governed by two crucial factors.
The first was the construction of safety nets. The impeccable reputation she’d built would throw doubt on any later accusation of misconduct levelled at her.
Additionally, she’d waited patiently for suitable candidates to present themselves. Her experiment required individuals easily guided and with a subconscious desire to commit unforgivable acts. The sanity of the subject needed to be intact but with the potential to be unhinged if she so chose that extra layer of insurance.
Alex had known that Ruth Willis would be perfect for the study from their very first meeting. Alex had felt the desperation within the woman to take back control of her life. Poor little Ruth wasn’t even aware herself just how much she needed that closure. But Alex knew – and that was all that mattered. Months of patience had led to this moment. The finale.
She had chosen a subject whose allegations would, should anything go wrong, be dismissed. She had taken the time to ensure that she would not fail. There had been other prospects along the way, individuals courted for the privilege of being chosen, but ultimately Ruth had been the one.
Her other patients were irrelevant, a means to an end. They had the pleasure of underwriting her enviable lifestyle whilst she conducted her real work.
Alex had spent many hours nodding, soothing and reassuring her patients whilst mentally preparing her shopping list or developing the next part of her plan; all at a cost of £300 per hour.
The payment for the BMW Z4 was funded by the wife of a Chief Constable suffering from stress-induced kleptomania. Alex enjoyed the car, therefore it was unlikely that that particular patient would be recovering any time soon.
The £2,000 per month rent for the three-storey Victorian property in Hagley was paid for by the owner of a chain of estate agents whose son was experiencing paranoid persecution complex and came to see her three times per week. A few well-chosen words, dropped casually into conversation and yet subconsciously reinforcing his beliefs, dictated that his recovery would also be slow.
She stood before the portrait that took pride of place above the fireplace. She liked to look into the depths of his cold, unfeeling eyes and wonder if he would have understood her.
It was a rich oil painting that she had commissioned from a grainy black and white photograph of the only ancestor Alex could trace in whom she had any pride.
Uncle Jack, as she liked to call him, had been a ‘Higgler’, better known as a hangman in the 1870s. Unlike the town of Bolton, which had the Billingtons, and Huddersfield, which had the Pierrepoints, the Black Country had no family dynasty that performed the gruesome task and Uncle Jack had stumbled upon the trade by accident.
Jailed for not supporting his family, Uncle Jack had been incarcerated in Stafford Prison during a visit from William Calcraft, the longest-serving executioner, with a record of around 450 hangings of men and women to his name.
On this particular day, Calcraft arrived to perform a double hanging and so needed a volunteer. Uncle Jack was the only inmate to offer. Calcraft favoured a short drop which produced a slow, agonising death, requiring the assistant to swing on the legs of the convicted to speed up death.
Uncle Jack had found his forte and thereafter travelled the country as an executioner.
Standing before his portrait always gave Alex a sense of belonging, an affinity with a member of her distant family.
She smiled up into his harsh, emotionless face. ‘Oh, if only things were as simple as in your day, Uncle Jack.’
Alex seated herself at the desk in the corner. Finally, her magnum opus was underway. Her journey to find the answers to questions that had puzzled her for years had begun.
She let out a long, satisfied breath and reached into the top drawer for the Clairefontaine paper and the Mont Blanc pen.
It was time for her own form of
The first was the construction of safety nets. The impeccable reputation she’d built would throw doubt on any later accusation of misconduct levelled at her.
Additionally, she’d waited patiently for suitable candidates to present themselves. Her experiment required individuals easily guided and with a subconscious desire to commit unforgivable acts. The sanity of the subject needed to be intact but with the potential to be unhinged if she so chose that extra layer of insurance.
Alex had known that Ruth Willis would be perfect for the study from their very first meeting. Alex had felt the desperation within the woman to take back control of her life. Poor little Ruth wasn’t even aware herself just how much she needed that closure. But Alex knew – and that was all that mattered. Months of patience had led to this moment. The finale.
She had chosen a subject whose allegations would, should anything go wrong, be dismissed. She had taken the time to ensure that she would not fail. There had been other prospects along the way, individuals courted for the privilege of being chosen, but ultimately Ruth had been the one.
Her other patients were irrelevant, a means to an end. They had the pleasure of underwriting her enviable lifestyle whilst she conducted her real work.
Alex had spent many hours nodding, soothing and reassuring her patients whilst mentally preparing her shopping list or developing the next part of her plan; all at a cost of £300 per hour.
The payment for the BMW Z4 was funded by the wife of a Chief Constable suffering from stress-induced kleptomania. Alex enjoyed the car, therefore it was unlikely that that particular patient would be recovering any time soon.
The £2,000 per month rent for the three-storey Victorian property in Hagley was paid for by the owner of a chain of estate agents whose son was experiencing paranoid persecution complex and came to see her three times per week. A few well-chosen words, dropped casually into conversation and yet subconsciously reinforcing his beliefs, dictated that his recovery would also be slow.
She stood before the portrait that took pride of place above the fireplace. She liked to look into the depths of his cold, unfeeling eyes and wonder if he would have understood her.
It was a rich oil painting that she had commissioned from a grainy black and white photograph of the only ancestor Alex could trace in whom she had any pride.
Uncle Jack, as she liked to call him, had been a ‘Higgler’, better known as a hangman in the 1870s. Unlike the town of Bolton, which had the Billingtons, and Huddersfield, which had the Pierrepoints, the Black Country had no family dynasty that performed the gruesome task and Uncle Jack had stumbled upon the trade by accident.
Jailed for not supporting his family, Uncle Jack had been incarcerated in Stafford Prison during a visit from William Calcraft, the longest-serving executioner, with a record of around 450 hangings of men and women to his name.
On this particular day, Calcraft arrived to perform a double hanging and so needed a volunteer. Uncle Jack was the only inmate to offer. Calcraft favoured a short drop which produced a slow, agonising death, requiring the assistant to swing on the legs of the convicted to speed up death.
Uncle Jack had found his forte and thereafter travelled the country as an executioner.
Standing before his portrait always gave Alex a sense of belonging, an affinity with a member of her distant family.
She smiled up into his harsh, emotionless face. ‘Oh, if only things were as simple as in your day, Uncle Jack.’
Alex seated herself at the desk in the corner. Finally, her magnum opus was underway. Her journey to find the answers to questions that had puzzled her for years had begun.
She let out a long, satisfied breath and reached into the top drawer for the Clairefontaine paper and the Mont Blanc pen.
It was time for her own form of
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