Harry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (part one - Murder Your Darlings)

Chapter 3

"I suppose it all started when I came home early one night from the annual school dance to find my mother bent backwards over the washing machine and my father holding her by the throat and beating her repeatedly on the forehead with the flat side of a ball-peen hammer. Tea?"

From the kitchenette in his cramped living quarters old Mr. Bitterman was cordially indicating a kettle.

"Em, yes," Stammered Myrtle. "Yes, please."

Myrtle was perched primly on one of two perpendicular armchairs in the room. Her dictaphone, which until a moment ago had sat on the small coffee table in front of both chairs, was now back on her lap. And now back on the table.

"A brand new Bendix semi-automatic, if my memory serves me correctly. Cream coloured, not white like today. Front loader too. One of the first in the neighbourhood. Well, anyway, I intervened, of course, effectively saving my mother's life and my father was hanged for murder."

The Eldervale Retirement Home and Assisted Living Facility, where Mr Bitterman had arranged for this meeting to take place, had not, as Myrtle had hoped - for the sake of good copy - filled her, on her approach, with an ominous sense of foreboding. Lightening had not flashed, illuminating briefly the building's gloomy exterior against a dark and threatening sky; thunder had not clapped, wind did not howl and there was no weather-beaten sign swinging creakily on it's rusting post. In actual fact, Myrtle was dismayed to note, the place looked rather pleasant. Its lawns were freshly mown and its flower beds well tended, and smiling orderlies, in pristine white coats and trousers, walked or wheeled the residents serenely round the grounds.

Myrtle was buzzed inside and warmly informed by the receptionist there that if he wasn't pottering around in the garden she would most likely find Harold in the dining room.

The interior too disappointed Myrtle. She had secretly hoped that the foul stench of death would be hanging heavily in the air, but instead it smelled rather homely, not unlike her granny's house. And the nearer she got to the dining room the more pleasant it became: the sweet smells of roasted meat, and boiled vegetables, and custard drifting down the hallway to meet her.

Dinner was well under way and the residents, some still in wheelchairs, were gathered around the long communal tables. Myrtle had expected to find them in something like doleful contemplation of the hereafter, as they wanly slurped their soup or joylessly masticated meat with false teeth. But here again she was thwarted. Most were in good spirits, all things considered, happy to chat to their neighbour or whoever about the weather, or about the food, or about their families, much as they had always done. Myrtle was mystified. Had they all just stoically accepted that their days in here were numbered? Every single person in this room would, before too long, be dead and gone and yet to look at them you'd think they didn't even know it.

One old man, neatly attired and detached from the rest, had already finished his dinner and was now sat staring sedately out of the window. Myrtle's strong journalistic instincts told her that this was her contact and she made her way between the tables to greet him.

"Hi," she said extending a hand when she got there. "I'm Casey Lane."

The old man slowly turned to her as though waking from a dream.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Myrtle made a face. Had she not just told him?

"I'm Casey," she said. "Casey Lane. We spoke on the phone."

The old man eyed her intently.

"Are you sure your name's Casey?" he said.

Myrtle was startled. How could he know she was lying?

"Of course," she said defiantly. "We spoke on the phone, remember? I'm here for our interview."

"But my daughter's name was Maisie," said the old man, affronted. "And she was thinner than you. Are you from the gas board? How dare you come here pretending to be my daughter? You'll get no more money out of me! Guards! Guards!"

The man was now struggling to get up out of his chair and Myrtle, alarmed, took a defensive step backwards. Feeling someone else's toes beneath the heel of her clumsy foot, she spun around quickly. Another old man, slick haired and wearing a navy blue blazer with shiny brass buttons, stood immediately before her.

"I believe," said Harold Bitterman, "that you might be looking for me."