So I'm in. He smiles. Perfect white smile, even teeth. Had them done since the first time I saw him, that must have set him back a bit. I step into the flat. Its very late, quiet outside. Not many cars on this street. I was careful. I waited in a doorway `til the cars all passed, then buzzed the intercom. Can't be too careful, there's a nasty killer about. Cutting up pretty young things. I caught my wicked grin in the glass and winked. Was I wearing my gloves then? Never mind. I can clean up on the way out.

He's smiling. Offers me a drink. Sure why not, just water I say. He leads me into the living room. Wow that's plush. Wooden floor, leather sofas. None of this came from a catalogue I'll bet. Paintings. Bet they're real.

I put my bag down on the floor. He looks uncertain at me for a moment, opens his mouth to say something, then smiles and goes to get the drinks. Let him think its something kinky, he'll find out soon enough.

I look around. Soft music playing, how corny is that. Blaupunkt says the stereo. Classy. Small egg-like globes sit on the floor. Speakers. I've seen these in a magazine, coupla grand, each. What's he playing? CDs, some shit I never heard of.

Sound of glasses in the kitchen, hiss of a tap. I'd watch for funny business with the drink but he's not the type.

Classy nik-naks here and there, plus the usual tat. Sculptures, some kind of stones interlocked, bet its supposed to be people snogging. Just white blobs to me. But smooth, dead smooth, feels warm like silk. Shit, must remember I touched that.

He's back, standing in the doorway. Smiles again. Really working that dentistry. Offers me the glass. I hesitate for a moment. Fingerprints. Stupid, he's gonna think I'm acting weird. I smile back and take the glass, and sip. Cold, clean. That water's not from a tap.

He reaches out his hand to touch me but I'm not playing yet. I turn around. Shit, the windows. "What's there?" says I. Big long windows he's got. There's something like a church across the street, big old building with a conservatory. He says its an old folks home, and I laugh. They'll be long in bed. He closes the blinds, and I go and sit on the sofa.

Firm, comfy, black. I love that leather smell. I'm not kinky but there's just something about it. Weird, its just old cows but it somehow turns me on. You freak, its just a sofa.

He's turned the lights down. Puts his hand on my shoulder from behind, gentle-like. Dim lights, soft music, what's he think this is, a first date? He sits down and the leather creaks. He's turned towards me. Barefoot, linen trousers, white shirt open a few buttons. Tanned brown face and chest. He travels abroad a lot.

I'm sitting with my hands on my knees, looking down and thinking hard. "Hey its ok" he says, like he thinks I'm nervous. Great, I'll let him play along at that, will make things easier. He reaches out again, brown hand, silver rings. Nice watch. Gold. I look down. 22 carat I'd guess, and those sparklers must be for real. Quality. Not like those knock-offs you get in the market.

He slides along the seat and hooks my chin with his finger. He's smiling like he's in control. Feels cold in here, he could've turned the heating up a bit. I'm shivering.

He leans in and kisses me. I can feel his tongue and that dentistry. Tastes cold, like the water. He's clean, faint smell of something sweet. Shit, this would be the perfect time but I left the fucking bag over there on the floor. Way out of reach. He's pushing me down into the sofa and I feel his heartbeat. Strong arms. This guy works out, gotta to be careful. Watch him.

I play along while waiting for inspiration. His hands are all over me, pressing me down, touching me, and I suddenly think, Oh yeah, I know what.

I pull away from his deep kiss. "Look I, uh, better have a quick wash first, don't wanna get a reputation for bein' dirty." I give him the grin that always works. He props his head up on his elbow. "Well I don't mind, I think that is sexy sometimes." Some kind of accent. German? Can't quite place it. Foreign, anyways.

"Hey I've got standards to maintain" I say, pulling a face and a grin. "Besides I need a piss, don't wanna stop you halfway through." He pouts a little, what a ham, and I squirm out from under him. My shirt's pulled out, my clothes messed up, but that doesn't matter.

He lies back and points me to the bathroom. Jesus, what a show! You could fit five people in that bath. Massive shower too, made of glass blocks. All clean and tidy, no bits and pieces scattered here and there, no soap or sponge or toothbrush. Shiny: glass, metal, enamel like ivory. I open a cupboard and peek inside. There it all is, tidied clean away. Razors, towels, expensive scents.

I wash my face and dry on a towel. I look at myself in the mirror. Beautiful. I wanna wink at myself and pretend I'm chirpy, but there's a cold in my heart like winter iron. I press my hand to my mouth and look into my own eyes. Just do it. Gotta do it. You're up to your knees in it now. No fucking way out. I'm clenching my hands, nails digging into my palms.

I swallow and breath out.

I flush the toilet. Shiny steel handle, wide and flat. Tiny mosaic tiles on the walls and floor, in neat patterned spirals. Straight out of Ideal Home.

Gotta do it. You gotta do it.

I wipe my face and hands again and open the bathroom door. Bedroom's to the left. Ha! Candles burning, of all the fucking clichés. I can smell the wax, strong scented candles. Big bed, looks like a sleigh in polished wood, curling up at either end. White sheets, pulled back a bit. Shame to disappoint him.

I put on my smile again.

I'm standing still in the hall, shoes on the wooden floor. I can just see the edge of the sofa in the living room, at the end of the hall. And there it is. My bag, lying on the floor nearby.

I step easy down the hall, no need to clomp about. I'm into the room, and fuck! He's not on the sofa! I spin fast and shit, he's there at the other door, and must've seen the shifty look on my face. I duck away and make a grab for my bag, quick fumble for the zip and aargh thud thump I'm fuck I'm on the floor.

Something slams my shoulder hard and he's on me. I'm face down, tasting blood. He kicks the bag away, it slides with a swish across the polished floor. He's shouting something but I don't know what, and suddenly I'm up off the floor and smash, into the wall. Jesus Christ he's strong.

Pop crunch and there's a ringing in my ears. My nose is broke, just look at that on the wall. White wall. My blood. I stagger and stare at the stain like a fucking idiot.

This isn't good. I turn to make a punch at him but he's bigger and he jabs for my ribs, crouching low, arms, up, ready. Angry now, red face, those pricey teeth spitting out words I can't understand. I kick out hard, catch his knees and he swears. I dive for the bag again.

He grunts, shoves and pulls me round, throwing me backwards. Aoah I cry like some creature as my spine falls hard on the back of the sofa, and over I go, dizzy, spinning, blood in my mouth and face so's I'm blind and choked with the sticky stuff.

I'm breathing hard and gasping, crying. I think I'm gonna spill my guts. He's grabbed my hands behind me and I'm trapped by his weight pressing down on my back. He's pulling at my clothes, tugging, angry, please God no what's he gonna do.

He's stabbing at me, deep and hard inside like tearing knives but after forever his running sweat lets my one hand slip free. I'm shouting, fuck knows what I'm shouting with his hand over my bloody mouth. I see the polished table and the drinks, and with one hand free I grab that glass and jab it upwards at his face as he pants and grunts behind me.

I've shoved it as hard as I can, upward into his face. There's a crack and slice. My hand. His face. He's the one screaming now. My hand burns with glass shards and now it's like not me who's doing the thinking. My fists take over. He's up on his knees, clawing at his face but I'm in there with my hands too. I punch and he falls backwards on the floor.

I punch and blood is up my arms. I punch and I can't feel the pain. I punch and there's a sick crunch sound. I punch and he's not screaming more. I punch and punch and punch and punch, both fists until he stops.

I'm sobbing and the blood-snot rolls down my face. I'm wet and cold and hurting, shivering, my pants around my knees.

So much for perfect dentistry, he didn't get his money's worth.

Right. Get up. Get up. Don't look at that, just sort yourself out first. With my good hand I pull my clothes back up and stagger to the door.

In the bathroom I wash off what blood I can. I fumble in the cupboards for bandages. Fuck look what the bastard did to my beautiful face! Shit. Hope I can get that set right. I'm trembling. Jesus I feel cold. My whole body's shaking.

I take a shower. My clothes are on the bathroom floor. I stand and turn the heat up high, but still shiver in the blast. Blood drips down my chest and from between my legs. I wash until it clots the drain. Lose yourself in the sound of the water. The hissing. The steam. The burning heat.

I turn it off. I don't know how long but my skin is red.

Music. Fuck that shit's still playing. But otherwise it's quiet. Still. Hours before anyone's gonna come. I shiver, standing alone on the expensive tiled floor.

I look around the room. I'm cold. I pull a towel around me and head back to the room.

He's lying on the floor. Arms bent. Funny that. One's almost upright, like he's pointing to the ceiling. No expression on his face. No face at all. Just a mess of red. Shards of white. And clotted black. The patriotic colours of the dead. I grab my bag and go back to the bathroom.

Fuck this place is a mess. I take out my fresh change of clothes. At least I planned that bit right. The rope I don't need now. Two knots, from behind, around the neck. Hold for fifteen seconds and he's out like a light. Then tie him up, blindfold, and go to work. No mess. No fuss. He'd wake up in the morning with rope burns and a headache. He'd curse me but wouldn't tell a soul. Least, that was the plan.

I dress in black and feel warmer. Ha. It's his funeral.

I shiver. Fuck this room's a mess. Red towels, hairs. DNA. With my record they'll get me in a snap.

Fuck shit fuck cunt. I could run. Where could I go? No-fucking-nowhere, that's where. Think. Think. What have I touched?

First things first, the latex gloves. I snap them on and feel better. Protection. Then the hat. Pulled down over my ears so no hairs fall out. I shaved and scrubbed all over before I came, thank god, my body's clean and smooth. Didn't want no hairs or skin flakes falling here and there. Evidence. But still. I search the bathroom for bleach and liquid drainer. Let's see how the lab copes with this stuff! I sluice hot water round the shower then slop the thick green goo about. The blood clots fizzle and blacken, dissolving into a chemical soup. Take that, DNA.

Towels. Just have to take them with me. It's a risk but I'll have to burn them, plus my clothes. I rinse the sink too and scrub at it with bleach.

Drips. Drips everywhere, tiny spots. A red trail of spots across the tiles and down the hall. My blood. His blood? How much of each, I wonder. I'm staring at it and I feel light-headed. Don't lose your head. I wipe at them with towels, then stuff them into bin bags.

Just breathe. My god what is that smell. It's sharp and strong, like iron in the air. Almost smells rotten. I taste it in my mouth, too, fresh. Blood smell. I've never seen so much, though I've been cut enough times in the past. But never that much. Mostly his of course. That's fine.

I stand in the doorway and stare down at the corpse. He's changed. Wow, so much for the tan. He's white now. The blood sits in puddles, catching the soft light, with a growing skin like old school custard. Amazing. I stare.

He moves! My heart pounds and I've jumped away like a fucking cat, back pressed up against the wall. He quivers and whispers. Fuck what was that! I step closer. No he's dead alright, I've heard of this. They move. Air still in the lungs, electricity in the limbs. Like when you touch the plug on something you unplugged hours ago. You sometimes feel the ghost-tingle of a shock.

My heart pounds. Was a fucking shock to me, I can tell you. I sigh out loud and wait for my heart to quiet down.

Now think, where did I bleed. On the floor the glass lies on its side. It's a wide crystal glass, expensive. I must've hit him bloody hard to crack the way it did. Two great shards lost from the sides, so two sharp points remain. The blood's dark red and drying, my blood and his. The gash in my hand aches inside the glove. I pick it up. Shit, what to do.

I rummage in the kitchen. Bags, bags, he must have some plastic somewhere. Drawers with fancy knifes and forks, cupboards with wine and dishes and pans, where would he keep his bloody bags. Ha, bloody bags. You gotta laugh. Look at all this, he probably gets it all delivered, never goes out to shop for himself. Nothing, nothing ha what's this, some kind of sandwich bags? They've got a weird plastic zip-lock, freezer bags maybe. Perfect. I plop the glass in. I swallow. Looks like an evidence bag. Not laughing now, are we.

What else. I look around the room. Strange, still and wrecked. Like a scene in a video on pause. But with that calming music. What is it? Something soothing, hints of tropical nights and the distant sound of the sea.

Just think. Oh shit there's him. The bastard! I kick him and regret it, will have to burn these shoes. Fucking cunt what did you do to me, you deserved everything you got. I want to spit at him and punch him more but I don't. He's not here any more. He's just a thing, a corpse. Dead meat. I should get rid of it, burn it, dump it, but there's just no way. He's big, and heavy, and there's still all this blood. No getting over that when the fucking cleaning woman comes round in the morning. Haha, can picture her face just like on TV, mouth open like an O, screaming so all the neighbours hear, screaming like she's gonna have a fucking heart attack! And then they all come running, doors slamming, footsteps stomping, crowding round to see her faint in front of the sticky corpse.

Back to the Plan. Right, prints. Fingerprints. What did I touch. But there's still my blood. On the wall where my face hit. A few drips on the floor from the cut on my hand, and a great smeary hand-print on the door where I staggered out the room and cried just like a fucking baby. Sweet Jesus where does my blood end and his begin. Our fluids all smeared together, he got that in the end at least.

I'm looking at him, face all caved in, pink and glistening like some dirty hole. Fucking bastard. Bastard! Why you fucking cunt why? Why that of all things as if I haven't had enough of that you cunt you

and there's that fucking music that fucking romantic music and suddenly

a crash and smash and spark of electricity as I destroy and kick that fucking expensive hifi system across the room, stomp on those pricey white eggs, crush and smash it all until there's silence.

I'm breathing hard. In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out. Like I've run the marathon. Eyes staring at the wall, at the blinds, anywhere, anything not to look at the scene behind me. At the blood. At the death.

I cover my face with my rubber-clad hands and breathe. I clamp down on what's inside. My face is hot. Wet. That's gonna get you nowhere. Fucking stop it. Stop right now.

Another trip to the bathroom. I pull out sponges and stuff, spray the stained wall and the floor with bleach and slime. The blood runs brown, then yellow, then foams white. I watch the blood break down in streaks on the wall. I wipe up the few spots of my blood on the floor with a towel, and spray the spot with the killer slime. This stuff's become my best mate.

I better get a move on. The sky's turning black to blue. Like bruises when they start to heal.

I sneer at him. Face like the fucking arsehole he is. Caved in, a round, red, ragged hole. Cunt got what he deserved. What all cunts like him deserve. And now he has a cunt-arsehole face, so everyone can see him for what he really is.

And I remember there's one more place that has my blood. One more place I need to clean up.

I go to the kitchen. Knives. I saw knives before. In a drawer, shut in a neat black case. Long, shiny, bright. Sharp. Different shapes and sizes. I take a knife, and one more of those zip-locking bags.

And I'm standing over him again, with the knife. He looks small now. White, stretched. Can I really. Can I really do it. It's fucking jail if you don't. No fucking no not that again. Not again. It'll be like him all over again, there. Like him. Like what he did. Every fucking day. I'd rather stick myself with this fucking sharp knife right now than that.

No choice. You've got no fucking choice. Do it. Now.

I take the knife handle. Feels cold and heavy, even through the latex. With the sharp tip I lift the flaps of his linen trousers. Still open. Didn't give the cunt time to button up. I can't touch him.

Fuck this knife is sharp. I slice down quick and the cloth gives way like paper. The point even nicks his leg. There's hardly any blood. Like cutting meat.

And now I see his fucking thing. The thing he stabbed me with, over and over again so it felt like forever, lubricated in my blood. It will never be a danger to anyone, ever again, lying there dirty white and shrivelled. Shame he's not gonna be alive to feel it. I feel sick and sneer.

I want to breath and can't. I can't breath in that meat blood smell. I feel dizzy. I clench my hand. I squeeze the knife.

And in one quick swipe I slice and dice. No spurts of blood. No pain. No screams. Just a wet lump of boneless sausage flesh, and a wet red wound.

I feel sick but I'm not gonna run and puke. No more fucking clichés. This is life and death. My god I just can't touch it, but I reach out with the zip-bag and the knife, and scrape the meat into it. And I just can't avoid it. Even through rubber, my fingers brush the cold dead flesh as it slops into the plastic bag.

That's it. It's over. Now, quick, what did you really come here for.

I look around the room. Odds, ends. Might as well take that blob sculpture, I touched it anyway. Silver, gold, bits and pieces. The watch. The ring. I'm ready with the knife again, but thank fuck the ring comes off easily.

While I'm there, his wallet. No cash? The cunt! He wasn't gonna pay up front! That's weird, he musta known I'd ask to see the cash first. I don't do freebies. Lets see credit cards, gold and platinum. No fucking way they're worth using, I'm no mug. Driving license hmm, different name. That's odd.

What else in here. Cool laptop, hardly as thick as my finger. Worth a bomb. Lots of tiny pricey gadgets, music players, organiser things. Perfect. Need to get them wiped professionally but all adds to the value. That's worth it for starters. All goes into the bag.

Anything in the bathroom? Pricey chrome, expensive smells. Not much resale value. This one might fetch a few, not been opened yet.

So last the bedroom. Big bed, white sheets, candles all around, still burning. The air's hot and heavy with their sweet smell.

Right, hunt around. They always hide things away in the bedroom, like that's the safest place or the last place you'd look. Dumb. It's the place where everyone hides their secrets.

Quick scout around, its almost light.

What have we here. Bed. Table. Mirror. Tall chest of drawers. Large wardrobe, double doors. All in dark shiny wood, mahogany, smooth and expensive. Pants, socks, silk shirts. Expensive labels, tailor made.

Of all the fucking I don't believe it. One black cash box with a lock, snuggled under his winter woollies. Fuck that. I stick the knife (my newest friend) into the crack and jemmy it hard. Pops open like a charm. What's this, dollars? A wad of hundreds. That'll do nicely, I'm international. But what the a passport? Several passports. Different countries and they're blank. They're fucking blank.

Jesus Christ. Ha! He's as dodgy as they come! I look around and suddenly see where all this money comes from. The tan, and the muscle. And quick with his hands. It all makes sense. Smuggling people. Money. Drugs, maybe. I know people who could shift that.

So I'm looking at the wardrobe. It's locked. Of course it's locked. I grin and shake my head. It's like the nightmare's become a dream. The jackpot. There were keys in his pocket, so I stand over him for the last time. It's over, and now you'll pay, you cunt, you'll fucking pay. No-one gets one over on me. Not again. Not fucking never. I snatch the keys in my rubbered hands and head back to the bedroom.

The air's hot and stifling, sick with the candle smell. No time to blow them out. No time.

My bag's stuffed almost full but I unzip it, and perch it on the edge of the bed. I finger the keys. So obvious which one. Brass, ornate, leaves and petals round the end, big blunt metal teeth. I slip it into the lock and greedily open the doors.

Big, dark, few hanging things, but empty. Except what's this? A suitcase. Black, hard-shelled fucker. Jackpot. I swing it up onto the bed and pop the catches.

And the

smell

is

and

fuck clichés I'm

I gag and I'm puking, spitting chunks of chewed up acid across the floor as the terrible stink and the sight and

my eyes are watering and I try to wipe them, hands wrapped in rubber, mouth dribbling spew that burns my throat and clots my tongue and

through my blurred vision, in the dim flickering candlelight, I can see them. Bags. Hundreds of them. Zipped bags full of something. Pale.

Wet. Bloated.

I press my sick-sticky hands against my face, against my nose, the stink no worse from them than from the reek that suddenly fills the air.

I lean forward to look. Eyes bulge like I'm bleeding inside, like the knife that falls from my hand has not hit the floor, but has sliced deep into my guts. I can't help but look. Row after row after row. Neat. Packed. Stinking.

And I have not even noticed the tinkling keys in the lock and the footsteps on the floor, until I hear that scream, that TV scream of a woman. Old, open mouthed, screaming. I turn with what feels like glacial slowness, fingers fumbling for my bag, and as I watch, it overturns. It spills it contents across the bedroom floor.

And I know what she sees.

Black clothes. Broken face. Wild staring eyes. Bloody hands encased in rubber. Wet knife upon the floor.

A killer.

And there's one small, clear, plastic bag, still sliding with the stolen contents of my hold-all, across the polished floor. It's halfway towards her feet. And we see its contents, together, over the scream that rises and rises, out into the waking world.

It is just one of many.

Just one of many hundreds of bags of severed flesh, zip-packed, neatly stacked, filling the suitcase behind me.

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