My latest project is book four in my detective series. They’ve become quite popular with a small, rather niche market who find serial killers to their taste. If I’m honest, I’d rather kill off my detective and start something new, but I feel duty bound to keep going. My latest serial killer used to be a heavy for a gang till someone killed his partner. Now he’s gone rogue and is wiping out anyone who’s ever crossed him.
Problem is, I don’t really understand him. How did he become this muscular martial arts expert who overpowers every opponent with sheer strength? Obviously, he trained — but how? What was his initial motivation? Why would anyone go to a gym and just train? I was starting to feel I was getting nowhere and the whole story was dead in the water.
I was reading the latest psychological journal, seeking insight into my killer cum super-villain when I spotted the new girl at the counter. She was pretty. Too young to be interested in me — and anyway, I hadn’t really bothered too much since my wife passed away — but I still appreciate a pretty woman.
She blonde hair, tied back, and a ready smile. Her blue eyes sparkled every time her face lit up, and I found it appealing. As I watched, her eye caught mine. I looked away, embarrassed, aware that I’d probably been looking for too long. Then I looked up again. She was still looking at me, and as our eyes met, she smiled. It was a friendly, confident gesture, unlike so many of the rather mousy librarians, and I appreciated it.
I returned to my reading, dismissing the pleasant interlude from my mind and focused on the possibility that my killer had become depressed and started training to alleviate his mental health problems. It really seemed very unlikely.
“Hello. Is everything alright, sir?”
I glanced up, and saw that this pleasant young lady was talking to me. Initially, I was rather flustered. I barely spoke to anyone these days, other than my mother and friends from the football club. There were not many of those, if I’m honest. I had retired two seasons ago, following my knee injury, at the grand old age of forty two, and found my generation were rapidly dying out. The young lads weren’t interested and the wave of sympathy had steadily ebbed. I wasn’t exactly lonely, but I was becoming increasingly isolated. It was a relief to have dog-walking and gardening to keep me fit.
“Er … yes. Thanks. Well … no. I’m trying to research why someone would train obsessively. Get to the level of the Marines but not in the army. I don’t understand. Could you point me in the direction of any books or … anything?”
“I don’t know about books. And ‘obsessively’ is a bit of a strong word, really. Makes it sound like a problem. Is it a problem if someone wants to be healthy and improve themselves?”
“Well … no. I guess not. I like that. It’s a good spin.”
She looked down at me, her oversized sweatshirt falling below her thighs on her rather short body. It was an odd angle for me. Being almost six feet tall, I usually look down on people, and seeing this woman who was no more than five and a half feet towering over me seemed very strange. Stranger still was the clothing she wore. Everything loose and shapeless. So unlike many of her generation.
I had expected her to move on. Instead, she spoke again.
“I don’t know any books, but I train every day. Perhaps I could help.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. This might be exactly what I was looking for.
“That’d be … great. Thanks. Shall we get coffee when you finish?”
“Sorry. I don’t finish till late tonight. It’s the library staff meeting. Then I want to get to the gym for an hour. Everywhere’s going to be shut by the time I finish.”
I was deflated. I needed to make progress with my book, and wanted to move forward quickly.
“Look,” she continued, “Do you live close? I’ve seen you here every day since I started, so I guess you do. I could pop to your house after, if you like.”
I thought for a minute, amazed that a young woman would take the risk of going to a total stranger’s house at night. It seemed almost reckless — but if doing this would help move my work forward …
“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t know me. I could be a secret psychopath.”
She smiled. “You could, but I don’t think you are. Anyway, I think you’d come off second best.”
We both laughed, and agreed that she could pop by at nine thirty — I’d have coffee ready, unless she fancied a glass of wine.
She left to go about her work, and shortly after I departed too, feeling that I should have a quick tidy up and consider the relevant questions to make the most of the interview.
My mind wandered a little, wondering why this attractive girl, who was probably fifteen years younger than me, had chosen to approach me in the first place. People have said I’m a good looking man — tall, slim and toned from years of sport and now walking and gardening, but she could hardly be physically attracted to me. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps she was a fan of my work. Whatever, it was irrelevant. She would be here later, and I might, finally make progress.
Ten minutes before she was due to arrive, there was a firm knock at the door. She was early. Always a good sign — I had half expected her not to turn up. I showed her in to my small living room, where she sat on the sofa, relaxed and smiling radiantly.
“Coffee? Or a cold drink?” I asked.
“Have you got any wine? I love a glass of red after a work out.”
I quickly poured two glasses of red wine and sat opposite her. I took out my list of questions, ready to move forward.
“So, you train every day? How long have you been doing that?”
She thought. “About six years. I started when I was twenty one. I don’t train every day. Just every day I possibly can.”
“And why did you start?”
She paused and took a deep breath. Pain, or sadness flitted fleetingly across her face.
“Before I started, I was fat. Obese. I … lost my father was I was ten. He was my world. My mother used to laugh at me. She used to say no man’d ever want me if I was this fat. She said I needed a flat stomach and a slim legs, like her. I was pretty much a ball of flab. By the time I was fifteen, I still hadn’t changed. The kids bullied me. The girls kept saying I was a lard ass. The boys just laughed at me. I ate constantly, which made it worse. I’d been through puberty and had a couple of extra lumps of lard, some hair between my legs which I’d never seen, and bled every so often.
“I went to University, thinking I’d got away from it. I hadn’t. They asked how anyone intelligent enough to do a degree could become so disgusting. They weren’t as vicious as the schoolkids, but they isolated me. Then my mother died and I inherited everything from her. I moved into our family home, and found myself wealthy. I’m still very well off, by the way.