1
Saturday 18 April 2245 hours
Pain seared through her shoulder, nowhere near the burn in her chest that desperate despair clutched at.
Poppy cracked open her eyes, only to slam them shut again before he looked over at her.
Silhouetted against the background of the hall light, he stood in the entrance to her darkened room.
Daddy?
Horror gripped her throat, but she forced her muscles to relax, held her breath like she did in the swimming pool when she practised her free diving. The more she slowed her heartbeat, the longer she could hold her breath. Under controlled circumstances, she could hold it for two minutes. The world record was over four and a half, but she’d only started on their holiday in Cuba at Christmas. It was cool joining the local free divers. Proud of her achievement, she’d practised three times weekly at the Shrewsbury School for Boys swimming pool which the Girls’ High School were allowed to use.
But these weren’t controlled circumstances, and the only pool she was in was that of her own blood.
The furious hammer of her heart pulsed through the base of her neck, making it swell until her face threatened to burst.
She squinted through veiled lashes.
Daddy!
She stopped the breath from rushing from her lungs, parted her lips and released it in a silent sigh while she watched, terror holding her still where she lay on the rumpled bedcovers.
It was her fault. She’d persuaded Aiden to sneak in through the back door and up the stairs. If she hadn’t, it would never have happened.
Daddy!
He must have known.
Rifle still in hand, he leaned over where Aiden’s naked body lay crumpled on the floor, grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back to study the boy’s beautiful features.
The ugly sneer on her daddy’s face froze her blood. Never one to physically abuse his children, that face was the one he used to control them all with the threat of underlying evil and barely suppressed fury.
She’d learnt long ago not to open her mouth in his presence, never to challenge with her eyes or they’d all suffer the consequences. His gaze would turn to ice while his jaw flexed as he clamped his teeth together. Then there would be nothing to eat that night.
The delicate flicker of her mother’s fingers, the quiver of her beautiful, soft lips, was a sure sign she’d read the situation before anyone else. Poppy had learnt well to read those signs as Daddy’s mood changed on a whim.
Control.
He held it in a tight fist.
They all appreciated he worked long, hard hours to keep them in the manner they’d all become accustomed to, as he frequently reminded them. They appreciated even more those long, hard hours keeping him away for as long as possible.
The wet thud of Aiden’s head as it slapped back onto the oak floorboards sent a sickened judder through her, but she held her nerve and remained still.
Pain radiated across her left breast, numbing her shoulder, while the slow pump of blood oozed from the bullet wound to trickle down her arm.
He’d shot her.
Daddy!
Unable to control the tremor, she tensed, her muscles seizing until they cramped.
Poppy closed her eyes as black clouds washed over her vision. She pulled in a long, slow breath, held it, pressing down on the panic threatening to surge upwards.
When she was ready, she opened them again to peer through the smallest crack in her vision and prayed he didn’t check to see if she was alive. If he grabbed her long hair in the same way, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop from screaming.
Could she play dead?
He placed the rifle on the floor, set his fists on his hips and breathed in through his nose as he stared down at Aiden’s body. His nostrils whitened with the flare as though the dead boy had caused him a mild irritation.
As he raised his head, Poppy slid her eyes closed again and held everything still.
Play dead, Poppy. Play dead.
With his back to her, he moved through the open doorway into the hall and paused. His shoulders rotated and he bent at the waist, picking up a shotgun he’d leaned up against the wall and sent Poppy’s heart into a frantic panic.
Oh god, there was more to come.
More killing.
Daddy!
2
Saturday 18 April 2305 hours
Gordon Lawrence stared down the barrel of his shotgun, took aim and fired, blowing out the brains of his fourteen-year-old son so blood, grey matter and tiny shards of bone pebble-dashed the garish green patterned wallpaper behind the boy. Joshua had never liked the wallpaper in his bedroom in any case. At least he’d never have to bitch about it again.
Gordon curled his lip as he cruised his gaze over the blood, tissue and bone splatter.
Distasteful.
It was the messiest by far of the five members of his family. Maybe he should have stuck to using the Remington 700 bolt-action hunting rifle he’d used on his wife.
No matter now. It was done.
He thought his son would have put up more of a fight, hence the choice of shotgun. It gave a better spread. Instead, Joshua hadn’t even heard him coming. Propped up in bed, his ears had been plugged with the overpriced Bluetooth EarPods. No doubt turned up to full volume to mask all other sounds in the house while he’d been absorbed by his online gaming.
It had been to Gordon’s advantage.
He gave a shrug as he placed the shotgun on the floor by his feet and slipped the Taurus LBR revolver from the back of his trouser waistband to check it for ammunition. No need to attach a silencer as he had with the first two weapons. The quiet pop, pop was muted enough so the others hadn’t been alerted. If they’d heard anything, they’d have assumed he was outside shooting rats. Nothing unusual there.
Each of his prized weapons had been selected with care and thought out to suit the demise of each member of his family.
His wife, Linda, had been the first to go. Disappointment etched across her fine features with a decided lack of surprise as she hugged the little chihuahua to her chest. Resigned. As though she’d expected it. She’d gone with the silent dignity and disapproval he’d come to expect from her.
Gordon hadn’t cared enough about the dog to pull the trigger on her as she dashed off through the house, tiny little yelps accompanying the scurried rush down the stairs and the faint clatter as she hurtled through the cat flap. Little fucker might just save herself if the big bastard of a buzzard didn’t get her.
Talisha and Geraldine, his eight-year old twins were next. Gordon had used his .204 Ruger, the one he reserved solely for fox shooting. Thankfully asleep, the entry wound barely grazed through their small heads and left little of note behind on their soft pillows. He hadn’t wanted to hurt them, merely put them out of a misery that was to come without him there to protect them. That was the point. He was protecting them from a life that would otherwise be hell. It was for the best. For their own good. They belonged to him. This way, no one else would possess them.
His eldest daughter, Poppy, was the hardest for him to kill. Awareness and terror, probably not for the right reason, filled her eyes as he stepped into her bedroom. Who knew she’d sneaked her boyfriend in after the party had ended? The pair of them rolling naked on the bed.
On any other occasion, Gordon would have broken the boy’s legs for him for daring to have sex with his precious daughter. Instead, too numbed to process any emotion, he dispatched them both with the same gun, a quick one-two.