Paper Dolls: a dark serial killer thriller Read online

  Paper Dolls

  Emma Pullar

  Contents

  Also By Emma Pullar

  Killer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Killer

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Killer

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Killer

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Killer

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Killer

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Killer

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Killer

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Killer

  Mike

  Kerri

  Bea

  Killer

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  A Note From Bloodhound Books

  Copyright © Emma Pullar

  The right of Emma Pullar to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First Published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also By Emma Pullar

  Skeletal

  Avian

  ‘When searching for somewhere to escape the terrible realities of the world, I find the best place to hide is in stories.’ – Beatrice Summers

  I dedicate this book to those who are battling, or have ever battled, with mental illness. I’ve suffered with mental illness throughout my life; from depression and anxiety to obsessive compulsive personality disorder, premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). These days I’m feeling well, but I still struggle from time to time. I’m pretty sure the reason I’m functioning better than I ever have done previously is because I’m able to write every day. Writing is my medicine; without it my mind doesn’t cope. If you’re suffering mentally, tap into your creativity. It helps.

  Killer

  On your back, legs spread, his hand inside your knickers. You don’t squirm. You take what he does to you.

  ‘You like that, don’t you?’

  You nod and pretend you like it. You don’t like it. You never have. The doorbell rings. You lock eyes. His worried, yours relieved. He wipes his fingers on his coffee-stained joggers. The doorbell goes again. There’re shouts. The words aren’t clear. With much trouble he gets to his feet.

  ‘Stay quiet. I’ll get rid of them.’ His wicked mouth stretches into a smile, revealing crowded yellow teeth. He points to the coffee table. ‘I got you a new book. Go on, have a look.’

  You smile and nod as he lumbers out of the living-room. Once he’s gone, you slide off the couch, summer dress riding up. You crawl over to the low, round table and reach under the glass. The new book is beside the stack, and on the other side is a clear plastic box with all your dolls and cut out paper clothes in it, scissors resting on the lid.

  The new book is a princess one. You open it and flick through, marvelling at all the pretty gowns, dresses you will never wear. Princesses don’t have to do what you do. You bring the pages to your nose and inhale the print. You wish you could take your books home, but he won’t let you. You cross your legs and your knee accidently nudges the stack. The thin books slide sideways and fan out under the table. One shoots out further than the others and catches your eye.

  The rag dolls on the front of the book grin at you, happy; they talk to you. He treats you like a rag doll. Pulls you around, takes off your clothes, plays with you. You close your eyes, but cruel memories press on your mind. Think of something else. You flick back through your new book and find Cinderella in vest and knickers. The clothes around her are a beautiful gown, her rag dress, glass slippers, a handbag, a tiara, a broom – and a vacuum cleaner? A memory you were trying to repress stabs you in the brain. His words were loud: The vacuum cleaner would do a better job! Then he rolled up the rag doll book and hit you with it until you started doing it the way he wanted you to. The smell was nauseating. You hated putting it in your mouth. Your bottom lip quivers. You take the scissors from the top of the plastic box, pull the rag doll book towards you, and stab the closed blades into the face of one of the rag dolls on the front cover. You stab and stab and stab, making several holes in its rosy-cheeked face.

  The living-room door opens and makes you jump. The scissors drop from your hand and clack on the blond laminate floor. His melon head appears between the door and the frame.

  ‘Vera from next door.’ He smiles. ‘Wanted a cup of milk. I gave her some. I’ll pick up a pint for her later.’ He talks to you like you’re his wife. Like you’re not here against your will. Like he isn’t blackmailing you. How can he be so kind to that old lady next door yet do unspeakable things to you? ‘Tidy your things away, Princess, I’m going to get the box.’

  You cringe inside. His head disappears behind the door. He’s going to get the ‘toys’. The ones he will hurt you with again. You glance down at the red marks on your palm where you gripped the scissors tightly. Your eyes travel to Cinderella. She was a slave; not a sex slave but she was made to scrub the house and was treated badly by those meant to be her family. She became a princess with the help of her fairy godmother, but you don’t have that luxury. You will have to rescue yourself. He always calls you ‘Princess’; perhaps you should take the power back, own that name, as your friend Jess would say when people called her a bitch. Your gaze moves to the vacuum cleaner beside Cinders and then to the one on the floor beside you.

  You nervously twiddle with your hair before reaching down and grasping the metal pole. It’s hot in the tiny room, but despite the heat you’re shaking like the temperature has dropped below freezing. You drag the round vac over to the door. Its wheels roll clumsily across the uneven floor. You raise the vacuum cleaner pipe and grip it tightly in both hands. You wait. Heart drumming in your chest, face throbbing like it’s on fire. His heavy footsteps thud against the floorboards. They thunder louder and louder down the hallway. The door trembles in its frame as he comes closer. Your quick breaths are loud in your ears.

  The door creaks open. He steps over the threshold. You hesitate. Tears threaten. You close your eyes and swing the metal pipe. Crack! It’s a blow to the back of his bald head. The fucker goes down. He drops the box and his nasty toys spill across the scuffed laminate flooring. He hollers on his knees, hands over the back of his head. Crack! You hit him again. A little scream escapes you. The fucker falls sideways and goes limp.

  Using his ropes, you tie his hands behind him tight – triple knot. He’s heavy, and you struggle to move the unconscious lump. Summoning all your strength, you prop him against the peeling leather couch. Hands shaking, body trembling all over, you can’t believe what you’ve done. You stare down at your abuser, a big lump of blubber. A switch flips inside you, the trembling turns off. You smile. Your eyelids feel heavy, a calmness wraps around you like a warm blanket. It’s his turn
to take it.

  You crouch down and pat his exposed belly. If he were a woman, you’d swear there was a baby in there. To rouse him, you take up the scissors, open them wide and use the sharp edge against his hairy stomach. You carefully grip one side of the handle and blade, fingers either side of the sharp bit, and press down hard into his flesh. Blood gushes. He screams himself awake.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’

  The sight of his blood relaxes you. It’s washing away the pain. It’s like popping bubble wrap, so satisfying. You hum to yourself while he cries. Sing while he begs.

  ‘Take the knife, cut the skin, take the salt, rub it in.’

  He screams in pain when you take the table salt left on the coffee table from his fish and chip dinner last night and pour the grains into the gaping wound in his stomach. Then rub them in.

  ‘Stop! Don’t! Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You always choose what we play. Now it’s my turn to pick the game.’ You use your baby voice. You’ve been told you look younger than twelve; ‘babyface’ is what your foster parents say. He says you mustn’t tell. That no one will believe you. He calls you a dirty little whore and says your foster parents will send you away if they find out what you’ve done. But you’re not a whore. He’s the whore, and he’ll pay for what he’s done.

  ‘Please; I’ll bring you more books. Better ones!’

  You want the books, but not as payment for the things he does to you. You push fingers into the gash; he thrashes about like a whale out of water and whimpers while you finger-paint a red flower on his hairy belly.

  ‘When you were inside me, it was fun for you, but now I’m inside you…’ You push in again, deeper, and he hollers in pain. ‘You don’t wanna play?’ You’ll have to stop him screaming. You take a silk scarf from the overturned box and tilt your head, ear almost touching your shoulder. ‘You have to take turns. It’s now my turn.’

  You pinch his big nose which is covered in little black dots. His ruddy face is like a bright red balloon about to pop. He opens his lopsided lips and you shove in the balled-up silk scarf, push it up hard to the back of his throat. You smile sweetly. He tries to speak with his mouth full, like you had when you tried to tell him you didn’t want him to do that. He didn’t listen then and you won’t listen now. The noise your ‘foster uncle’ manages to make with the cloth stuffed in his mouth sounds like a hippo’s yawn. You close the scissors and plunge them into the cut. More blood oozes out; he thrashes about. You place the blood-covered scissors on the floor and push your salty fingers into the gash again, deeper still. It’s warm and wet.

  The cloth does its job, muffling the big man’s cries. Tears stream from the corners of his fearful hooded eyes. You pull out, gently press your fingers to your lips and kiss the tips. The taste of salt and blood sends a shockwave down your spine. The big bastard loses consciousness again. You place your bloody hand on the collection of paper doll books he used to groom you with before you knew what grooming was. You pick up the rag doll book with the holes stabbed into it and the princess book, and compare the two. You are a princess. He’s nothing but a dirty old rag and he’ll never touch you again. He’ll never touch anyone again – you’ll make sure of that. Men should never touch little girls, but they do because there’s no one around to stop them.

  You’ll stop them.

  Chapter 1

  The Mime of Trafalgar

  In the dark early hours of the morning, London had a dream-like feel to it. Victorian buildings bathed in a ghostly glow stood silent. Black cabs were parked up in a row, their orange TAXI signs on, and in the driver’s seat the faceless silhouettes gave the impression dark spirits ran the nightshift. The roads were at their emptiest in the small hours, rumbling vehicle engines few and far between, only a handful of red double-decker night buses in service. The sole constants were Trafalgar Square’s gushing fountains. Beside them several ornate iron lampposts shone soft light onto the shimmering fountain pools. Although the Square felt almost deserted, rather than the baleful creepiness felt in a cemetery full of ancient tombstones, the dark streets and old buildings of central London held a unique peacefulness.

  Sun up and the quiet greyness of Trafalgar Square transformed into a place of honking horns and quick footsteps. Commuters erupted from the train station like ants spewing from an anthill. Mike glanced skyward as he shouldered his way through the bustle, with the wooden crate containing his props held close to his chest. The puffy charcoal clouds above and chilly breeze made the October morning feel more like midwinter. Despite the threat of rain, he hoped there’d be a big crowd today. He needed the money. Last month, he’d been short on the rent, and although his flatmates were always understanding he didn’t want to risk losing his crazily cheap digs – a rarity in the inner city. He was terrified of running out of money and being forced to live out of his prop crate.

  The suits weaved around him in haste, rushing to their boring office jobs. Some appeared in doorways, takeaway coffee in hand, newspaper under the arm. They’d probably spent the night in their office and who could blame them? The rental market in London was out of control. Cockneys would be extinct in a few decades. Someone should put them on the endangered list.

  Gazing at the cold, grey buildings, Mike pictured what might be going on inside. In his mind, city offices were like hornets’ nests. Workers buzzing around their desks, ready to sting someone. Did the suits ever worry about being made homeless? Nah. Too busy stealing. Bankers were the worst: bunch of pirates looting and plundering. Mike never trusted banks; he refused to use them. The only thing that had changed about pirates over the years was their uniform. Instead of big gold earrings, a hook for a hand and a peg-leg, they wore ties, suits and carried large umbrellas. Back in the days of sailing the seven seas, the parrot was the pet of choice – pieces of eight, Polly wants a cracker. These days the pet was a government official – print more money, Polly wants a bailout.

  Apart from the workers, the other creatures who roamed the streets of London were tourists and beggars. Yesterday, some stuck-up prick had said that what Mike did for a living was begging. It wasn’t. Sitting on the dirty ground with a sign that reads: Homeless and Hungry is not the same as performing for money. Mike wore his black-and-white Pierrot-inspired costume with pride. For now, the Square was his stage, but one day he would be in a West End show in front of a captive audience – the lead, no doubt. His name up in bright lights. Mike was as important as anyone else in the theatre biz. Another day, another grand performance for my adoring fans.

  His position in front of the towering stone pillars of the National Gallery had the perfect amount of light and shade; he’d claimed the spot years ago. He was the most adored of all the cast of characters, the most original and the most talented. Everyone knew where the great Pierrot performed. But today there was a box in his way. Mike glared at the fuzzy butt crack of the fat oaf in Lycra who’d stolen his spot. The Lycra-legged buffoon turned round and, seeing the pale-faced mime’s angry stare, placed one meaty hand over the bat logo stretched across his moobs while holding his other hand up in apology.

  ‘Excuse me, your highness…’ Fat-Bat’s voice was gravelly, what you’d expect of a fifty-a-day smoker. Today he sounded worse than usual. Face full of head cold, his tone was gruff and gurgling, as if a family of snot gremlins lived in his throat. The fake superhero had arrived earlier than usual. The bakery must have been closed. Any more pasties and doughnuts for brekkie and Bat-Tit’s tatty costume would split.

  Mike glared. ‘Glad you know your place, peasant.’

  Mike’s rudeness never bothered Bat; he often ignored the mime’s quips and today was no exception.

  ‘When you left yesterday…’ He moved the plastic box stuffed with his rain jacket, bat gloves and mask out of Mike’s way. ‘…A beautiful lady set up in your spot. I thought since you didn’t mind her doing it, maybe you’d found a better place to perform … the West End, perhaps?’

  He chuckled and began to cough, which t
urned into a face-bruising choke. Serves him right for taking the piss. A snide smile spread across Mike’s thin lips, but faded when the middle-aged Bat recovered from his coughing fit. Mike waved his hand dismissively, the ruffled material at his wrist flapped.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Losing his one-armed grip, he quickly grabbed the side and hugged his box of props tight. He hated small talk and boring topics of conversation almost as much as he hated being mocked. He preferred silence to small talk. It was why he’d chosen to be a mime.

  Batty shrugged his huge hunched shoulders. ‘I guess, you won’t share with me ’coz I ain’t a beautiful lady.’

  ‘I have no interest in women.’ Mike rolled his eyes. The idiot really couldn’t tell his sexual orientation?

  ‘Beautiful golden hair. I tell ya, if I weren’t married…’ Bat-Stink’s piggy eyes glazed over. Mike flung his prop box to the ground. The thud snapped him out of his daydream. ‘I filmed her. Want to see?’

  Mike had a tug-of-war with his inner narcissist. He wanted to see her, but he didn’t want Fat-Tits to be the one to show him.