Shock and Awe. (standard:mystery, 1572 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Mar 23 2004	Views/Reads: 4533/2681	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Two old adversaries meet in unusual circumstances.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"Who's there?" wheezed the patient, his voice weak. 

Armitage placed the grapes and magazine on the table, before pulling up
a chair. "You don't recognise me, Julian? I'm both disappointed and 
affronted." 

With every breath from the dying man, came a gurgling sound. His
bloodshot eyes narrowed as he studied the visitor. "Armitage! Who let 
you in here?" 

On closer inspection, it was apparent that Darcy was attached to a
catheter, and an assortment of tubes protruded from various orifices. 

"Is that the way to greet an old friend, Inspector?” asked Armitage...
“Hell, you don't look so good, Julian. All those ciggies and bacon 
butties have certainly taken their toll" 

"What do you want?" rasped Darcy. 

Armitage grinned. "Want? Why I have everything I've ever wanted now,
Julian, thanks to you. A large house in the country, three cars, a 
sizable bank account, and oh yes. I have my health.... You made me what 
I am today, Inspector. You made me a celebrity." 

Darcy attempted to sit up without success. "They ought to have brought
back hanging for you, Armitage, you murdering bastard." 

"Thirty-five years Julian. Thirty-five years locked up with perverts and
murderers, all because of you. You know nothing of the pain that I 
endured." 

Darcy removed his respirator. "They should have thrown away the key."
The old man caught his breath before continuing. "Six girls died to 
satisfy your perversion, Armitage. I'm only glad that I was the one 
that put an end to your reign of terror." 

Armitage snatched away his adversary's respirator, and watched as he
struggled for breath. "Like chalk and cheese, you and me, Julian. Look 
at you. You're pathetic... You're going to die, while I lap up my 
celebrity status... Did you know that my book, Blood Feast is a 
bestseller?" 

Darcy wheezed erratically, his wrinkled hand attempting to retrieve his
respirator. Armitage placed it back over the face of the former 
detective. 

"You said six girls, Darcy. There were seven." 

The ailing man laughed. "Did I really?" 

Armitage leant over the bed, his face inches from Darcy's. "You fitted
me up, you bastard. You planted Rosie's shoe in my flat didn't you?" 

"You were clever, Armitage, so bloody clever. It was obvious that we
would never be able to collar you, so I helped tip the scales of 
justice my way... Do you know that I was obsessed with you? Christ, I 
even began to admire you, Armitage. I used to dream of what it must 
have been like to taste the flesh of a young girl... After you were 
arrested, I was admitted into a psychiatric clinic for treatment, and 
yes, it cost me my marriage and my career. So you see, Royston, I was 
your seventh victim." 

Armitage selfishly lit up a cigar, causing the dying man to cough
aggressively. "There you go again, Julian. Surely you mean eighth 
victim?" 

"Do I?" smiled Darcy. "Weren't you ever curious, Armitage? Didn't you
ever lay awake in your cell at night, wondering who had murdered 
Rosie?" 

Armitage listened attentively. 

"You see, Royston; killing Rosie served a dual purpose. I satisfied my
curiosity by savouring her flesh, and the elusive cannibal killer was 
blamed. I can go to my maker a content man." 

It was Armitage's turn to show mirth. "You pathetic cretin. Why do you
suppose that after all these years, I still declare my innocence to 
you...? I'm not responsible for the murders of the girls, Darcy. True I 
did not have a creditable alibi for any of the nights in question, but 
your pig-headed obsession with catching the killer blinded you. As God 
is my witness, I'm innocent." 

"Bullshit!" coughed Darcy. "Your book! You described in detail how you
killed and ate the girls." 

"You filled me in on quite a few of the details when you interviewed me,
Inspector... I served thirty-five years for crimes that I did not 
commit, so a few white lies to compensate for this injustice seemed 
fair; besides, it made for a cracking read don't you think? Don't you 
see how uncanny this is?" 

Darcy removed the respirator from his face. "Lies, all lies!" 

"I'm afraid not, Julian. What reason would I have to lie? I've served my
sentence, and the authorities deemed me fit to be released once more 
into society... So it now turns out that you're the one who's committed 
a murder, and me... I'll be welcomed by St Peter at the gates to 
heaven... You Darcy, I'm afraid it's a date with Old Nick for you dear 
chap." 

Darcy gazed glassy-eyed at the ceiling, pondering over the words of his
tormentor. "So that's why you've come here. To gloat?" 

"And to kill you, Inspector... I craved for revenge, the hatred that had
been building up in me for thirty-five years... Oh, don't worry. I was 
unaware of your condition, so to kill you would probably be doing you a 
favour. No, you can wallow in the thought that whatever awaits you when 
you die; it will not be pleasant." 

Darcy, at last managed to sit upright. "If what you say is true,
Armitage, then who murdered those girls?" 

Armitage puffed on his cigar and shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?
You're the detective... Perhaps with my arrest, he saw the opportunity 
for a get out clause." 

Darcy coughed loudly, his face changing to a shade of crimson. A globule
of blood spewed onto the white bed sheets, and the distressed man 
dropped his respirator to the ground. He breathed rapidly, his eyes 
pleading with Armitage for help. 

Armitage was overcome with the sensation of gratification, as he stepped
back, refusing to retrieve the breathing aid. 

Darcy's eyes bulged wildly, his white hands now clutching his chest. In
his distressed state, the panic-stricken man reached out for his 
respirator and fell out of bed, bringing the drip feed apparatus 
crashing to the ground. 

Watching his accuser die slowly was now having the opposite effect on
Armitage, as he was now filled with shame. He observed Darcy, writhing 
in his own pool of urine, which had seeped from the upset catheter. 

Armitage squatted down to pick up the respirator, and heard the door
behind open. 

"W..W...What have you done?" stuttered the matron, retreating slowly,
her eyes fixed on the respirator in the hand of Armitage. She turned 
and slammed the door behind her. 

The room was silent, the gurgling tones having ceased. 

Armitage faced the dead man and felt no pleasure. He stared down at the
respirator and smiled. He giggled like an infant, realising the 
predicament he was in. Old Julian Darcy would have his revenge after 
all. 


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