Grave Doubts by Elizabeth Corley Page A

troughed through each of his cartons. By midnight the combined effects of the alcohol and heavy food had their traditional effect and he was fast asleep on the couch, head back snoring while the TV played on.
    Outside, a tall, slim figure climbed over the wall in the yard, landed silently and moved to the back door unseen. It was unlocked, a laughable lack of security for a prison officer, and led into a small kitchen that stank of curry, a week’s rubbish and unwashed dishes.
    The intruder was wearing a dark polo neck and black jeans. Both were expensive and in stark contrast to the cheap chain store trainers on his feet. He carried a long hold-all like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag that he opened silently. The sounds of soft porn and snoring came from the living room at the front of the house and painted a graphic picture of what he would find when he entered. He smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile he reserved for night and darkened rooms. The people who saw it rarely lived to describe it.
    He opened the bag and pulled out a black plastic dustbin liner that he unfolded with barely a rustle. The polo neck came off, as did the jeans, eased over the trainers. They went into the plastic bag for later. Underneath he wore a tight fitting rubber suit that stroked his skin when he moved. It too was black, unlike his skin-tone latex gloves but the anomaly was short lived as he pulled a pair in fine black leather over the top of them. Then he put on the mask, enjoying the smell of the leather as it covered his face. He looked around for a mirror. In bedrooms there were always mirrors in which to appreciate the final effect, not so in a kitchen but it was a minor inconvenience. He knew how he would look and the thought filled him with warm energy. He was death personified. He would be the last thing this pathetic specimen ever saw. He was God.
    In the living room the curtains were already drawn, creating a cozy little hellhole. Saunders was sprawled like a beached whale on the sofa, his hairy white belly protruding from his open shirt, one foot collapsed sideways into the remains of a dark stinking curry. His belt was undone, his trousers splattered with some sort of brown gravy. A piece of burnt onion had wrapped itself around an upper incisor. The intruder stared at it in fascination as the pig of a man in front of him grunted and spluttered his way through who knew what dreams.
    One sharp blow to the temple with a weighted cosh drove Saunders from sleep into unconsciousness and he set about his preparations with an economy of motion that suggested planning and practice. A strip of heavy tape went over Saunders’ mouth and he handcuffed his hands behind his back. He stripped Saunders below the waist, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the waft of body odour that emerged as he removed the man’s pants. Leaving the socks on was an amusing touch. They made the pig look even more ridiculous. One bare shin was tied to the front leg of the couch with nylon cord that would bite into the skin when he struggled. The other he tied with a long length of flex to a radiator beside the television.
    Saunders lay on his back, legs splayed wide apart with his ample buttocks on the edge of the cushion. The man ran some more rope beneath his armpits and over the back of the settee so that he was pulled back tight and immobile. He didn’t want him to squirm too much, as it would make his work difficult. When he was certain that he was secure, he went into the squalid kitchen, removed the equipment he needed from the bag and set it down carefully next to his clothes, tutting at the layer of dust on the table. He threw a pile of washing up from the bowl to the floor and filled it with cold water.
    Watching Saunders splutter and cough as he regained consciousness was a sweet experience. He loved this moment, when terror replaced confusion to be followed by denial, then fear again.
    ‘Ngh?’
    Saunders struggled against his bonds, panic