Joe Victim: A Thriller

He squeezes the trigger. The tin can doesn’t disappear, but he does wing it. He takes another shot. This time it flies out of sight. He shoots another one. And another. His heart rate is slowing. He could probably shoot a thousand tins now if he wanted to.

He’s calm now. Calm and this is easy. He uses up the rest of the clip. All the tin cans are gone. Stella shows him how to take the magazine out. He reloads it himself. He shoots more tins, shooting the ones now that have already been shot. He goes through the magazine once again.

Then he rolls onto his side and looks up at Stella. He thinks about the Red Rage. The Red Rage is happy. “We’re really doing this,” he says.

“We really are,” she says, and he loads the magazine back up and carries on shooting.





Chapter Twenty-Six


Twelve months ago I couldn’t even remember it had happened to me. Twelve months ago there were more important things on my mind, wonderful distractions—the kind of distractions that had an entire police force hunting me down. Since being locked away I’ve had time to think about things—in fact time is the only thing I have had. My past is a blend of memories so distant they feel like they belong to somebody else, or perhaps they’re TV moments I’ve seen and somehow claimed as my own.

I was sixteen years old and I had never done a single illegal thing except for breaking into a few homes, shoplifting, and once burning down a barn that had goats inside that I didn’t know were there. I used to sneak out of my room at night and walk around the streets, not looking for anything, but just walking, being one with my neighborhood and thinking of those that were in it. I could always hear the ocean only a few blocks away. Sometimes I’d walk down the beach and stare out at the water as the moon hung over it. On calm nights when the moon was full it’d reflect off the wet ripples in the sand that were formed by the leaving tide. I’d think about swimming, but then I’d think about how cold that water would be, about the things out there swimming beneath the surface. Hungry things.

I shift on my seat and look at Ali, at her soft skin, at her face. She’s taking notes even though the recorder is capturing everything. I tell her all about it, my remaining testicle throbbing as the memory stirs up more than just some emotions.

I used to break into people’s homes. It wasn’t about money. I couldn’t buy things without my parents noticing. I couldn’t steal a TV and bring that home because back then TVs were almost as heavy as dishwashers. I broke in for a different reason. I used to pick out girls at school I liked, and during summer holidays when I knew their families were away I’d sneak into their bedrooms. When the house was empty like that, you could spend all day long in those rooms, lying on the bed and really getting to know somebody. You could really make yourself at home. The fridge and pantry would provide sustenance, the bed somewhere to relax, the underwear I’d find in the girl’s drawers would provide texture to the fantasy. When school was back the girls would never know what I’d touched while they were away, and that gave me a feeling of superiority. They’d be walking around wearing panties that I’d spent time with. That’s the truth, and it’s a truth that I can’t tell the woman opposite me.

When I broke into my auntie’s house, it was purely about money. I wasn’t breaking in to spend time eating her food and cuddling her underwear. I was being beaten at school by a pair of brothers—twins, actually, who told me the solution to making those beatings go away was for me to pay them. So in a way all of this started from those two. Simple, really. Two bullies who were older than me created a serial killer. I had no money. But I knew I had to get some. Up until my auntie’s house I’d only broken into homes where I knew the people were away on holiday. Nobody holidayed during the school term.

“I needed the money,” I tell my psychiatrist, and I tell her why. She doesn’t look saddened by the tale, she doesn’t frown and go Poor Joe, you were even a victim back then, but she does perhaps jot it down since her pen doesn’t stop moving. I wouldn’t put it past her to be doodling a picture of her and me naked. “The only place I could think to get it was my auntie’s house. Auntie Celeste. She was my mom’s sister.”

“Was?”

“She died about five years ago.”

“How?” she asks, and her tone is suspicious.

“Cancer, I think,” I say, but it could have been anything. A tumor. A heart condition. Whatever it is people tend to start getting when they’re over sixty. It certainly wasn’t me.