Crimson Snow - And so it Begins

         Part 1

Section 1 - And so it Begins

         The Prelude – Once Upon a Time

The snow cast the city into a glistening wonderland that sparkled eerily in the moonlight, a beautiful scene yet it covered far more sinister things. A clear shot rang through the night, shattering the muffling blanket that softly falling snow had weaved as it spiralled down.. Birds squawked amongst themselves in alarm as they rose up from their roosts in a flurry of wings. Like spectral apparitions they took off into the black expanse, quickly fading into the distance. Once they had abandoned the scene and the resounding shot had fallen quiet there was a moment of utter peace. Time almost suspended as it held its breath in respect, only the snow continuing to fall down, always falling…

         Three strikes and you are out, they say. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three and you are out of there. He had twelve. It made no difference in the end. This was no fairytale in which when the clock struck twelve everything would return to normal. There were no Knights in shining armour, no Prince Charmings or Fairy Godmothers. There were no Once Upon a Times or Happily Ever Afters. The shot had sung in harmony with Midnight’s strike. And you are out of there, they say…

         Sweet Dreams

Sirens wailed mournfully in the background breaking the peace once more, blue flashing lights illuminating the streets. A teen; shot dead. Once, straight through the heart. No witnesses. No murder weapon. No trace of the killer. Whoever it was, they were surely long gone now. It was all over the news already, some wandering reporter out for a story nearby as it happened.

         As it happened…

         It is a scary thought, is it not? What if it hadn’t been the boy killed? What if it had been any number of the people nearby?

         That was the mystery of it all, how the killer gotten away with it with so many people so close. A few people had said they thought they had seen a man dressed all in white fleeing the scene, long golden hair tied back with a red ribbon, his face hidden behind a white mask. But this man, if he had ever existed - people see strange things at night - had vanished into the shadows and taken with him any hope of this murder being solved.

         The scene was all closed off but people still craned forward to try and get a better look; a perfect example of mortals’ curiosity. People in blue uniforms were moving among them with faces set in grim expression to stop anyone slipping closer, taking statements from those who had been nearby and deterring over-eager reporters wanting the ‘true story’. But if you could manage to get past the police and under the tape and then down the alley unnoticed. If you could you would see a boy, no older than 17, lying on his back, no mark on him other than the wound through his heart; scarlet blood pooling from the hole and seeping across his still chest. Aside from that he looked almost alive, merely sleeping on the icy ground, and a fanciful mind could nearly see his chest rising and falling with his breath. However it was just a fantasy and the doctor was standing up and shaking his head.

         Dead.

         Yet whoever had killed him had wanted to keep him in perfect condition, not seeming to want to mar their victim’s beauty. For he was beautiful, incredibly so, no less in death than in life. There was a single rose laid on his chest, the only sign that someone else had killed him, a note attached to it with the cryptic message ‘I kept my promise. Sweet dreams.’

         Roses… The symbols of meaningless romance and greedy passion. The messengers of hollow words of love and unfilled promises of eternity. But this promise had been kept, whatever that promise was. A lover’s tiff perhaps? A promise of revenge? That was what the media saying, but they were also linking it to the previous murders.

         Previous murders. You thought this was the first?

         It was the fifth, over a period of five days, each victim a teenage male and beautiful. Perhaps there was no link from just that. But just as the latest had been left with a single rose so had all the others, each receiving their own personal message in the flowing script. There was a link, it was just adding up all the clues that was proving problematic. Finding a motive was even more so. There seemed to be none, nothing but random killings. Perhaps a girlfriend? Like the media was saying, a ‘lover’s tiff’. Perhaps, but then where did this mysterious masked man come into it?

         The tape was drawn back as a crying woman was let through into the cut off area, a sudden surge of reporters and flashing lights following after as they all hounded her, police pushing them away - the mother. They had found the boy’s wallet beside him and had been able to tell who he was. It appeared the murderer had wanted him to be discovered. It would be so much easier to put it down to an armed robbery gone too far but the rose, the message… It had to be more than that.

         ‘What happened? What’s with all the police?’
         ‘Don’t you know?’
         ‘No...’
         ‘A boy was killed down there; Christopher Maine they say he was called. Only 17 and some cold-hearted killer just shot him. How could someone be so cruel to destroy a young life?’
         ‘How terrible. How could someone be so evil? What is the world coming to?’

         Snatches of conversation drifted up to a silent figure on the rooftops, standing precariously above the scene and looking down on it from the edge of a tall building.

         ‘I loved him. I loved him not. I loved him. I loved him not…’ said a honeyed sing-song voice, the chant whispered to the stars. They were not going to tell anyone. As he spoke he carelessly tore a petal from a rose suspended in white gloves, letting the twisted pieces fall from his fingers with the snow; the wind catching them and bearing them up to the heavens and across the rooftops.

         A sensation of pain pricked his thumb and he looked at it with dark eyes to watch, fascinated, as scarlet blood spread quickly across the silk of his glove, an echo of what had happened to young Christopher. Removing the culprit thorn from the fragile stem he flicked it away before studying the flower. It looked so beautiful now, the tattered petals spread about it like the wings of a tortured spirit. It was an apt image. Tucking the rose behind his ear he then took off the stained glove, slipping it into his pocket. It would not do to leave it lying about.

         The midnight breezes teased golden hair from a red ribbon that tied back the waist-length locks. ‘Golden hair tied back with a red ribbon…’ A suit of white silk clinging to a slender body stood out clearly against the black backdrop, but no one glanced up, too engrossed in what was happening below. No one expected someone to be standing above them. ‘Dressed all in white...’ Moonlight and snowflakes caressed the porcelain sweep of his cheek, blurring the contours of the finely made mask he wore. ‘His face hidden behind a white mask…’

         Was it wise for the killer to remain so close to the scene of the crime?

         With a sigh he pulled back from the edge of the roof, shaking a light dusting of snow from his hair while he walked back to the stairs. He paused one last time to look up at the stars, any expression hidden by his mask whilst he laughed softly to himself. As he walked down the stairs to the ground he ran his fingers along the railings in an almost childish manner. The door to the building creaked as he opened it slowly, glancing up and down the street to check that no one saw him leave as he stole into the night, only a whisper of silk and the lingering traces of a spicy, exotic perfume hanging in the air to prove he had ever been there at all. They too faded soon enough and the snow quickly filled his footsteps, erasing all traces of him with its touch.


         Spilt Coffee


The police station was full that evening. It had been every single evening for the last five days. Why? The murders, obviously. ‘Witnesses’ kept coming in and claiming to have seen someone they thought looked suspicious walking about at night which surely meant they were the murderer, or the ‘Rose’ which the media had dubbed them, and needed to be arrested immediately.

         Now there were these sightings of the mysterious masked man who had disappeared without a sign. The Masked Man, as he was becoming known, had to be searched out as he could provide that vital link the police needed. Surely it was not that hard a thing to do; find this man and interrogate him? Not as easy as it sounded, believe it.

         ‘So, what do we know about him, again?’ A man asked, far too perkily for such early hours of the morning. Well, ‘man’ was somewhat of a lie, actually. He was no more than a boy, a man-child, which his colleagues frequently reminded him of. Perched, rather precariously, on the edge of a none-too stable looking desk he swung slender legs idly as they dangled over the side. A cup of coffee was clutched in pale fingers, threatening to spill as he leant backwards to get a better view of the papers that littered the desk.
         ‘Don’t sit on the table.’ Another retorted wearily, this conversation familiar ground and he did not even bother to look up from his work, or to answer the question. The man-child pouted and leant backwards further, unable to read sufficiently upside down. Ash-grey eyes glanced up at the other, seemingly in a premonition of something about to happen, widening slightly before he snatched the files back quickly.

         A second later a splattering of coffee rained down on the wooden surface just where the papers had been a moment ago.
         ‘Chair. Sit. Now.’ The grey-eyed male ordered the man-child, pointing to a chair opposite him.
         ‘Aw, it was an accident, Reagan, honest.’
         ‘Deonte, sit.’ Was the reply, the other’s green-eyed puppy dog look lost on him. With a huff the one named Deonte, the man-child, hopped off the table, fortunately having put the cup down first, and sat in the indicated seat.
         ‘Can I trust you to get some tissue to clean it up or should I get it myself? Don’t answer that.’ Reagan, the older, more responsible one of the two, said as he got to his feet. The office was empty, not that it was much of an office: several chairs, two desks, a telephone, a filing cabinet and a few other odds and ends the only furnishings. Beige walls were broken up occasionally by the odd potted plant, the lingering effects of Deonte’s brief feng-shui period the wind chimes still hanging in the window and playing softly to themselves. Paper was everywhere, ‘organised chaos’ Deonte called it. And true enough he could find anything you asked him to. Stapler? Ah, that was under the mound of un-filed papers on top of the cabinet. How about the phone? Now that was in the bin…

         The tinkling ringing of the telephone filled the small room, cutting through the stony silence between the two males and drowning out the chimes. Reagan thrust the tissues he had grabbed at Deonte and looked around in despair for a moment to find the source of the ringing. Following the other’s pointing finger he yanked the phone out of the waste paper basket and set it on the desk rather more forcibly than he should have. He had to catch the receiver as it fell off, saving it from tumbling to the floor. ‘Hello?’ he snapped, watching Deonte pick up a sketch of the man they were looking for, nearly laying it in the puddles of coffee before it was snatched out of his hands. ‘Clean it up.’ Reagan ordered with a frown, his already faintly present wrinkles becoming stronger with the expression. ‘No, no, not you, miss. Yes, I heard you the first… Yes… Yes, I’m writing it down as I speak.’
         ‘No you're not.’ Deonte pointed out as he looked up from wiping the desk, only to be immediately hushed by the other. He pouted again before tiring of his task and prying the picture from Reagan’s fingers to study it.

         ‘Yes, thank you for your time, miss. Thank you, yes. I will keep an eye out. Thank you.’ He hung up quickly before the caller could say any more.
         ‘You sound stressed. How about I make you a cup of coffee?’ Deonte offered.
Reagan scoffed and glared at his partner. ‘After that the last time you made it for me most certainly not.’
         ‘It wasn’t that bad. How was I to know you didn’t like it that sweet?’ the man-child protested, green eyes wide with innocence in his pale, delicate face.
         ‘6 spoonfuls of sugar is a little more than sweet. I have no idea how you can drink it like that.’
         Deonte shrugged and reached for his cup, sipping it idly as he looked at the paper he held. ‘That’s a girl, isn’t it?’ he said, looking at it from different angles, blowing chestnut hair out of his eyes as it fell across his gaze.
         ‘One: no, it’s a girl. Two: get a haircut. Three: how the hell did you get a job here?’ Two and three were regular statements, said almost by rote now. At least he knew the answer to his question. Deonte’s mother was an influential member of the police force and she’d pulled a few strings to get her 18-year-old son working there.

         ‘I don’t have time for a haircut, we’re on the hunt of a killer, remember?’ Deonte responded absently, putting the sketch down to scrape his locks back into a loose ponytail. Reagan rolled his eyes and said nothing in reply to that as he sat down heavily in a chair, rummaging in his drawer for an aspirin.

         ‘I was definitely evil in a past life.’ he muttered under his breath.


         Bad News

Late morning sunshine pooled through the frosted panes of the window, spider-like webs of ice spun across the glass to obscure the rays into dancing rainbows across the bed and its inhabitant. It was a moment of idyllic peace after the destruction yesterday. The dreamer stirred slowly with a muffled groan as sleep began to relinquish its victim to the world of consciousness.

         Nathaniel turned on his side to glance blearily at the clock on his bedside table, squinting in the sunlight as his blue eyes adjusted and he woke up properly. For a moment he stared at the clock in panic. Shit, 11 o’clock, he was late for school, why had the alarm not gone off? He jumped out of bed, flinging the bedcovers back in a wild disarray as he stumbled through the mess that occupied his room. Maybe his mother was right, maybe he should tidy it up.

         It was a typical teenager’s bedroom, constant mess hiding the carpet far beneath the must have items, of course he could not throw anything away, it was all very important. Clothes from the day before were just slung on the ground, sometimes making it to the wash if his mother came in. Blue walls were covered by pictures tacked up on notice boards in colourful collages of imagery, most of them featuring Nathaniel and another boy, or one of the two at least. It seemed he had an interest in photography or someone did, several of the photos artistically done. A large print in black and white was the centrepiece, a portrait shot of a boy about Nathaniel’s age, the same one that featured in the other photos. Only, here he was trying to look serious and failing, an amused grin playing at the corner of his full lips as his eyes sparkled straight at the camera, his hair flopping over his forehead as it always did. In the corner there was a brief note scribbled in black pen, partially hidden by another picture as if he did not want it to be seen. ‘To my darling Nathan, with love. Forever yours, Christopher.’

         Abruptly he relaxed, in the middle of the process of hopping on one foot as he attempted to pull on his trousers. It was the holidays. With a sigh of relief he flopped back down on the bed again, chuckling to himself with amusement. Perhaps it was a good job that his parents had decided to celebrate Christmas by taking a two week holiday to Spain, if they had been here that would have been embarrassing.

         It was the Christmas holidays, although many people’s Christmas spirit had been dampened by these murders. But it never really affects you until someone close is killed, does it? Rather than some stranger you may have passed once in the street or perhaps never even met. Sure, he was sympathetic to the families but it did not rule his life, he was going to enjoy himself murders or no murders. His parents had left him in charge of the house while they were away, and he did not actually mind, his best friend only lived ten minutes away and they had planned on spending much of the holidays together.

         Eventually, when his hunger got too great to be ignored, he stood up again and put on his trousers in a much calmer and more dignified way. Making his way downstairs he padded, barefoot and half-dressed, to the empty kitchen to put some water on to boil and pop some bread in the toaster. The rattling of the letterbox and the thud of post on the carpet distracted him and he went out to see whether anything interesting had arrived. ‘Bills, bills, free voucher for something, late Christmas card, more bills.’ he muttered as he leafed through them, the paper tucked under his arm. He dropped them carelessly on the hall table before heading back to the kitchen, catching his toast just in time.

         The newspaper lay forgotten on the side, its headline blaring out to an invisible and uncaring audience. ‘The Rose Claims Fifth Victim.’

         ‘Christopher Maine, a 17-year-old boy from this area, was the fifth victim of the Rose in the early hours of this morning. His tearful mother, Julie Maine, visited the scene of his death but was too moved to comment. His sister, 15-year-old Nicole, hopes that the killer will be caught soon and her brother’s death will be avenged.

         The victims to date are: Edward Leal, 17, Adam Reeves, 16, Luke Carr, 15, Michael White, 18, and now Christopher. How many more will fall victim to this heartless killer? The police are refusing to say anything on the murders but a witness tipped us off on having seen a mysterious masked man flee the scene. Could they have had a close brush with death? More on this as it develops…’

         The story then went on into more detail about Christopher’s life up till his murder, taking comments from his family and other witnesses.

         Toast in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other Nathaniel sat down at the table to read the news, setting down the mug to smooth his dishevelled black hair into something more presentable. ‘Another one?’ he murmured as he glanced at the headline, starting to skim the article as he ate the toast absently. In actual fact he only got as far as the boy’s name before his eyes froze and he nearly choked, coughing violently. Christopher Maine. Those two words echoed round his head, bringing with them a swirl of chaotic, kaleidoscope images.

         Two boys playing football in the park. Two boys messing around in class. Two boys comforting each other. Two boys helping each other. Two boys going round each others’ houses, staying awake all night and being yelled at to go to sleep. Two boys fighting and then making up. Two boys throwing snowballs at each other, tobogganing, building a snowman. Two boys going to the beach and building sandcastles before the tide swept them away. Two boys kicking fallen leaves .Two boys blowing out candles and making a wish. Two boys laughing. Two boys falling in love. Two boys being dumped. Two boys falling in love with each other. Two boys always being there for each other, through everything…

         Not anymore. Only one boy now.

         The coffee soaked into the paper, unnoticed, he did not realise he had knocked it over in his fit of coughing. He had lost all awareness of anything around him, time had warped and he had no sensation of it passing, he had no consciousness of anything except those two words. Christopher Maine.


         Pater Noster


‘Pater noster qui es in coelis,
sanctificetur nomen tuum;
adveniat regnum tuum,
fiat voluntas tua,
sicut in coelo et in terra.

Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie,
et dimitte nobis debita nostra,
sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.
et ne nos inducas in tentationem
sed libera nos a malo.’

         Fragmented light lit the large church, the elegant stained glass windows casting coloured rays over the empty pews like the blessings of long forgotten angels. Beams glinted off the aureate decorations, silently caressing the still statues that watched ever over. The service had ended a few minutes ago, the place of worship echoing with fading conversation and the Latin words of the ‘Our Father’ spoken in a soft, silken voice to the altar.

         ‘Amen.’

         Once there would have been a reply but everyone that could reply had left, headed out into the crisp sunshine that last night’s snow had brought with it, the cold air circulating around the church through the open door. The mute statues gave him no answer either, staring down at him with smiling lips, their faces friendly and inviting despite their ever watching presence. To think of everything they had seen over the years. He stood up slowly, crossing himself and bowing his head to the altar, the sunlight catching his golden hair. He then turned to the statue of Mary, studying her. ‘Are you cold, Mother Maria?’ he asked before walking over to the door, looking out at the streets. Little children ran about joyfully, rolling in the snowy blankets on the ground making snow angels that would look over them until the sun melted them. Closing the door on the cheerful scene he returned the church back to its eerie peace.

         Several candles had been snuffed out by the wind that had swirled in through the door and he lit a taper, lighting the wicks that had died, the church glowing softly, creating a warm ambience. They threw flickering shadows across his pale face, his golden hair framing it and falling forward as he bent down to light another candle. He was dressed all in black, save for his collar of white around his sylph-like neck; a priest. ‘Kyrie eleison,’ he whispered softly as he lit a final candle for the boy that had been killed last night, ‘Lord have mercy.’ With that he turned his back on the candles, walking out of the church, only the soft sound of his footfall stirring the silence that hung in it.


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