The Killer Inside Read Online Free PDF

listed. Nobody has taken the site down because it is a record of the things we achieved as a group. We’re all still proud of it even if we aren’t in touch as often any more. That is how Eames found me. I don’t even use that email address any more, I just kept it in the vain hope that I may need it again some day, when I can leave my fledgling PR career and move back to the theatre. I don’t hate my job; it’s great. It’s just not where I want to be in five years. Or ten. Or the rest of my life. So feigning sickness is hardly a crime.
    My nose just started bleeding.
    My skin won’t stop itching.
    I think I need to take the morning off.
    Every couple of weeks I go into the email account to keep it activated. As usual, everything is junk. Job offers, pills to enhance my apparently dreary sex life, discounts and free shipping applied. And what seems like a philanthropic gesture to fund a play. Somebody contacting playwrights and directors in the area with the hope of resurrecting the Sanford Meisner Theater as a performance space for lower budget exploratory ventures.
    This is the ticket.
    A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
    I am being presented with my dream in order to take away my life.
    Too wired to sleep, I flip open my laptop and email the former members of our troupe, hoping they, like me, retained their accounts and empty them weekly of trash.Desperately, excitedly hoping that they, like me, still allow themselves to dream.
    Tomorrow, I will call in sick. Women’s problems. Ear infection. I’m having trouble sleeping. I will be picturing the next production. Getting the gang back together. Filling those seventy-three seats. I won’t be worrying about e-shots and website banners. I won’t be distracted by a distant memory of the name Eames.
    Tomorrow I will know what a mistake I have made as I lash out, kicking my legs hard against the floor for leverage, waving my arms about hoping to hit something, fighting for breath. I will remember Eames.
    Tomorrow, when they find my body, when they see that I have been made to look exactly like one of his previous victims, that I have been chosen as the understudy to Audrey David, everyone will be reminded.
    And they will recognise me as a fool.

The Foot

    Wednesday
    CAMDEN, 23:57
    ALAN BARBER IS not important to Aria Sky’s life story, at least not as a person, a personality; it is only his actions that carry significance. And he only knew her in death.
    He has a list of sins throughout his life, he has even added some this evening, but he is incapable of murder. The first time he noticed the young girl it was late and he was pissing all over her.
    It begins in Camden.
    And ends in Regent’s Park.
    The Taittinger gathers dust on the top shelf. Below that, the Disaronno is crying out for some wannabe trendy sophisticate to order it with orange and ice while winking at a female stranger across the room. The Macallan whisky doesn’t look like it has been opened on the shelf beneath, but just under that is the place Alan Barber calls home. Somewhere between the Gordon’s, Plymouth and Tanqueray.
    ‘I can’t get fat on gin and tonic,’ he tells the other two men at the bar. They are a decade or two older than heis and are sticking to ales and bitters. ‘Clear spirits are the key to staying slim while having fun.’ He doesn’t tell them the effect that the tonic water has on him. That he spends half the next day on the toilet losing liquid and calories.
    Recumbent bulimia.
    Dysentery of excess.
    Two hours pass and Alan Barber alternates between the three available gins on offer so nobody can tell he has had an entire litre to himself: each bottle has only gone down by one third; it’s barely noticeable.
    Then his friend finally arrives.
    His name is irrelevant; in fact, his actions are negligible. The one thing he does is keep Alan Barber drinking into the late hours, testing his constitution, forcing him outside with that woman then walking him through the park