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Chapter Text

The taxi occupied by myself and, unfortunately, Evelyn, has been stuck in traffic for the past half an hour and despite my repeated attempts to tell the driver – who clearly barely speaks English – that I will get out and walk, he refuses to undo the child lock. Evelyn is whining in that shrill tone of hers about how late we will be to the ridiculous charity dinner we are supposed to be attending, and the two Xanax I took earlier have so far done nothing to take the edge off, so it currently feels as though her words are sawing into my brain matter.

I doubt you even have any brain matter to saw into, you fucking bitch, I think to myself, checking my reflection in the window for the thirty-sixth time. It’s a pity I don’t have a blade on me – the practice has been greatly hindered by the introduction of metal detectors at most functions due to some idiot terrorists – otherwise I would have slit the throats of both Evelyn and the fucking taxi driver and driven the taxi into the asshole behind us who keeps honking his horn. I would then climb out of the wreckage, drenched in blood, and make a brief appearance at the charity dinner before finding some hardbody to fuck senseless and then dissect with a chainsaw while listening to the radio – there’s an advert I need to catch about a new type of moisturiser to prevent dead skin around the fingernails, but they only seem to play it once a day.

By the time we reach the restaurant the charity dinner is being held at – African, so I’m guessing the charity ‘helps’ starving children, not that I could care less – I’m ready to murder anyone and everyone that dares speak a word to me.

I start to think the universe is being kind to me when Evelyn hurries off to talk to some woman she knows (not a hardbody) when I spot him. Stood in one corner, a half-empty martini glass in his right hand, nodding along to whatever undoubtedly boring conversation is being held. Even from here, I catch the distant look in his eyes that says he isn’t really listening. He’s wearing a double-breasted wool suit and tie from Armani and the exact same pair of Oliver Peoples glasses found on the faces of one-third of the men in the room, and I’m filled with such a sense of relief that I chose not to wear that pair today that my vision actually blurs for a moment, although that may be due to the fact I’ve been here for at least ten minutes and still not a single waiter has brought any kind of alcoholic refreshment.

Then he looks up, and for the briefest moment our gazes meet. Rage bubbles inside me, but it is distant, an afterthought rather than a response.

I break eye contact first, pretending to have spotted someone – it could be anyone, really, in this mass of designer suits – and walk over to the bar on the other side of the room. Carruthers is, predictably, sat trying to gain the attention of the bartender, and he is certain to have spotted me, but I ignore this because if I don’t get a drink in the next five minutes then I might just have to rip someone’s throat out and drink their blood instead.

I order a J&B on the rocks, down it, and order another. Carruthers is now moving towards me, a glass in hand, pouting, so I presume the bartender has rejected his pitiful advances. He’s been attempting to talk to me about some account he is utterly incapable of just handling himself, but any conversation between us is always overloaded with compliments that have no impact on my self-esteem because they are the fakest words in existence. I’ve heard hardbodies speak more truth than he does, and they’re paid to be nice.

My groan is drowned out by the appalling music playing through the speaker – would it kill them to play something decent? – and I turn away from the bar before Carruthers has a chance to get close. Unfortunately, some moron has decided to stand right behind me, causing me to bump into them and almost spill my drink.

I shoot them a glare, a remark forming on my tongue. It dies, however, when I realise who I have just collided with, and I wish I too could perish like my half-formed words.

Paul fucking Allen.

“Woah, Bateman, careful there.” The words are slurred, and as I take note of the now empty glass in his hand, I conclude it must not have been his first, or he is a complete lightweight. He places a hand on my shoulder. My grip on my own glass tightens as the urge to rip his arm out of its socket washes over me. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your suit.”

“Quite.”

“It’s a nice suit,” he continues, giving me a lazy once-over before meeting my eyes again. “Burberry?”

“No, Brioni,” I respond, rather smugly given Brioni is far more expensive.

“Ah. Easily mistaken, am I right?” He chuckles, as much to himself as to anyone else, even though it was not remotely funny. “Anyway, it was good to see you Bateman. What do you say we have lunch sometime? I can get us a table at Dorsia.”

The world drops away, leaving only me and Allen, and how I wish I could push him into the chasm I teeter on the edge of. “I’m sorry?”

“I said,” he repeats, louder, evidently believing I haven’t heard him, “how about lunch sometime? I can get us a table at Dorsia.”

“Sure,” I shout back, not due to the music, but because I’m unsure of whether everyone else can hear the pounding against my skull, as though my brain has morphed into some deranged creature attempting to free itself from its bone cage. “I’ll have my secretary arrange a date.”

“Cool.” Allen beams at me, nods, and heads to the bar.

I stand for God-knows-how-long in the crowd, unmoving, neither breathing nor seeing my surroundings, Allen’s words ringing in my head. Dorsia. How the fuck can he get a table when I’ve been on the waiting list for three months?

Both the J&B and the Xanax wear off, leaving me utterly and despairingly sober in the middle of a gathering of other people who Allen has probably invited to fucking Dorsia in the same casual manner he asked me what seems to be an eternity ago. I can imagine him there right now, sipping on a martini, chatting to the maître d' as if he owns the place.

With Carruthers and Allen now both at the bar, I must avoid it altogether. There is no other source of refreshment and since cannot see McDermott, it is doubtful I will be able to score any cocaine tonight, so my presence at this godforsaken function is now both unnecessary and downright torturous, and therefore I have no choice but to leave.

Since I do not say a word to Evelyn about my departure – she is lost in the throngs of overdressed women all jabbering about getting their nails done and ‘that new massage place’ – I will likely receive a phone call from her later, and she will sob into the phone about how I don’t care about her, and I will recite the usual spiel of I do care about you, honest, I just couldn’t stand being there. She will be furious regardless, and the thought alone is enough to reinforce my desire to disembark from this steadily sinking ship.

Muttering something about returning videotapes to no-one in particular, I push through the horde of people and make my way to the exit. I have to stop twice to take photos with very important men who, in the swirling haze of my mind, I vaguely assume to be in charge of this function and who, naturally, benefit greatly from my generous donation to whatever charity they claim to be running.

In the crisp open air, some of my frenzy dissipates, but I am still far too riled up to mingle in society, so I hail a taxi and order the – again, not American – driver to take me back to my apartment. I put on my Sony WH-1000XM4 headphones to both block out the noise from the radio, which the driver hasn’t turned off despite my asking, and to best hear the music playing from my phone.

Fortunately, there is less traffic on the drive home, and when we arrive, I thrust a note at the driver and stride into the building without caring what the actual fare for the ride was. The doorman is suspiciously absent, though I soon find him stood at the front desk, trying to chat up the receptionist. I take the elevator to the top floor, arriving in my apartment just as the battery in my headphones runs out.

Inside, I slip out of my suit and into a pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt from Armani and conduct my skincare routine. While glancing in the mirror, my reflection moves of its own accord, using a large knife to carve a clown-like smile in its face, black goo oozing from the wound. The image persists even after I look away, so I leave the bathroom and head into the kitchen. I take one Valium, washing it down with Evian water, and prep a light salad since I did not eat anything at the venue, but it is too late to make a substantial meal.

My thoughts manage to focus on everything other than Paul Allen until I am laid in bed, when the realisation hits me that I will have to ask Jean to arrange a meeting with him and then Jean will know that Allen can get reservations at Dorsia while I cannot. Of course, I trust Jean not to gossip about me, but there is always the chance someone will overhear, or Allen may mention it to a colleague in that casual way of his without realising the consequences of his actions.

There is one possible solution, of course, which is that I arrange to meet Allen before we can go to Dorsia and take matters into my own hands. He has no right to have that kind of power to hold over me. I will instead have to take that power from him and remind him who has greater control out of the two of us.

By the time my mind shuts off and I am ready to sleep, the decision is made.

I am going to kill Paul Allen.

Chapter Text

The events of last night are dream-like in the dull light of the morning, but my decision to kill Allen remains prominent in my thoughts. In a meeting I attend but am not required to pay attention to, I form a list of everything I must do before I can end his life. I shall have to dispose of his body, which means I need to check my supplies of acid, gasoline, and sodium hydroxide, as well as ensuring I have the correct protective equipment. The murder will most likely take place in my apartment, so I must find something to protect my furniture from the bloodstains, given some of the items are antique and therefore irreplaceable.

Of course, the most important aspect that must be considered is how I will kill him. Blades are obviously preferable, and I would like for his death to be drawn out given the scale of the injustice he has served me with. Perhaps I should cause him such disfigurement that he would never be able to step foot outside, let alone in Dorsia. In that case, however, the final act of killing him would be somewhat merciful, which he does not deserve in the least.

No, I want his death to be drawn-out, so he can experience the same torment I have done since he asked those damned words left his mouth. It will be filmed, as well, so I can relieve the moment, which means I need to check my camera to ensure everything is in working order, and should I do it on tape or-

“Bateman? Are you just gonna sit there all day?”

I glare up at Price, who pushes his glasses further up his nose, and then scan the meeting room, finding it empty. “Perhaps.”

Price rolls his eyes. “Why do you not have more enemies?”

“Because I kill them,” I reply simply, standing and checking my reflection in the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows that function as one wall of the room. No abnormalities stare back at me today; I am unsure whether it is due to the fact I have not taken any sedatives or because the entity that often greets me in the mirror is satisfied by my resumed bloodlust.

I don’t bother to listen to whatever Price responds with, strolling back to my office and heading inside. Jean hurries in after me, babbling about a lunch meeting and emails I have yet to respond to. She is wearing a pencil skirt and cream cashmere sweater from brands I don’t recognise, so are evidently not designer.

Relaxing into my chair and running my thumb over the jagged end of a pencil I snapped in half yesterday, I watch her lips – which are subtly coated in a layer of pink-tinged matte lipstick – move without hearing a sound, at least until she says, “Paul Allen called.”

“What?”

“Paul Allen called,” she repeats, slower and a slight degree louder, enunciating every syllable as though I am either dumb or a child, of which I am neither. “He said he has made reservations at Dorsia for eight-pm on Thursday.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I would pass the message on. Why, was I supposed to say something else?”

In this situation, I would normally tell Jean to ‘just say no’, but in this exact circumstance there is no way I can refuse Allen’s request. Though, considering he has already made the reservations, it feels more like a demand, like he expects my presence. I am surprised he even remembers the events of the dinner given he was less than sober during our conversation.

“No, Jean, you weren’t.” I respond after a long moment of silence. Today is Tuesday, which means I have only two days to decide how to murder Allen and ensure everything is prepared. “What is my schedule for the rest of the day?”

“You have a lunch meeting with Mr Clarke at twelve, and at three you have an appointment with Dr Black.”

“Who?”

“The psychiatrist?”

I jolt to my feet, knocking the pencil to the floor. “What?”

Jean squirms under the intensity of my glare. “It was in last week’s memo. All employees must attend a mandatory session…Patrick, is that…you’re bleeding.”

Glancing down at my hand, I notice a series of pinprick holes in my thumb, presumably from the pencil I was holding. I do not, however, see a trace of blood. “No, I’m not.”

Looking at me with wide eyes, Jean comes over to my desk and takes my other wrist, lifting it up. “Yes, you are. See?”

Frowning, I examine my right hand. The palm is split open, the same black sludge my reflection had last night flowing across the skin. “Oh. So I am.”

“Erm, Patrick?”

I meet Jean’s eyes, smirking. “Yes, Jean?”

“Why is it black?” Her voice is soft, meek, the words trembling.

Pulling my wrist from her loose grasp, I move to caress her face, smearing the viscous liquid across her porcelain skin. My hand stops at her throat, my fingers resting above the fluttering vein. “Shall I show you?”

“Sh-show me? How?”

My grip tightens, pressing into her soft flesh. The black liquid runs down her neck, staining her sweater. I slide my other hand up her top, pushing her against the wall while her hands scrabble weakly at my own, her face steadily turning the colour of her blood. “You wanted to know why it’s black, Jean? Why don’t you go ask that psychiatrist?”

Her arms fall to her sides, limp, as her eyes roll into the back of her head. I let her body fall to the floor after wiping my hand on her sweater, the wound now healed. My gaze rests on her lifeless form, my only thought being that now I will have to get a new secretary, who will not be in love with me, and until one arrives, I may have to deal with a fucking temp instead.

“Patrick?”

I look up to see Jean standing where she was before, unharmed, unstained, untouched. Her corpse no longer lays on the floor, only the pencil I knocked off earlier. I pick it up and drag the sharp end across my right palm. Drops of red blood bead at the surface of the skin, and I brush them away.

“Patrick?”

“What is it, Jean?” I say absently, returning to my chair and searching in one of my desk drawers for Xanax or Valium or something, something stronger that might make it all go away-

“I was saying that you have an appointment with Dr Black at three for your mandatory consultation.”

“Just say no,” I half-mutter, finding nothing in the drawer. My left hand drums against my knee while my right continues to search the contents of my desk.

“I-I can’t. It’s mandatory, which means you have to go.”

Sighing, I abandon my quest for sedatives and instead wander over to the bar and pour myself a glass of scotch, which I down in one. “Fine. Fine. I’ll be there. You can leave, Jean.”

I hear the soft click of the door closing and turn around, picking up the phone and calling McDermott. “What is it, Bateman?” He asks, picking up after the fourth ring.

“Did you know they’re making us have…” I swallow back the nausea at the thought of the word ‘therapy’, “they’re making us see a psychiatrist?”

“Yeah, apparently it’s some new health drive or something,” he yawns. “It’ll be the usual kind of shit, where they give you some pamphlets or something and tell you to meditate and crap. They don’t really care, it’s just to make the company look good.”

“So, they’re not actually going to evaluate us?”

“Nah, they’ll probably just tell us to take a break if we’re stressed about work or whatever. What do we have to be stressed about, huh?” He laughs.

“True.” My panic eases a little, though that may be the alcohol. “What time are we meeting tonight? Eight?”

“No, I can’t make it tonight. I’m going out with Melissa.”

“Who?”

“Y’know, that hardbody I picked up the other night. Totally in love with me. I’ll tell you, she’s crazy talented.”

I have no doubt as to what ‘talents’ McDermott is referring to, nor do I have any desire to listen to him discuss them. “Right. Well, good luck.” I hang up before my brain has time to ponder why I thought ‘good luck’ was an appropriate way of ending the call.

***

My lunch meeting goes without incident, held at some Mexican restaurant that GQ rated four-and-a-half stars. The experience is dampened only slightly by the waiter having such a thick accent that I had to ask him twice to repeat himself before ordering the most expensive item on the menu; I don’t remember what it was, only that it was still not that expensive yet was decent enough.

I’m now sat in a leather chair outside Dr Black’s office, my leg bouncing up and down as I wait for his current victim to leave so I can get this over with. The hallway is, at least, empty, and I told Jean to tell anyone who rings that I’m at a business meeting. I don’t think I was followed here, but I used a different taxi service and rang from a payphone just in case someone has been monitoring my call history.

The office is situated in a rather unsuspecting beige-coloured building with sufficient windows to allow natural light to enter. The receptionist who greeted me at the front desk is young but not a hardbody, and the kind of girl I could imagine spending time with Evelyn’s cousin Vanden, given she was painting her fingernails with black nail polish when I strode up to the desk.

A sign on the wall informs me Dr Ian Black is actually a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, unlike his colleague Dr Nancy Stonebridge, who is either in her office or at lunch given I am yet to see her.

The door to Dr Black’s office opens, and a man wearing a hoodie, jeans and a leather jacket strolls out. He stares as he walks past, hazel-coloured eyes wandering over my outfit before reaching my face. A smirk dances across his lips as he pulls out a pair of sunglasses and puts them on.

“Ah, Patrick, do come in. Can I call you Patrick?” Dr Black gestures for me to enter, and after a quick glance down the hallway where the man has now left, I head inside and sit on the sofa, which is a dull red colour. While Dr Black does something at his desk, I examine the interior of his office. The walls, like the ones outside, are painted cream, and a small TV is positioned in the far corner. Other than the sofa, a blue chair, the desk, a dark wood bookcase and a small table holding a potted plant, there is little in the way of furniture. The only decoration comes in the form of a few meaningless framed art pieces above the desk.

Dr Black settles into the chair opposite me. I feel a great sense of smugness knowing I did a hundred crunches before going to my lunch meeting, while Dr Black does not look as if he has ever done a single one in his life. My suit is also far superior – his shirt is grey in colour and, paired with the striped red-and-white tie, I would have never said he was anything other than a psychologist, except for perhaps a high-school teacher.

“So, Patrick, have you ever been to therapy before?”

“No. I have no need to.”

“Right. Well, I’m glad to hear that.” He doesn’t look it. “Of course, it can sometimes be that you may not think you need it because you’re repressing how you really feel, or you’re worried about others judging you. You should never be embarrassed about being yourself; it’s perfectly fine to experience whatever feelings you’re feeling.”

I wonder how many times I would have to stab him for it to wipe that smile off his face.

“Now, obviously this is only an introduction, so we won’t get into anything too detailed. How about we go through some basic questions? What do you do for a job?”

“Murders and executions, mostly.”

“I see. And do you enjoy it?”

“Very much so.” Is he testing me, or is he too stupid to realise I’m telling the truth?

“What about relationships? Friends, girlfriends, maybe even boyfriends?”

I clasp my hands tighter together to resist the urge to strangle him. “I have a fiancée; a woman.” I stress the last word, hopefully conveying my disgust at the notion of being in a relationship with another man.

“Good, good, that’s great that you’re in a committed relationship. What about your day-to-day life? I’m assuming you have meetings and suchlike but I’m talking about in your rest periods. What do you do to relax?”

“Exercise. Watch TV. Film myself mutilating prostitutes.” I smile, watching his calm expression flicker. “The usual kind of thing.”

“Well, I’m glad you have interests outside of work. You have to maintain a stable work-life balance, otherwise it’s easy to get burnt out.” He pauses, glancing at his notebook, which no doubt contains the check-box list of questions he’s supposed to ask. “How is your relationship with your parents?”

My hands are squeezed so tight together I can no longer feel the ends of my fingers. “Fine.”

“Really? It’s okay to be honest, Patrick. You have to let yourself be vulnerable sometimes.”

No. He just wants to use you. You should gut him right here on this carpet, and give these walls some decoration, just like you did with her-

“Patrick?”

“We’re done here.” I stand, tensing every muscle to keep my hands still. “Aren’t we?”

Dr Black glances at the clock above the doorway. “Yes, I guess so. I’ll have a look over what we discussed today, and if you need to come back-”

“That won’t be necessary.” Without looking at him, I stride out of the office and into the bright sunshine, though its warmth does not penetrate my thoughts. “Fucking psychologists,” I snarl, shoving my hands in my pockets. Shaking my head, I walk back to the main road to hail a taxi.

As the driver pulls away and rounds a corner, I swear I catch a glimpse of the man who left Dr Black’s office earlier.

Chapter Text

As I had previously anticipated but subsequently forgot about due to the utter waste of time that was my appointment with Dr Black – who, if all he does is spout textbook nonsense, is hardly deserving of the title – I have a lengthy voicemail from Evelyn waiting on my personal phone. I refuse to give her my work number, since she would do nothing but pester me when I have far more important things to be doing than listening to her.

“Patrick, do pick up when you hear this,” it starts, the condescending tone in her voice unmistakeable. “I haven’t seen you since the charity dinner when you so rudely left me sat next to Luis Carruthers and Timothy…” 

I have no idea why she uses Price’s first name only unless she is sleeping with him.

“…and the director asked where you were. I had to make up an excuse for you, Patrick, and that is not something I expect to have to do. You knew how important this was, not just for me but for both of us. How could you run off like that? Where did you even go? I know for a fact you were not out taking cocaine…”

It comes as a mild surprise Evelyn knows about my affair with the drug; she is usually too self-absorbed to notice anything outside of her own life, choosing only to reel me into her web of relation when it suits her.

“…and Paul Allen said he’d seen you getting into a cab…”

Ah. So she is definitely sleeping with Price since she’s used everyone else’s full names. Poor bastard. He doesn’t know what he’s in for.

Wait. Paul Allen? Was he watching me? Why? He must have been. I saw no one as I entered the taxi, so he must have been hiding somewhere. How does he have the audacity to spy on me after that humiliating conversation?

“so, call me back as soon as you get this. We need to talk about the wedding proceedings, so I’ve booked us in with an organiser, but-”

I end the voicemail and, with a great deal of reluctance, press the call button next to Evelyn’s contact. It rings twice before she picks up.

“I want a divorce.” I say, before she has a chance to start talking.

“Patrick, we’re not even married yet.”

The setting sun basks my apartment in orange light, as though the space behind me is ablaze. “Exactly. You can cancel that appointment with the organiser because I’m not doing it.”

I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “What’s got you all upset?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to be married.”

Evelyn sighs. “You’re the one who proposed to me.”

“Only because you wouldn’t fucking shut up about it. It was a mistake. You’re obviously fucking Price, and I don’t want to get married to you.” My fingers drum against the granite kitchen countertop as a brief silence follows my words.

“You’re being ridiculous. Something has clearly upset you, so we shall have this conversation when you’ve calmed down.” She doesn’t deny that she’s having an affair. It doesn’t actually bother me, except for the underlying fear that she’ll humiliate me in some way, but that is constant regardless of who she’s in bed with.

I shake my head, running my hand over my carefully styled hair and no doubt messing it up. “Listen to me. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Marry. You. And that isn’t going to change. It’s over. I’m done.” I hang up and block her number, letting my phone clatter onto the counter. There is only so much of Evelyn I believe anyone should have to be subjected to, and I reached my limit a long time ago, somewhere around the first time she suggested the colour scheme for the wedding should be pastel pink.

With night now fallen, casting the room in darkness, I pad across to my bedroom and open the wardrobe which holds a range of weapons and other associated items. I still need to replenish my supplies before the dinner with Paul Allen, and since most stores will be closed by now, I shall have to do it tomorrow, which rather frustratingly coincides with the next episode of a documentary on serial killer cold cases I’ve been watching, meaning I’ll having to watch it on demand instead, if I can find the time.

***

The next morning I visit the hardware store before work and purchase a large plastic tarpaulin sheet and an axe. I settled on a simple blade kill, knowing I will take great satisfaction in chopping Allen’s head open and scooping the brain matter out of his skull. Perhaps, since it is almost Halloween, I will clean his bones and use them to decorate my apartment. If I coat them in white paint, no-one will suspect they are real. I can then dispose of them before people question Allen’s disappearance.

Now the only remaining matter to deal with is the soundtrack. I am sure Allen will be a screamer, and even if he wasn’t, it helps set the atmosphere. While I could go for a classic such as Huey Lewis and the News, my unrelenting rage towards Allen calls for something heavier.

Ice Nine Kills originated as a ska band but later embraced the metalcore genre, with a particular focus on horror. Their early work is a little too scene for me, but when The Silver Scream came out, they really came into their own, commercially and artistically. The whole album has a refined melodic sensibility that really makes it a cut above the rest. In fact, its intricacies are only rivalled by its successor, The Silver Scream 2: Welcome to Horrorwood, which takes all the successes of the first album and adds a new layer of theatricality that has brought them even greater recognition.

It is decided. The stage is set, the soundtrack has begun, the axe is ready to swing…all that’s left is to kill Allen.