that I was trying achieve.
"Not at all," I assured her. "Come and go as you please. You're on holiday! And you need to be well rested for tomorrow – I've got a lot planned!"
After she had gone to bed, I tidied up, loaded the dishwasher, and went to bed myself, taking my tablet PC with me. Before I settled down for the night I checked the CCTV.
She was already asleep, laying on her side with the duvet wrapped close around her shoulders. I switched cameras, hoping for a glimpse of her face. But it was deeply buried in the pillows, and I could see little more than the curve of her cheek and the fall of her hair.
Nevertheless, I watched her for a little while, savouring the perfection of the moment and anticipating all that was to come. Tomorrow promised to be a significant day, I thought, and a good night's sleep was needed in preparation. I checked that all the cameras were recording, switched off the tablet and settled quickly into sleep.
I am normally a sound sleeper, so when something disturbed me I knew at once that it must have been something unusual. A noise or a movement that did not belong in my house. I lay still for a few moments, listening.
It wasn't loud. A rustle, a scrape, on the very edge of my hearing. Too faint to give any direction.
The bedside clock showed that it was just after two in the morning. By the faint light of its display I surveyed the room. Nothing was out of place, nothing moved. But the noise was repeated, more loudly this time, enough to give me some sense of direction.
Down. Down by the floor, down near the bottom of the wall, down where the ducts for the house climate system ran. Heating, air conditioning, de-humidifiers, all controlled and generated from a central system in the basement.
Right next to my office, in fact. My private office. The concealed one that only I knew of, only I ever went to.
That was impossible. No one could be there! Only Jacqui was in the house with me, and she knew nothing about it. Besides which, she was sleeping soundly. If she had left her room I would have known.
Nonetheless, I checked the CCTV. With some relief, I confirmed that she was still there, exactly as I had last seen her. As I watched, she moved slightly.
Exactly as I had seen her do before.
Incredulous, I ran the footage backwards over the past hour. In all that time she had made just that one move. A move repeated every ten minutes.
The loop was so perfect that I couldn't see the join, even though I knew what to look for.
A storm surge of utter fury exploded within me, so intense that for a moment I was paralysed by it, muscles locked in place. Partially, it was directed at myself – I knew what her profession was, why had I not taken more precautions? - but mostly it was at her. She was threatening to ruin everything! All my hard work, all its beautiful perfection, was put at risk by her actions.
Another faint noise came from the vents.
I hurled the tablet at the wall – it was already broken, the screen cracked by the pressure of my grip – snatched up my dressing gown and ran out of the door, pulling it on as I went.
Three floors down to the basement level, and the entrance was at the far end of the house. Which gave me just enough time to bring myself under control. So when I saw the office door – disguised as a blank concrete wall – standing ajar, I didn't simply rush in. Instead I swung it fully open and stood for a moment. Outwardly calm, but I was aware of my fists clenching so tightly that my nails were in danger of drawing blood.
She was sitting at the workstation, wearing a blue dressing gown over incongruous flowered pyjamas, with her laptop open in front of her. I had made the PC secure from casual access, even if the room was somehow discovered and the power supply was protected by a keypad. But she had avoided that problem entirely by removing the hard drive and accessing it directly from her laptop. The other security precautions I had taken, the multiple layers of password protection, had clearly been no more effective. Most of the screen showed a steadily scrolling list of files, whilst a series of images came up in a separate window.
I recognized them all. All my work from the past year. All the carefully planned, exquisitely crafted, painstakingly recorded creations that I had put so much of myself into. All my girls. All being unceremoniously torn out and exposed without regard for order or context.
It was like a kick in the guts. I felt sick, I felt violated.
She turned and met my gaze. I couldn't read her expression. Horror, perhaps. And fear. But was there also disappointment? I thought that perhaps there was, and that gave me an opening, a chance to regain control.
I buried my emotions, and spoke calmly.
"You didn't have to do this. I would have told you everything. At the right time."
"And when would that have been? Just before you killed me?" She spoke quietly, but with tension in her voice.
I shook my head. "No, Jacqui. You're different. You're special. You would understand what I'm trying to do here."
I took a step into the room, extending a hand, intending no more than a reassuring touch. But it was too soon. She snatched something out of her pocket, held it up. A vivid arc flared across contacts as she pressed a switch.
"One more step and I will put you down!" She held the stun gun menacingly.
I stopped, held up my hands. "OK. No need for that." I moved to the side, leant against some drawers. “We'll just talk. Is that alright?"
She glanced at her laptop, checking the progress of her download, then nodded.
I wasn't worried by what she was downloading. Furious at the intrusion, but not worried. She wouldn't be leaving with the laptop. She wouldn't be leaving at all.
"I'm surprised you managed to find this place." Speaking calmly. Just two friends having a conversation.
She shrugged. "I assumed you must have somewhere like this. I ran a trace on your wiring, found where all the sockets were. Not hard to work it out from that – and the door wasn't even locked. Careless."
I nodded. "Yes. But I hadn't anticipated such a level of expertise. How did you know how to do that?"
"Not everything about me is online. My real job, for example. Cyber Security is just a part of it."
I felt a sinking in my guts. The idea that there were things I didn't know about her, important things that I had failed to find out, suggested a dangerous loss of control.
"So what do you do, then?"
"I'm a Forensic Consultant on Cyber Crime and all things computer related."
The feeling in my guts had become a tight knot. "You work for the Police."
"For several Police forces, actually. Here and abroad. When they have a problem they can't solve in-house, they come to me. Sometimes they need things doing that they can't officially know about. Hacking into the systems of dodgy companies, for example. Naturally, that's not the sort of information I put into the public domain."
I shifted position slightly, dropped my hand to rest casually on a drawer handle. She flicked the switch on the stun gun, another crackle of high voltage, and I stopped. "You're full of surprises. But you were looking for this place. You came here expecting to find it. Why was that?"
She shrugged. "I caught you snooping. Checking me out online."
"What?" I was incredulous. "How?"
"In my job, a little paranoia is inevitable. Like, for example, I keep track of every website that even mentions my name. Professionally or socially. When every site was accessed from the same source within a couple of hours, it put up a flag."
She glanced at the laptop again, and I took the opportunity to get a firmer grip on the drawer handle.
"So I did a little snooping of my own," she continued, looking back at me. "One of those links you followed to me was booby trapped. While you were trying to find out about me, I was in your hard drive, finding out about you."
"There was nothing there to find." I had wiped that drive completely after every use.
"Oh, but there was. You should have realised, the only way to be certain of removing all the data on a hard drive is to destroy it."
I had realised that. I just hadn't anticipated that anyone would have reason to look that carefully.
"I found a name," she continued. She kept glancing at the laptop as she spoke. That divided attention might give me the opportunity I needed. But not just yet. I wanted to hear what she had to say. I had made mistakes. I wouldn't repeat them.
"A name?" I prompted.
"Sally Higson. Your Summer Girl, I believe?"
There was no point in denying it. "But why would that name mean anything to you?"
"It rang a bell. I checked. She was reported missing a month ago. No leads, but the Police are trying to trace a man seen with her. Quite a good description. I recognized you as soon as I saw you."
"On the walk."
She nodded. "Once I read your files, I knew you were stalking me. I was expecting you to turn up. Looking for your 'Autumn Girl'”.
"But even knowing that you still met with me?"
She nodded. "I had to get evidence. One name wasn't enough. Not to go to court with. I had to let you get close to me in order to get close to you."
I controlled my anger; let a little leak out as chagrin. "And all the time, I thought I was being so cool!"
"You were," she said. "I began to hope that I was wrong. I almost convinced myself I was. "
I smiled. It was what I had seen in her eyes.
"But then I found this." She gestured at the screen. "Winter, Spring, Summer. What sort of sick fantasy are you living out here? Sex, murder and the Four Seasons? Is that how you get your kicks – seducing women, getting them to trust you, to love you even ...”
She broke off and took a breath. "Do you play Vivaldi while you're killing them?"
I was appalled by her failure to understand – though the Vivaldi idea was one that I had considered, before dismissing it as rather obvious and perhaps pretentious.
"Of course not! Sex and death are just part of what I'm doing here! Can't you see it? I thought that you of all people would recognize what I'm creating."
"Creating? You call this creating?" She hit a button, froze an image. Winter Girl, in her last moments. Red blood against white skin on black sheets.
"That was about the vivid contrasts of colour. Such darkness epitomizes the season. But it's unfair of you to make a judgement on the basis of one image. You need to see it in the context of the whole work."
A shock wave of comprehension in her eyes. "This is meant to be art? You waste lives for this?"
"Waste? How could you think that? I waste nothing! I have cherished those girls! Every significant moment is recorded. I gave a meaning to their lives that they could never have achieved otherwise!"
She shook her head. "A pointless death, buried in an unmarked grave. Where's the meaning in that?"
"OK. Think of it like this. All of us, every human life, is like a musical note. On its own, just a sound. It may linger a while, but then it fades and dies. Thrown together at random with other notes, as life does, it's just a cacophony. But if an artist, a composer, takes those notes and arranges them, balances them, puts them into order – then something beautiful is created! Something greater than the sum of its parts!"
I held her gaze with mine. Perhaps she would understand? Perhaps she would share the vision?
"Everything dies," I continued quietly. "The important thing is that life and death alike should have significance."
"And how would you give me significance? By cutting my throat? By hanging or drowning me?"
As she spoke, she brought images up on the screen. Winter Girl, Spring Girl, Summer Girl. I sighed, disappointed, and slid the drawer open whilst her attention was distracted.
"I don't know yet. It'll come to me."
I reached into the drawer, gripped the pistol, and in one smooth movement brought it out, cocked it and aimed it at her head.
But even as I did so, I knew something was wrong. The gun was too light.
"I found that first." She held up the loaded magazine in one hand, stun gun still in the other. "And I got the chambered round as well, in case you were wondering."
I had been. But I had an alternative plan, and hurled the pistol directly into her face.
Her head snapped back as it impacted, the thud of metal on flesh drowned by her wordless shout. I gave her no time to recover. Before the pistol hit the floor I had snatched the stun gun out of her hand, jammed it against her neck, and triggered it.
She screamed and convulsed, every muscle in her body going into spasm as the current hit her nervous system, jerking her off the chair and onto the floor. Kneeling down. I gave her another jolt, a full five seconds worth.
"I do wish you'd left things alone," I said. "I had hoped for something more elegant to complete the work with. But I suppose that's the essence of art. You have to operate within the limitations of the material." She made no answer other than a low moan. I turned my attention to the laptop, began shutting it down. "I just hope you haven't lost any of the data. What was your plan, I wonder? Did you think that you'd be able smuggle this out and go to the police with it?"
I folded the screen, and then saw the device which had previously been hidden. A small box with flickering LEDs and an LCD display. I knew at once what it must be.
There was no direct line out of the room, and the entire house was shielded against mobile transmissions. Which had led me to make unfounded assumptions. But what I was seeing was some sort of relay mechanism. It would be linked to another device, probably a sat-phone, up in her room. And that would be connected to a Police control room, where every downloaded file from my hard drive had been sent.
For a moment I was paralysed, the implications of that little box racing through my mind.
All my careful plans were destroyed. The completion of my work, the editing and refining, the spectacular public release – none of that would happen. The grand vision I had pursued for so long and at such cost would be seen only as a series of grubby little murders. Something to splash across the front pages of the tabloids, which would no doubt focus on the sex aspect, with no care for deeper nuances.
I groaned at the thought. I looked down at my Autumn Girl, still twitching where she had fallen.
"You don't know what you’ve done," I told her, and in a spasm of fury, kicked her in the side.
But even as I succumbed to the impulse, the thought came that this turn of events was still consistent with the whole work. Autumn had shown even me just how wild and uncontrollable it was.
Then so be it. I would accept this and make it part of my vision. I would use the material as it came to hand.
I would have to hurry. The abrupt cessation of the data flow would have alerted the Police, and they would be on their way. I wouldn't have long. But a plan was already forming itself, even as I ran out of the room.
At the rear of the building, behind the garage, was an outbuilding used for gardening equipment. Keys on the rack by the front door, so I went out that way.
Flashing blue lights were coming up the lane towards me.
I had even less time than I had thought. But the gates were secure and solidly built. They wouldn't be coming through them in a hurry – not unless they'd brought an armoured car, which isn't standard issue in British police forces. And the walls were ten feet high, topped with electrified wire. Not a lethal voltage, unfortunately, but enough to be a significant deterrent.
I had time, and I knew just what to do with it. Forcing calm on myself, I walked briskly to the outbuilding, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
I hadn't used any of the tools for a while, not since I'd buried Summer Girl. I had people come in to do the lawns, and they used their own equipment. But I kept it tidy and well stocked, for looking after the special places that only I went to. The places where my girls slept.
I kept a can of petrol at the back of the shed, and picking it up, I judged that there was at least three litres left. More than enough.
There were loud noises coming from the gate now, a pounding and clanging as they tried to force their way in. It bothered me not at all. Instead, I felt a strange mixture of peace and excitement as I walked back to the house. The culmination of all my work was before me. Not as I had envisaged it, indeed, but all the more authentic for that reason. My art would reflect life's capriciousness in its conclusion.
Back in the office, I found that she managed to move herself a short distance and was half-sitting, propped up against the wall, and staring at me as I entered. I wasn't entirely surprised. A stun gun won't actually render someone unconscious, but the massive shock generates huge amounts of lactic acid which makes the subject all but helpless for a while. Her limbs must have been feeling like jelly. Between that and the blow on her head, she'd done well to move at all.
"You're friends have arrived," I told her. "But they've been a little delayed at the gate. I'm afraid they'll miss the final part of my work." I held up the petrol can. "Not what I had in mind. I've had to improvise. But it occurred to me – what could be more evocative of autumn than a bonfire?"
She stared at me. It was hard to read her expression. The gun had left a nasty cut across the bridge of her nose, and blood had run down across her face.
The gun.
I had forgotten about the gun, which I had thrown at her. And the loaded magazine, which she had had already.
She raised her hand from where it had been concealed, down by her side. The gun was in it, cocked and loaded and pointing at me.
"Put it down and step back," she said. Her voice was quiet; her words a little slurred, but clear enough.
I sighed. "That's the problem with improvisation," I said. "So easy to overlook things when you make it up as you go along."
"Put it down!" she repeated.
The muzzle wobbled as she tried to aim it. It wasn't a big gun. Just a .22, and she was holding it in both hands now. Even so, her weakened muscles were struggling to keep it pointed at me. If I kept here talking for a few minutes, she would have to drop it.
"Jacqui, think about this," I began. "Do you really ..."
I saw the frown on her face, the concentration in her eyes as she tried to keep the pistol steady, the tightening of her fingers as she squeezed the trigger, and I flung myself sideways.
The report, in that confined space, stung my ears. At the same time something stung my fingers and the petrol can was wrenched out of my grasp. For a moment, I thought that I'd been hit. Then the sweet stench of petrol reached me, and I saw the can lying on the floor, with liquid bubbling out from the neat little hole in the side.
I picked myself up and looked at her. The recoil had nearly made her drop the pistol, but the trigger guard had caught around her fingers and before I could react she had regained her grip.
We stared at each other. I smiled, then began to chuckle.
"I love the way things work themselves out sometimes. Like they're just meant to be. Is that what Fate is, do you suppose?"
"What?" Her voice was a whisper.
"Can't you smell the fumes?" I indicated the petrol can. "If you shoot now, the muzzle flash will set it off. But if you don't ..." I held up the stun gun " ... then this will do the job."
She shook her head frantically, denying the inevitable. "But then we'll both die! And there's no need, no need at all."
"So what's the alternative? That I spend the rest of my life in prison? Where's the meaning in that? Where's the art? No, this is better. I become part of my work! And how wonderfully ironic, that the final decision on how to conclude the piece rests not with the artist, but with the subject!" I laughed aloud at the perfection of it.
"You are mad," she said.
"That's a pathetic last line," I told her. "If you can only speak in clichés, better say nothing."
Above there was the sound of breaking glass, shouts, heavy footsteps.
"Ah. Company. Times up, Autumn Girl. Will you do it or shall I?"
Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered the pistol.
I nodded. "Very well then." I raised the stun gun, finger poised on the button.
She flipped the loose end of her dressing gown over the pistol, and fired.
Deborah Jenkins was kind enough to review this story for me:
Autumn Girl is the kind of read that keeps you guessing. I began to read it shortly before bedtime thinking I would make a start and finish it the next day. No chance. It kept me awake 'til I'd finished. On a Sunday night too. The narrative style is detached and factual although the narrator, and principal character of the story, has a slightly quirky penchant for description which, as the plot develops becomes more and more disturbing. This is a chilling tale, which had me burrowing deeper and deeper into my duvet - perfect for snuggling up with as the season stills. If you are the impressionable type, read in morning light with coffee and toast. But if you love the atmosphere of a dark wintry tale, light the fire after work, curl up and enjoy. A well written and compulsive read...
My thanks to Deborah for that - very encouraging and insightful.
I'm always interested in feedback. Any comments, critiques or reviews would be welcome - you can leave a message on the 'Contact me' page.
Autumn Girl is the kind of read that keeps you guessing. I began to read it shortly before bedtime thinking I would make a start and finish it the next day. No chance. It kept me awake 'til I'd finished. On a Sunday night too. The narrative style is detached and factual although the narrator, and principal character of the story, has a slightly quirky penchant for description which, as the plot develops becomes more and more disturbing. This is a chilling tale, which had me burrowing deeper and deeper into my duvet - perfect for snuggling up with as the season stills. If you are the impressionable type, read in morning light with coffee and toast. But if you love the atmosphere of a dark wintry tale, light the fire after work, curl up and enjoy. A well written and compulsive read...
My thanks to Deborah for that - very encouraging and insightful.
I'm always interested in feedback. Any comments, critiques or reviews would be welcome - you can leave a message on the 'Contact me' page.