Read Online A Tapping at My Door: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (The DS Nathan Cody Series) by David Jackson - Free Book Online
Authors: David Jackson
Ads: Link
reflection.
There’s quite a smell in here too. This many birds create a lot of shit. It’s everywhere. It covers the carpet; it covers the bed; it drips down the walls. He used to spend a good portion of each day cleaning it up. Now he doesn’t bother. It’s too much work, and he no longer has the time. At the end of his mission – if he ever reaches the end – he’ll scour the room from floor to ceiling.
To be honest, he doubts that the end will ever be within reach. He’s being very ambitious here – he knows that – but there’s no point in being half-hearted about this project. He needs to go all out for it, even if it’s the last thing he ever does. As it probably will be. The important thing is that he drives his message home. And that will certainly be achieved.
He steps further into the room. He is wearing only the T-shirt and boxers he had on in bed. His bare feet press into slimy wetness as he walks. Birds take flight as he cuts a path through them, their flapping and fluttering startling others into doing likewise, until much of the room is filled with frightened creatures randomly criss-crossing and narrowly avoiding each other.
He scans the area as he goes, checking that all is well. Birds are fragile things. Easily stressed. Occasionally they just keel over and die.
He finds a single dead sparrow. It’s under the bed. As though it needed somewhere dark and secluded to abandon its life. He picks it up. Cradles it in the palm of his hand. It’s almost weightless. Just a ball of feathers hiding a few scrawny bones. He tips his hand from side to side and watches the sparrow’s head loll lifelessly, its feet jutting into the air as if clutching an invisible twig.
It will have to be replaced, of course. The numbers are important – crucial, in fact. He can’t go out and buy one. Not any longer. People buying birds will come under suspicion soon. They will be investigated. Offering the police an obvious lead to him this early in the game would be sheer idiocy.
When he is satisfied there are no more corpses, he leaves the room, wiping his bare feet on a dry section of carpet on the way out. Later, he’ll have a shower. Right now he needs to sort this out. He won’t be able to rest properly until he has a full complement again.
Back in his bedroom, he pulls on jogging pants, a sweatshirt and an old pair of Nike trainers, then carries the sparrow with reverence down to the kitchen. He takes one last long look at the bird. Its premature death saddens him. Dying before one’s time always saddens him. Unless it happens to a member of the police force.
He puts the bird into an Asda carrier bag and knots the handles together.
He unlocks the back door, steps into the garden and drops the bag into his wheelie bin. The bag floats to the bottom as though it contains nothing more than air.
He looks around the garden. It is not large, but it is mature and not overlooked. A tall fir tree prevents his neighbours from observing what he does here. Which is a good thing.
In the border beneath the tree sits a cardboard box. Its edges all rest on the soil, which suggests it is occupied.
Was a time he would spend long hours at his kitchen door, gripping a length of string attached to a stick propping up this box. He would wait patiently, staring at the mound of seed and praying for a single bird to allow hunger to overcome its natural caution.
His bird catchers are more sophisticated now. They involve the use of an adapted mousetrap that pulls the box down when it’s tripped. He doesn’t need to sit and watch.
He leans towards the box. Puts his eye to one of the air holes. A pigeon. It often seems to be the greedy, dumb pigeons who fall for this.
He raises one edge of the box slightly. Slides a hand underneath and grabs the bird, then brings it into the open. The pigeon looks mystified, but not frightened. If only it knew.
He takes it with him, back into the house. He can relax now and have a shower
There’s quite a smell in here too. This many birds create a lot of shit. It’s everywhere. It covers the carpet; it covers the bed; it drips down the walls. He used to spend a good portion of each day cleaning it up. Now he doesn’t bother. It’s too much work, and he no longer has the time. At the end of his mission – if he ever reaches the end – he’ll scour the room from floor to ceiling.
To be honest, he doubts that the end will ever be within reach. He’s being very ambitious here – he knows that – but there’s no point in being half-hearted about this project. He needs to go all out for it, even if it’s the last thing he ever does. As it probably will be. The important thing is that he drives his message home. And that will certainly be achieved.
He steps further into the room. He is wearing only the T-shirt and boxers he had on in bed. His bare feet press into slimy wetness as he walks. Birds take flight as he cuts a path through them, their flapping and fluttering startling others into doing likewise, until much of the room is filled with frightened creatures randomly criss-crossing and narrowly avoiding each other.
He scans the area as he goes, checking that all is well. Birds are fragile things. Easily stressed. Occasionally they just keel over and die.
He finds a single dead sparrow. It’s under the bed. As though it needed somewhere dark and secluded to abandon its life. He picks it up. Cradles it in the palm of his hand. It’s almost weightless. Just a ball of feathers hiding a few scrawny bones. He tips his hand from side to side and watches the sparrow’s head loll lifelessly, its feet jutting into the air as if clutching an invisible twig.
It will have to be replaced, of course. The numbers are important – crucial, in fact. He can’t go out and buy one. Not any longer. People buying birds will come under suspicion soon. They will be investigated. Offering the police an obvious lead to him this early in the game would be sheer idiocy.
When he is satisfied there are no more corpses, he leaves the room, wiping his bare feet on a dry section of carpet on the way out. Later, he’ll have a shower. Right now he needs to sort this out. He won’t be able to rest properly until he has a full complement again.
Back in his bedroom, he pulls on jogging pants, a sweatshirt and an old pair of Nike trainers, then carries the sparrow with reverence down to the kitchen. He takes one last long look at the bird. Its premature death saddens him. Dying before one’s time always saddens him. Unless it happens to a member of the police force.
He puts the bird into an Asda carrier bag and knots the handles together.
He unlocks the back door, steps into the garden and drops the bag into his wheelie bin. The bag floats to the bottom as though it contains nothing more than air.
He looks around the garden. It is not large, but it is mature and not overlooked. A tall fir tree prevents his neighbours from observing what he does here. Which is a good thing.
In the border beneath the tree sits a cardboard box. Its edges all rest on the soil, which suggests it is occupied.
Was a time he would spend long hours at his kitchen door, gripping a length of string attached to a stick propping up this box. He would wait patiently, staring at the mound of seed and praying for a single bird to allow hunger to overcome its natural caution.
His bird catchers are more sophisticated now. They involve the use of an adapted mousetrap that pulls the box down when it’s tripped. He doesn’t need to sit and watch.
He leans towards the box. Puts his eye to one of the air holes. A pigeon. It often seems to be the greedy, dumb pigeons who fall for this.
He raises one edge of the box slightly. Slides a hand underneath and grabs the bird, then brings it into the open. The pigeon looks mystified, but not frightened. If only it knew.
He takes it with him, back into the house. He can relax now and have a shower
Similar Books
