The Victim

THE VICTIM JOHN NICHOLL CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 More from John Nicholl About the Author About Boldwood Books The Murder List 1 I‘m a keeper of secrets: dark secrets, filthy secrets, secrets that eat away at my peace of mind like a wild creature feeding on flesh. Unwelcome thoughts claw to leave my troubled mind pounding. Booming pressure and sound threatening to explode my fragile skull into a thousand jagged pieces. Destructive memories of the not-so-distant past, desperate to escape at almost any cost. I think I’ve reached that time. An hour I thought may never come. The moment to speak out, to pour out my deep anxiety and dread, to tell you everything, to hold nothing back, whatever the potential consequences for my life. It’s something I need to do. Something I have to do. I know that now. I no longer have a choice. Are you ready to read on? Have I captured your interest even slightly? I guess the answer must be yes if you’re still reading. I sincerely hope my story doesn’t keep you awake at night, as it does me. I’ve no investment in the discomfort of others, or at least not that of the innocent. You may find my tale shocking. There’s no avoiding the horror. But I make no apologies for that. I can’t erase the past. If I’m going to tell you my story, it has to be all of it. I’ve experienced terrible things. And I’ve done awful things too. Some of which you may think are justified, and others perhaps not. Things have a way of running away with themselves. I sometimes went further than even I intended. I can’t pretend otherwise. I’ve committed to total honesty. I’ll leave it to you to judge my degree of guilt. All I can offer is mitigation. But try to be kind. Put yourself in my place if you can. Try to be understanding. And I’ll try to keep my writing as succinct as possible in return. I’m an enthusiastic reader, a lover of word games. But I won’t let emotion cloud the picture. I won’t let tears soil the page. Have we got a deal? Can we shake on it, in a metaphorical sense, without actually meeting? Well, yes or no, I’ve got my laptop at the ready. So, I’m going to get on with it. I’ve put it off long enough. Now we get to the heart of the story – the foundation of all that came next. 2 ‘STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES. BUT WORDS SHALL NEVER HURT ME.’ The familiar linguistic rhyme came to mind as I cast my thoughts back to my childhood, vivid memories, reliving events as if in real-time. I guess the author’s words were well-intentioned. I’m sure the writer meant no malice. But don’t believe a word of it, that’s my cautionary advice. Words have power; they can hurt; they can control. And they did me to the nth degree. Words served my father’s purpose all too well, as he indulged his deviant tastes with no concern for my well-being, despite my tender years. The bastard! I still hate him with a burning intensity I can never hope to erase. Forgiveness? Forget it! He brought nothing but misery to this world, nothing but pain, nothing but suffering. And he did it simply because it pleased him to do so, because he could. Because he thought he could get away with it, that he’d never be caught and punished. Those were all the reasons the pig needed. The total fucking bastard! Ahhhh! The man was a parasite. I think that’s a fair description, although no single word could fully capture his vile persona. He oozed destructive evil. It seeped from every rotten pore of his body. But he hid it from the world; he wore the mask well. Only I saw the bleak reality. He thought of no one but himself. I was just four years old when it all started; certainly no older than five. I was a young child; an innocent in a dangerous world. I should have been protected in my parents’ care. Home should have been a sanctuary, a haven, a place of safety where I could thrive. But it was so very far from that. If heaven can be a place on earth, then so can hell. I’m not going to focus on that time of my life with any great intensity. It’s far too painful. But I’ll give you a flavour of events in the interests of understanding. I’ll open a window just wide enough for you to glance in. I’m sure you’ll get the gist quickly enough if you haven’t already done so. It’s not as if it’s difficult to comprehend. The man was a predator and I – his prey. That sums it up very nicely. I was his plaything and in the worst possible way. I can feel his dirty hands on me even now as I write these words. I can hear his sing-song voice, the urgency, the accent, the tone. ‘This is our special secret, Alice. No one else can ever know what we do together.’ That was one of his favourites. I must have heard those poisonous words at least a thousand times back then. He’d place his very ordinary face only inches from mine, with our foreheads almost touching, hissing his words, his whisky-soaked breath filling my nostrils, making me retch. ‘Tell no one, Alice! Do you hear