The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2 Read Online Free PDF Page A

urge wasn’t in his groin though; it was in his throat, his teeth, his fists, it was coursing through his muscles. The insatiable desire to rip her apart, piece by piece, to destroy this whole fucking place, to burn it to the ground with every one of these dirty bastards still inside of it. He was shaking now; throbbing.
    Then the door suddenly jerked open. Norman jumped. It was her. Fatima. The bitch. She looked shocked, yet managed to remain professional. It was money after all.
    “ Well, you’re the last person I expected to see here,” she said to Norman with a forced smile.
    That was the point when we felt the rage take control. The rage saw the smile, it recognised it from the steps in London and by fuck it didn’t hold back. It punched her in the throat with all its might. When she landed on the bed, it ripped off her bra, tore it in half and tied her wrists to the bed head. It ripped the bed sheet into pieces and strapped her ankles to the bed base. Fatima was choking. The rage punched her again, in the stomach this time. One, two, three times. Harder and harder.
    Norman sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the rage to finish its job. When it finally did, he looked down at her shiny red shoes, struggling to break free but unable to do so. She was gasping for breath. It was very unattractive. The tears had caused her mascara to run; yet against her dark skin it was hardly visible.
    He saw her bag protruding from under the bed. He laid the contents out on the floor. The burka, the folded hijab, a copy of the Koran, her purse and a mobile phone. Norman picked up the phone and sat back down on the bed, turning to Fatima he asked, “What is your word for Father?”
    “ Aaabbaaa,” she wheezed.
    “ I can’t hear you,” he screamed. Someone banged on the wall from the room next door.
    “ Abba,” she repeated.
    And there it was, first place on her contacts list, ABBA.
    “ Do you speak English?” Norman asked the old man when he picked up.
    “ A little,” came the reply.
    “ Your daughter is in very big trouble,” he said slowly, “she is in the Diamond Market. She might die tonight,” and with that he hung up.
    Fatima groaned on the bed. Her breathing had stabilised and she started to fight again. Norman stood up and walked to the base of the bed, he took one step back, towards the door, until she filled the screen. It was a beautiful photograph, he thought. It deserved to be shared, and so it was. Norman sent that picture of Fatima the whore to everyone in her contacts list, her parents, husband, boss, co-workers, friends and fellow worshippers.
    As Norman sauntered down the alleyway towards the taxi rank, he made one last call from Fatima’s phone. Abdul Hamid could hear the police sirens in the background as he answered, “Aunt Fatima?”
    “ No. This isn’t Aunt Fatima.”
    “ Who the hell are you?”
    “ Haven’t you noticed some of your best friends have been leaving you quite suddenly?”
    “ What the fuck do you want?”
    “ You!”
    “ What?”
    “ You heard me son. I’m coming for you.”
    “ Who the fuck are you?”
    “ Don’t worry, we’ll meet soon enough. How’s the weather in Brighton? It’s bloody freezing in Lahore.” Norman hung up.
     
    Nine hours later, Fatima Hamid leapt from the minaret tower of her beloved mosque. Norman watched from the Coco’s Den, sipping an espresso, as she squashed like a rotten apple.
     
    Chapter 8.
    London
     
    Dick Hall and ACC Pearson sat opposite each other. Their workspace neatly arranged with a pile of paperwork and laptop each. Gerradine dominated the far end of the table, his papers scattered around him, his scratched laptop surrounded by a collection of mobile phones. He poured a whisky for each of them.
     
    “ He’s on the run,” announced Dick.
    “ Which one?” Pearson demanded.
    “ Hamid. He withdrew £250 from a cash machine on Brighton Main Street this morning at 8:05 am. He has used his credit card twice since then,