My Biggest Fan
By Musuko

I don’t like technology as a rule. It tends to stand between me and life’s feral pleasures. I like tools, sure. Oh yes, I like tools. And I can live with tools that have a certain technological bent to their function, where necessary. But I never wish to embrace it. At best, I consider it a necessary evil. And the worst, the most evil of them all, contain an electronic nature.
	Which made the device that sat before me that saturday evening altogether galling to my nature. A laptop computer, freshly purchased on a fraudulently-obtained credit card, sat on a table in a sparsely-furnished and equally fraudulently-obtained rented house somewhere in the sprawling outskirts of the city, whirring and winking at me with smug sophistication, while I pecked at its keys and scowled at it for making me feel like a clumsy prehistoric beast.
	But needs must. This necessary evil sat within my temporary home to perform a critical task. The television news had spoken of me once more. This in itself occurred commonly enough to concern me very little. But the nature of their reporting carried a different twist, a new angle. It seems I had attracted the attention of a certain wannabe vigilante and his attached online community of supporters. It seems they didn’t like me, and hoped to catch me. I could understand that, but I could not tolerate it.
	I wandered the confusing mess of the internet, all the while feeling the smirking condescension radiating from the screen as I slowly homed in on my target. My search occupied me until the sun had gone, and until a bare bulb and the computer’s screen stood vigil as the sole illuminators of the room. I found their online presence, their website and forum, and I had the distinct impression that I could have found it far quicker had I known how to use this technology properly. The statement on the front page blazed in garish colours:

Wolfy’s solemn mission!
Catching London’s new Ripper once and for all!
A statement and a promise.

For too long this hidden menace has stalked our streets and stolen our children. For too long we have been forced to read about the bodies being discovered. And for too long we have heard the same old mantra from our so-called saviours and guardians, the inept and complacent police; we are pursuing lines of enquiry, we have dedicated all our resources to catching the killer. Placating words that speak only a single truth: we will never catch him.
	And still he is loose, and still he kills, and still it is us and our children that suffer and scream and die! This cannot go on!
	This page lists his tragic victims, and my vow to do everything in my power to bring an end to his killings.
	
I swear, with every fibre of my being, to catch the New London Ripper and bring him to justice.
Signed:
Wolfy.
Protector of London’s Children.

I moved about his site and read it all. He had done well to document much of my activities. I imagine he would reel in shock to learn just how many he had missed. I wouldn’t think he should feel too bad, however. The police missed them too. Or rather, they had yet to realise that many names on their “missing” list belong in their “murdered” list. The inclusion of a couple of familiar faces did surprise me, however. I don’t believe that even the police had known of those victims. Well done Wolfy. Good sleuthing.
	I leaned my chair back and stared up at the ceiling. I let the memories of those faces flood my thinking for some time.
	The work called me back soon enough. That awful glowing screen and the problem that existed on it. This “Wolfy” didn’t pose a threat to me, not really. But he could potentially irritate me. He put me into the mainstream news again, if indirectly, and that would not do.
	Unfortunately, even I knew that locating someone who had remained anonymous on the internet, while relatively easy, required some skills, and I very much did not possess those skills. I did, however, know someone who might. And thusly, reluctantly, and via a throwaway mobile phone, I made the call.
	The phone rang only once. A female voice. “Clever Kitty Creations, Musuko Massiel’s office, how may I help?”
	“Linda,” I said. “Please tell Musuko that Terik wishes to speak with him.”
	A pause. A long, lingering pause.
	“Hold please.”
	I did as asked. I did not have to wait long. Soon came his voice, the voice I hated and loved, the one altogether too similar to my own, the one that fell from the mouth of that loathsome cat, the one I wished I didn’t keep having such disgustingly sexual dreams about. He at least had the decency to keep the arrogance out of his voice, supplanting it with a respectably fearful quaver.
	“Terik. Hello.”
	“Musuko. As much as it pains me to do so, I need to ask of your assistance.”
	Another long pause. I could hear his breathing. So far away, yet so close in my ear. A tease of intimacy, but devoid of all the real flavour of his emotion, his nervous fear. The moment represented my dislike of technology epitomised.
	His voice returned as a whisper. Hardly necessary, I thought, but I enjoyed his caution all the same.
	“What do you want from me?”
	“I will tell you in person. Meet me. You know where. I will trust you to obey our usual rules. Perhaps make your excuses to slip away for a few hours. I see no reason not to have a little fun with you once we finish talking.”
	I fancied I could hear a whimper. Perhaps my imagination fabricated it.
	“I’ll be right there,” he said, before ending the call.
	I sat in thought for a while. Then I ducked outside and scooped up two pawfuls of gravel from the driveway.

*     *     *

It hadn’t taken me long to get used to Musuko’s excessively obsessive punctuality. Even when not expected at a certain time, I could always expect his arrival at a specific division of the hour. He seemed steadfastly incapable of arriving at an untidy time such as 12:46. I wondered if he had the impressive organisational skills to ensure his arrival when he intended, or if he simply waited nearby until the correct time. Either way, it struck me that so long spent in his ordered, corporate empire must have caused this strange neurosis.
	At midnight exactly, a mere thirty-six minutes after my call, his quiet knocking came from the door, before it opened. In he came, silent as per our standing agreement. I didn’t look up from the computer, pretending to read. I heard him move behind me, then settle a few feet away at my side. Our arrangement came as an agreement of mutually-assured destruction; in one direction, he has knowledge as to my whereabouts and could inform the authorities. In the other direction, I could murder him.
But for each of us, these actions would ensure our own destruction. If I murdered him, I would have working against me the combined weight of his corporation, and their substantial means, and a police force no doubt spurred into action by the high profile of the victim. If he turned me in, nothing could stop me speaking of my connection to him, and the tacit support of my actions that his silence has represented, landing him in a depth of trouble out of which I doubted even he could swim.
	However, nothing stopped him murdering me, and then using his corporation to cover up evidence of our relationship. It seemed not to occur to him. Or perhaps it had, and he had dismissed the idea. If so, I suspected the eager arousal he seems to show at the sight of me, or at the sound of my voice, had something to do with it. Stockholm Syndrome at its finest. I find myself adoring him for it, which made me shiver with disgust. Did Stockholm Syndrome have a reverse, where the abuser falls in love with the abusee?
	I closed the laptop’s lid and picked up it and a roll of duct tape. Now, I turned to look at him. He waited, as agreed, naked, kneeling, paws on his knees and his face down. His clothes lay in a neat stack beside him, with his mobile phone, wallet and keys sat atop. I could see no sign of any other gadget or device. But then, who knew what stealth this cat and his technology could muster. Not that it mattered. Our mutual swords of Damocles still swung above us, uninterrupted.
I dropped the duct tape to the floor between his knees, then allowed the laptop to slide from my lap and bounce on his thighs, clattering heavily to the floor.
“Pick those up and follow me,” I said, standing and leaving, up the stairs. I heard him follow, but did not look.
Upstairs contained as little furniture as downstairs. A bare mattress in one room, and my boxes of supplies in another. Into this room I led him, kicking away some discarded packing as I entered. Two items awaited. A home exercise treadmill, and a pair of cheap, generic trainers, new and unused, sat waiting on the treadmill’s track.
“Tape the computer to that,” I said, pointing to the control screen on the treadmill.
He edged past me, shooting a glance up to my face. His hardon nearly bumped my thigh. I caught the scent of his body and closed my eyes. I didn’t like the effect that smell had. It shouldn’t happen.
He did as ordered, placing the computer with more delicacy than I had deigned to show it. His eyes wandered as he began to pick at the tape with his claws and noisily pull out a stretch of it. I saw him look down at the trainers, then attempt to peer inside them. He frowned, then glanced up at me. I could see his brow knit, and I could feel the old familiar tingle in the palms of my paws. A literal itch. The need to press my paws into a squirming, screaming body and feel the suffering beneath them.
I squared my shoulders and beat the desire down as best as I could.
	“Get on with it,” I said.
	He hurried on with the tape, pulling two long lengths of it above and below the keyboard, taping the computer in place. Before he could pause and question and get distracted, I snapped out the next order.
	“Drop the tape. Put the trainers on. Tightly.”
	His lower lip quivered. I could see the understanding in his eyes. He glanced down once, positioned himself, then locked his eyes on mine, daring to stare as he scrunched his toes together and slipped his foot into the open mouth of the trainer. I heard the shift of flesh against synthetic fabric, and then the rolling, crunching whisper of the gravel moving between his bare, sensitive paw pads and the firm sole of the trainer. I tried not to show any expression as his started to twist into discomfort.
	He shifted his weight, standing into the sharp, knobbly stones. He gasped, and his eyes broke from mine. He moved faster to slip the other trainer on. My toes curled in my shoes as I imagined what it must feel like. I’d ensured that I’d not used enough gravel to cover the soles solidly. I wanted them to move and shift. I wanted his weight to stand on clusters of stones, for them to dig in and stab, rather than provide a uniform, stable support. I wanted this to hurt him. Of course I wanted this to hurt him!
	He bent down. He whimpered. Already, the noises began. He started to lace them up.
	“Tighter than that.”
	He yanked hard at the ends of the laces, closing the trainers snug around his feet, cramming his soles down against those unforgiving stones. I felt the tingle again.
“Turn on the treadmill.”
He shot me a look that I initially interpreted as a glare. But my second consideration brought a differing conclusion. Respect, perhaps. I tended to forget that Musuko has his own sadistic tendencies, albeit ones of a distinctly different flavour to mine. Perhaps he had shown appreciation for the scenario I had cooked up in a moment’s idle thought. Who knows. I didn’t much care. The machine whirred to life, and the belt began to slip beneath him. He started to walk, a gentle stroll, one that had him gasping and wincing with each step.
I reached across and jabbed the keyboard on the computer. It woke up from its “sleep”. The vigilante's website appeared on the screen.
“I want you to find this person.”
He looked at me, which upset his co-ordination and made him veer on the track, bumping the rail until he looked to the front again.
“What makes you think I can do that?”
“Because you know how to use technology.”
“Yes but...” He stopped himself. He gripped the rails either side of him. He shuddered out a small moan. Oh it really pleased me to see the grimace he wore.
“Y-you’re not going to let me off this thing until I find him, are you?”
I smiled. Clever kitty. “No.”
He moved his paws to the keyboard. “May I use my telephone? I’ll need some help from the office.”
“With the usual rules, of course.”
I fetched it for him, holding the shiny little egg of glass and plastic between two fingers, tossing it to him, smiling at the sight of him fumbling and catching it only after it bounced off his chest. He set it down beside the computer.
I reached across and touched the control on the arm of the treadmill. The track sped up, forcing the cat into a brisk power walk. He mewled and directed an adorably miserable pout at me.
“You may come downstairs when you have his name and address.”
“Should I ask what you’ll do when you know where this guy is?”
“You should not.”
I left the room. I could trust him. Our strange arrangement ensured that. But as I descended the stairs, I couldn’t understand why I would let him see me trust him in this way.
I made myself some coffee, listening to the thrum of the treadmill and the heavy thuds of footfalls coming from above. As time passed, I could hear his voice above the other noises, a pained wail coming again and again, growing louder. I sat in my chair and closed my eyes, and waited.

*     *     *

I must have slept. I woke still in the chair, my posture lost to a slouch, my suit feeling sticky and uncomfortable with sweat. I sat up straight. Early dawn light lit the curtains. I noticed him instinctively long before I noticed him consciously. My adrenaline spiked. I threw myself around in the chair to face him.
	He didn’t move. Kneeling. Paws on knees. Head down. Eyes open. Naked. Still wearing the trainers. The laptop lay on the floor beside him, with his telephone on top. Only the hum of the refrigerator tainted the silence of the house.
	“How long have you knelt there?”
	He glanced at his phone. I could see the time there. 3:03.
	“About an hour,” he said, his voice quieter and altogether more humble than I had grown used to.
	“Watching me sleep?” I said, a sharp edge to my voice.
	He quickly shook his head. His eyes stayed on the floor. “Like this. Not looking at you. I got his name and address. The battery ran out on the laptop, but my office finished the rest. His name actually is Wolfy. He changed it by deed poll. Wolfy Adder. I have his address too. And more. I have asked the office to print it all out. They’ll send it over by courier. It’ll be here in a few hours.”
	Before I could speak, he lifted his head. His eyes had turned puffy and red. He had cried. A lot.
	“Can I sleep here? With you?”
	A steel-edged shock of icy cold unpleasant discomfort stabbed through me, running in a wash up from my feet and settling into my chest. The fear. The worst fear. I really had done everything altogether incorrectly with this cat. I should not have met him. I should not have touched him. I should not have tortured him, nor let myself explore new territory with him. I had let him brush up against the vulnerable areas of my psyche.
	Because my instant, instinctive response to that plaintive, heartbreaking little plea flew utterly in defiance in everything I knew of myself. I wanted to say yes.
	Fear segued to anger in its natural way. I felt the fire in my head. I felt the tingle in my paws. I wanted to beat him. I wanted to make him scream until the screams ended and his body lay limp and that last puff of air whispered from his mouth.
	“No. Get dressed and get out.”
	I brought my foot down on his telephone, pinning it.
	“Without this. Walk home.”
	He stared up at me, his lip trembling. I glared. I glared. Waiting, waiting for him to look away, because I could feel the strength of my anger crumbling away, and I did not want to give in, did not want to face the alternative emotion waiting to rise up in its place.
	He sniffled. Loudly. Some strength returned to his expression.
	“Damn you, Terik.”
	He got up, ever so slowly. He hobbled, as if trying to limp both feet at the same time, walking still on stoney soles. I tried to enjoy the sight, tried to imagine the agony of his raw and bruised feet, but I couldn’t obtain the tingle. He scooped up his clothes and left the room. I heard the door, knew the cat must have gone outside, naked. Choosing to dress where strangers might see him rather than remain longer in here.
	I settled back into my chair.
	“Wolfy Adder,” I said.
	I regarded the ceiling for a while. I imagined that the mile counter on the treadmill upstairs would attest to the cat’s unerring honestly. I would need to prepare for this one. I could clear a room. Make space. I would need a car. Perhaps a van.
	I lifted my foot and looked at the telephone. His telephone. I tapped it with a toe and saw the screen light up. He hadn’t locked it.
	I found her name easily enough. Linda DeSoto.
	She answered immediately. “Hello sir. Would you like a car?”
	“Hello Linda.” I kept my voice absent of all the frivolity my twin brother puts in his. Linda knew us both. I wanted her under no illusions.
	“Terik! Why are you calling from this number?” A pause. I let it linger. I knew what she must think. “Let me speak to Musuko, please.”
	“Musuko has left. He will arrive home on foot. Please check on him there in about an hour.”
	I would need some plastic sheeting. Although newspaper would do. No. Plastic sheeting. I wouldn’t want them to find a body this time. Although...now that thought came to me novel and fresh: killing him needn’t necessarily occur. I could do worse.
	“Linda, I’ve hurt him.”
	“I know full well what you do to him!”
	I considered my response, but concluded that I couldn’t craft one that sounded right. What did I want to say? In the end...
	“Goodbye Linda.”
	I hung up. Time to plan.

*     *     *

I admired the resourcefulness of Musuko’s corporation. The sheath of paper they delivered to me contained substantially more information than I had hoped to expect. I spent the best part of the day picking through it, an idea shaping in my mind. All other ideas fell away, leaving one simple, clean plan. One of the simple techniques, shamelessly inspired from another killer. If it works, why worry the credit?
	I obtained a white van. I could have borrowed from Musuko’s corporation. I could have stolen one. But why dance with that time and effort and risk when so many private sellers will happily take a roll of notes for their second-hand old beater and your false details on their registration document? My newly-purchased vehicle suited my needs. Big and sturdy, with paintwork clean enough to appear respectable, and with a dividing wall between the cargo area and the driver’s cab. Perfect.
	I dismantled the treadmill. It would serve me again. I laid the parts together in a semblance of shipping arrangement as best I could, then wrapped it all in packing plastic. I repurposed the shipping label from the box the laptop computer came in, taping it to the treadmill’s wrapping. At a distance, it looked the part. I retrieved the invoice for the computer from the bin, affixed it to a clipboard, and added a pen for show. Plain black shoes, black suit trousers, a white shirt, and one of the dozens of ID badges I keep stored away, completed the picture.
	The drive to his home didn’t take long. The easy afternoon traffic carried me along, out into the sprawl of thriving living that encircles the vibrant city core. My little vigilante lived out here, in a ground floor townhouse flat. I parked the van. The street didn’t hum with activity, but some foot traffic did meander here, and the occasional car edged its way between the parked congestion that lined the street. I could work here, though. Nobody would notice me as I stepped out with my clipboard, with my official-looking ID badge clipped to my shirt breast pocket, with my smart, confident step and my businesslike demeanor as I rang his doorbell, just an honest mouse making a delivery.
	He came to the door after thirteen seconds. His face matched the photographs provided to me. A black-furred wolf, early twenties or thereabouts, just shy of six foot tall by my estimation, with a white muzzle and eye rings, and white tips to his headfur. I found it rather fetching, in truth. His body didn’t strike me as having a particularly striking build, laying in the tame middle ground far from any extremes. Even so, I imagined he might get some appreciative attention from the gender of his choice. This thought only lasted until his demeanor became apparent. He did not open the door with the air of confidence and arrogance I would expect of a vigilante destined to bring an evil killer to justice. He clung to the door frame, somehow managing to seem shorter than me, despite physically standing half a foot taller. His voice carried no strength, being more a timid mewl than the bass growl I’d hope to hear from a wolf. His clothing consisted of the lazy male’s uniform: a one size too large logo’d t-shirt, loose jeans, and unsocked paws stuffed into grubby trainers. He didn’t overly impress me. Much the pity. I had hoped to bring down a warrior, not a puppy.
	“Wolfy Adder?” I said, ever so professionally, voice clipped and chirpy.
	“Yes?”
	I made a show of checking my clipboard. “I have a delivery for you. Would you mind stepping this way?”
	I painted my face with a smile to reassure away the puzzled frown on his.
	“A delivery? I’m not expecting anything.”
	I had turned my back on him, walking back to the van, consulting the clipboard once more. I unlocked and open the van door, turning back to him, still cheerful. A private amusement lurked behind the public smile. He stood facing his nemesis and had no notion of the fact.
	“My notes state the delivery comes from a Moira Carthens.”
	“My mother?”
	I opened the van doors and gestured to the packaged treadmill, squat and heavy, sat central on the van’s floor, short with its rails and console dismantled flat.
	“What is that?” He moved closer, trying to read the shipping label.
	“A treadmill. Excuse me.” I eased myself between him and the van, blocking his path, notionally to set the clipboard down. “My colleague called in sick today. Health and safety regulations won’t let me lift this down on my own. Would you mind helping me lift it down?”
	I didn’t let him hesitate. I smiled. Musuko’s research had provided such wonderful insights. Delusions of grandeur, the notes said. A desire for masculinity, and a weak ego eager for validation. So I added a final clincher.
	“You look strong, after all.”
	He smiled, and I knew I had him. I gestured, up into the van.
	“If you can get that end for me?”
	He climbed up inside. Altogether too easy.
	“I wonder why she got me a treadmill?” He stood close to the shipping label now. “Hey, this says it’s a laptop. Hey!”
	He bolted for the doors, but I had them closed and locked before he could bang against the metal. The rumble of the engine soon drowned out his fuss, and we soon joined the anonymous flow of rolling, busy traffic, weaving our way out away from his home. I had him.

*     *     *

The motorway carried us into the depths of the country, hours falling away while we travelled. I enjoyed a peaceful confidence as I cruised the van through traffic. I suspect the wolf did not. He pounded against the van walls for nearly an hour. From the sounds I heard, I suspect he had ripped the packaging off the treadmill and had used its parts as battering rams against the van doors. I didn’t slow, I didn’t stop. When traffic lights brought us to momentary pauses, I imagined neighbouring drivers might overhear his shouts for help. Perhaps some had. I paid no heed. He quieted to a long, unbroken silence eventually, and three hours after his entry into my world, we bounced down the rutted, rough track that lead to one of my isolated farmhouses.
	I stopped the van outside the garage door and jumped out. I listened. Looked. Just the breeze tickling the bald trees, and the distant hum of the motorway cutting across the moor in the distance. The windows in the house looked intact, and I could see no signs of squatting or vandalism. 
	The garage door’s rust-caked lock accepted my key with protest, before allowing me to pull the door up, accompanied by the squealing orchestra of corrosion and neglect. I paused again to survey the dark interior. Nothing moved. I saw some evidence of rat infestation. The house itself probably held further surprises. I hadn’t visited this place in quite a few months. The old stone walls had strength to survive, but the wood and fabric inside would decay without the care I denied it. I returned to the van and guided it into the dark, dusty cave of stone and concrete, killing the engine and pulling the screeching door back down.
	Silence. No sound from inside the van. I put my ear to the door. I hazarded to guess that I could hear his hushed breathing just on the other side. In his position, I would wait, ready to leap out when the door opens. I would run. But I imagined he would fight. I had considered this. A wolf, even a timid one, would bring his teeth and claws to bear when necessary. I knew well the luck that coloured my life, and I knew when to spot its limits. I, a mouse, could not rightfully hope to fight off a wolf in a fair fight.
	Which, of course, meant not allowing a fair fight at all.
	I left him to wait while I checked over the house. All awaited me as expected, the decrepit fifties furniture, unchanged and unmoved since the perishing of the house’s previous occupant, an old widow of advanced years, and my subsequent perfectly legal purchase of it. Dust lay in layers on the unused and untouched surfaces. I saw tracks and droppings in the kitchen. A window had come loose in the bathroom and a few dry, brown leaves lay on the tiles and in the bath. The smell of stale, musty air hit my nose the strongest in the master bedroom, where the previous owner’s old clothes still hung, feeding moths.
	I tended not to wonder what happened to a person after death, but at that moment I wanted to think that the old dear sat on a cloud somewhere, strumming a harp and shaking her head in abject disgust at what I tended to do in her old cellar.
	I checked the cellar. The tingle came to my paws. Old blood coloured the air. As large as the footprint of the house, and dark, with vaulted stone and a dirt floor, it served me nicely. My poor wiring and dim bulbs barely lit the space. Some tools of varying purpose occupied two metal cabinets, nothing that would raise eyebrows when purchased at any DIY supplier. Some still had their price tags attached. In one corner hummed my medical refrigerator, obtained absolutely illegally from some rather unwholesome contacts who remained under the impression that I ran a back-room abortion clinic overseas.
	In the centre of the space waited the table, the one item of furniture I had disturbed upstairs. It once stood in the kitchen. A stout beast of oak and age, serving its no doubt numerous masters under their knives and pots to prepare meals. Now it lurked down here, serving me. Heavy chains hung from the corners, my own additions, and rough rope hung in turn from the chains, shredded and cut at the moment, left that way from my last visit.
	Ah yes, the squirrel boy. Stolen from a park in Brentford. I spent a week with him. No, not a week. Ten days. Nine days of gentle treatment, then one mercifully short day of screaming fear, before unhappy acceptance and the lasting silence. I almost couldn’t bring myself to do it that time. I felt soft. Did I cry? I think I did. I think I almost felt as any person should do.
	I touched my fingertips to the table, and the tingle came rushing back. The stains and deep scores in the wood met my eyes. I tensed my paw and pressed my claws against the surface, far too weak and blunt to scratch, but I had tools for that. Five months had passed since then. The squirrel boy lay under the garden, and others had gone the same way since, in various quiet places across the country. Soul searching had been brief. It had concluded with a strengthening of resolve.
	I felt the boil, the tingle becoming an itch. I turned back towards the door. The wolf waited up there. Adrenaline started its flood. I snatched a mains-powered drill from the cabinet and started back up the stairs.
	The garage contained a couple of plug sockets. The first didn’t work. The second did. The sudden screaming whine of the drill as I spun it for a few moments must have reached the wolf’s ears. I heard a thump and a shift inside the van. I moved to the doors, holding the drill in one paw and unlocked the door with the other. I didn’t open it.
	I waited. He waited too. Silence from inside the van, but the hint of breathing, and another shuffling movement.
	“I have unlocked the door. You can come out now,” I said.
	More silence. Of course, at this moment, he would wonder whether I had ordered him out, or whether I expected him to disobey. And he would puzzle over the situation, weighing his options, racing through plans and ideas, all the while remembering that motorised screech and wondering what it made such a sound, and how much of a danger it posed.
	I let the silence drag on. At any moment, the doors could burst open in an explosion of angry, violent wolf, but they remained closed.
	Eventually, from the silence, a small voice emerged.
	“Who are you?”
	I considered leaving him without an answer. But I replied.
	“My parents gave me the name Terik. You appear to have given me a different name.”
	“The Ripper...”
	“Correct.”
	“What do you want?” The voice came in a growl, but it faltered in tone.
	“If I am wholly honest, Wolfy, I admit that I haven’t quite made up my mind on that. Feel free to open this door.”
	Silence again, but I imagined I could feel tension building. I braced one foot back behind the other and raised the drill like a weapon, my finger on the trigger. The itch swelled into a burn, and the moment clarified to a clear, beautiful richness.
Both doors slammed open together. From the dark interior he burst, eyes wide, mouth open, teeth bared, a wordless scream of rage rushed towards me, claws and teeth and feral power intent on ripping my small body apart. I squeezed the trigger, and the drill screamed to meet his roar. His body hit mine, a heavy impact that toppled me onto my back, bones crushing against the unyielding concrete floor. I felt his paws around my neck. The motor’s scream became a roar, and the rage disappeared from the wolf’s voice. In beautiful synchronicity, their vocalisations switched places, his turning into a scream as the drill’s turned into a roar, as the spinning bit sunk into the flesh of his upper arm and chewed to the bone.	
He sprang from me, his claws catching my cheek and leaving a stinging welt across my muzzle. His blood splashed from his arm and whirled in droplets from the drill’s blood-soaked bit, soaking into the clean cotton of my shirt. I pulled myself up into a sitting position, drill poised and still spinning, and watched him thump against the wall and crouch down, a paw gripped tightly over his wounded arm, failing to stem the flow of blood from beneath his fingers. All the anger had fled his expression. He stared at me, breaking his gaze from me only to cast fleeting, probing glances around the dim garage. Slowly, I stood, and released my finger from the trigger. The motor’s scream died away to silence, leaving us staring at one-another.
“Would you like to come with me?” I said.
	He shook his head. His lips pulled back on his teeth. I took a step closer to him, and he started to growl.
	“Look what you did to my arm, you fucker! I’ll rip your head off!”
	I looked down at the drill, my eyes off him. I smiled. I knew feral cats did this; ignore the danger to belittle it. I don’t need to watch you, said my demeanor. I don’t consider you a threat. I touched my fingertip to the blood on the drill bit and then, just to put on a show for my little vigilante, I touched it to my tongue. I hated the taste of blood, but he needn’t know that, and my smile and the return of my gaze to him spoke only of pleasure.
	“Will you?” I said.
	“Yes!”
	I took another step closer, drill poised.
	“I just want to show you something. We will talk, and then you can leave.”
	I gently squeezed the trigger, just for a moment. The drill’s motor rattled and died away.
	“Through that door, over there. Don’t worry, I’ll follow you down.” I gestured, towards the door behind him. The cellar lay that way. To get to the house, and the freedom its windows offered, he’d have to get through the door behind me.
	I could see him weigh up his options. He could leap at me, possibly successfully, possibly with similar results as his last attempt. Perhaps he could grab the wire of the drill and disarm me, leaving me a weak and inferior mouse, and he will have caught the Ripper and would stand proud as a national hero. Perhaps he could rush past me and escape, though he could not know if the door behind me would open for him, unlocked, or keep him trapped, and he couldn’t know whether salvation or a cupboard lay beyond. All number of scenarios must flood his mind, and I enjoyed imagining them, wondering what course he might take.
	Of course, the bleeding agony of the wound in his arm would colour his thinking. I knew from his records that he had never suffered anything more extreme than a bumped head and a toothache. Oh how the heroes turned into weaklings when pain reminded them of reality. Not that I could judge. I tended to avoid that which I dispensed. I gestured with the drill, eyebrow raised.
	He moved off quicker than I had anticipated, wrenching open the indicated door and disappearing into the dim light beyond, trailing blood behind him. It occurred to me that the room he now occupied, while devoid of exits, contained a large stock of devices easily perverted into weaponry. I myself held a blood-splattered drill turned to the same purpose. I felt how I imagined a predator would, and you couldn’t hunt without an element of risk. I would just obtain a gun or similar otherwise.
	I moved towards the door and gently eased it fully open with my toe. The stairway downward appeared empty. I could hear no movement from below. I assessed the drill’s wire, estimating that I could reach perhaps halfway across the room below, perhaps even to the table, and then slowly made my way down.
	Each step took an eternity. Formed of stone, they didn’t creak, but the gentle tap of my heels against each seemed to echo down the narrow space, and they no doubt sounded loud in the cellar beyond, making it clear to the wolf that I approached. I held the drill ready, the dripping of blood from the bit adding to those he had left. The slice of the cellar that I could see grew as I descended, and as expected I saw no sign of the wolf. He could lurk in few places, and I suspected I knew where he would await me: just beyond the entrance doorway, likely armed with a tool from my cabinets.
	The question that remained with me, however: which side, right or left?
	The moment arrived. My foot hovered over the last step. A flurry of activity awaited me, with all the possible outcomes laying before me, unknown and unknowable until I stepped down. I held the drill ready and picked: left, towards the corner.
	I stepped and turned, whirling the drill around, feeling like a gunslinger in a film. I squeezed the trigger, announcing myself with an electric screech, ready to lunge. Mid-movement, it registered, and my foot hit the ground already swivelling; empty!
	I spun on the spot, draping the wire around my waist, expecting pain and death to hit me before I could face it. My heart pounded, my system soaring with the giddy intoxication of fight or flight. I saw the wolf...standing, stationary, leaning against the wall more than six feet from me, clutching his arm and staring at me. No, not at me; at the drill. I eased off the trigger and let it die to silence again.
	“What is this place?” he said.
	“I bring some of my victims here.” I saw no point in talking around the subject, and I enjoyed the sudden bleaching of the flesh of his ears, and the distinctly slow way his head turned to face the room. I wondered if he had observed the room without thinking about its true purpose, now looking at it in an entirely different context.
	“You kill them here,” he said, voice heavy and flat.
	“Only if I fail to take the proper care to keep them alive.”
	“You...” Words failed him, and he fell to silence, punctuated only by a small, lost whimper.
	“Go over to the table and have a closer look at it.”
	He obeyed, rather too quickly. I rarely received such rapid obedience from children. Perhaps as an adult he lacked the depths of screaming panic that a child can fall into. Perhaps he could rationalise his situation more quickly, thinking as they often do, sooner or later, that he might gain some safety if he just did as I asked. I had promised that he could leave, after all. That no doubt placed a light at the end of his tunnel, there for him to hope for.
	He touched his fingertips to the table, in much the same way as I had. But he recoiled away.
	“Can you feel it?” I said.
	“Feel what?”
	I smiled. “Nothing. Nevermind.”
	I moved closer, holding the drill down at my side. How amiable I imagined myself to look, smiling my friendly, public smile, but holding a blood-splattered drill and wearing blood-sprayed clothes. I killed the smile, not wanting to appear crazy. Crazy would make the experience all too easy for him. Anyone can expect and rationalise this from a crazy person. To see it stemming from sanity must strike a very different note. Whether or not I could claim to have my sanity, however, remained debatable, even to myself.
	“Lie down.”
	“What?”
	“On the table. Lie down. On your back.”
	“You said you just wanted to show me something!”
	“I do. On the table.”
	He stared me down, but without any of the menace or strength that such an action needs to have any effect. “My arm...it hurts. I need a hospital.”
	“Lie down,” I said, just a little more sharply. He flinched, and slowly hauled himself up onto the surface. His good arm trembled, and his wounded arm hung limp, no doubt hurting too much to move. He eased his rear into the centre of the table, pulling his legs up, but then sat and stared, some defiance hinting in his expression.
	“Won’t let you kill me like one of those children! You’re a monster!”
	“Lie down.” I walked to the table. The wire grew taut, raising off the floor, but I had enough slack to reach the foot of the table. I rested the drill there, between his feet, but kept my paw gripping the handle. “Don’t make me threaten you with something. I really don’t like doing that. I have to feign violence and anger, and that really goes against what I want you to think.”
	“How could you say you’re not violent? Look what you did to me!”
	“I seem to recall that you fell on my drill. You could have stepped out of the van and had a pleasant walk down here. Lie down.”
	Unease in his expression. “And then what happens?”
	“Then I show you how it feels.”
	“How what feels?”
	I smiled. Time to let a little of the crazy show. I could barely hold back the burning. I would not normally choose him, but here he sat, accessible when I needed him. I fought the desire to squeeze the trigger and lift the drill.
	“Don’t all superheroes need to suffer before they can truly understand what their victims go through, and why they fight to stop it happening?”
	“Am not a superhero!” 
	“No? Protector of London’s children, you dubbed yourself.”
	“Someone had to do something! The police...”
	“The police have no hope of catching me, yes I know. I read your website. But you haven’t been trying to track me down out of altruism, have you? Your thoughts didn’t reach those children until you entered this room. Up until now, you only had the fantasy, where you step up as the hero and I serve as the villain.”
	His lip trembled. “You want to...”
	“Torture you, yes. Well, yes and no. Perhaps you had better just lie down and find out.”
	His eyes shifted from me, glancing to the stairs.
	“I didn’t close the door. You can easily find many ways to the outside if you get up there. Those cabinets contain plenty of tools, like this drill, that you can use as a weapon. But none of that does you any good whilst you still share a room with a mouse armed with a drill and the wont to use it.”
	“What?”
	I shifted mental gear. “If you want to escape, you have to get through me, and I don’t think you can.”
	“I can!” His lip raised, exposing teeth in such a pitiful attempt at a growl that I struggled to maintain my composure. I knew a sweet little lamb aged nine who scared me more than the wolf scared me at that moment, albeit because he had managed to grab a lit blowtorch away from me and waved it at me for a few heart-stopping moments before I managed to talk him down.
	“No. You can’t,” I said. “But feel free to try. I’ll wait over here.”
	I turned my back on him and walked across to the cabinets. I carried the drill with me. The wire only allowed me to reach the nearest cabinet, but I didn’t need more than that. I listened intently, but could hear no movement behind me. I fetched some pre-cut lengths of coarse blue rope and turned back to face him, still sat on the table, trying to glare at me.
	“I turned my back on you,” I said, walking over to him. “How about I close my eyes too? Would that help?” 
He even looked away from me, shamed perhaps? I tossed the ropes into his lap.
	“Tie your ankles. Then lie down and put your arms up towards the corners of the table.”
	“What if I don’t?”
	I sighed. “Then I’ll stab this drill into whatever parts of you I can reach and you risk bleeding to death even if you manage to kill me in the scuffle.”
	His eyes flicked to the drill. He nibbled his lower lip for a fraction of a second, but then a small, barely-audible whimper escaped him.
	“Better to die fighting you than just lay back and let you kill me!”
	“You can’t do it, because you either need to lose yourself in the flow of adrenal ferocity, or you need to have something fundamentally unusual up here.” I tapped the side of my head. “You display neither of those qualities right now, so your instincts tell you to take the path of least pain, even though that path may lead you away from survival. Fighting me means pain. It means danger. Fear won’t let you do it. Fear will let you burn to death in your bedroom rather than let you jump and break your ankles.”
	I leaned forward, and for a moment I eased my grip on the drill. He had another opportunity...
	“And you can do not a damn thing about it, except blame the betrayal of your biology. Tie your ankles!”
	...and he didn’t take it. I leant back, then stood away from the table, holding the drill at my hip.
	Like so many small children before him, he started to tie his ankles.

*     *     *

I owned a hefty tome of general medical knowledge, published in the mid fifties. It could hardly offer the extensive, up-to-date information that a serious doctor or surgeon would need, but I owned no other more recent source, and it would suit my rather limited needs.
	I dropped the book onto the table between the wolf’s restrained feet and opened it to the middle, cracking the creaking spine and pushing the pages flat. I mused over the pages for a while. I generally ignored him, as I had for the last half hour of general pottering. He hadn’t ignored me. After his initial queries and struggles had died away, he resigned himself to watching me as I moved about, occasionally tugging on the ropes wrapped and tied snugly around his wrists and ankles.
	I flipped through pages, getting rather too distracted by some of the more interesting diagrams.
	“I need to pee,” he said.
	“You’ll just have to wait,” I said, not looking up from the page. “Or just go there. I don’t mind.”
	He fretted quietly. I found the pages I wanted and skimmed through the details. The basic concept conveyed itself to me, although I imagined that the details could throw me. I would have to take the risk. Well, the wolf would have to.
	I fetched the right equipment from my cabinets. Rubber tubing, a pawful of scalpels of various quality, some iodine, some alcohol, twine and needles, bandages, and my old friend the circular saw, the largest I could find in the DIY retailer, and hopefully the most powerful. He tugged harder at the ropes, watching me.
	“What are you going to do?” His voice had climbed in pitch to a strangled squeak.
	“I haven’t yet decided, not completely. It very much depends on how my first attempt goes. I’ve not done this before.”
	“Done what?!”
	I traced a fingertip across his knee. Knees and wrists, or knees and elbows? I tried to imagine the resulting pose. Which would result in a flat back when stood quadrupedal? Perhaps of more importance, which would have a higher chance of success, given my lack of skill?
	I smiled. Oh yes, I knew how to resolve this.
	“Here, or here?” I asked, and nothing more, touching his arm at the wrist and at the elbow, feeling him flinch each time.
	“What?”
	“Wrist or elbow? A or B? One or two?”
	“What are you talking about?”
	His eyes kept darting to the heavy lump of plastic and sharp, cutting metal sat dormant and waiting on the table beside his hip. I suspected he knew exactly what I meant.
	“Would you like me to decide for you?”
	I smelt it before I saw it. The hot, acrid stench that hits the back of your nose and burns the eyes. For any prey species, smelling the urine of a predator does not tend to equate to pleasure. The wolf had released control of his bladder. His scruffy jeans now sported the darkness of damp, spreading out from his crotch. The table started to wet beneath him.
	“No! You can’t. You can’t. You’re not going to. This isn’t real!”
	“Wrist or elbow?”
	“Wrist! You fucker! Wrist!”
	“Elbow, did you say?”
	He heaved his body up in one hard wrench against the ropes. His scream hurt my ears, one powerful, desperate plea, one word absorbed and ignored by the stone walls: “Help!”
	Then, he collapsed back, limp, sobbing. “Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Please. Please don’t do it.”
	I rubbed at my forehead. My ears throbbed. I left him at the table, going to have a rummage through my supplies. I didn’t own a gag, or anything else quite as specialised as that. But then, I didn’t normally have to contend with such lung-capacity. I did, however, find the perfect solution, and, after a little manufacturing ingenuity, enjoyed holding it above his muzzle, where he could see.
	“These socks belonged to a little boy named Adam,” I said, lying completely, as I had no idea whose small feet I had pulled them from. “Have a smell. Go on.”
	I held the socks over his nose. Two socks, originally white cotton, but stained dingy urine yellow and dirty with dust and muck, balled together in the centre of a three foot length of half-inch diameter rope. My paws lingered well within biting range, a fact that didn’t occur to me until a few seconds after the fact, but it didn’t seem to occur to him either.
	He held his breath.
	“I intend to gag you with the socks once worn by one of my victims. Open your mouth, like a good little puppy.”
	He glared, tears in his eyes, mouth clamped shut. He tried to turn his head away, but I moved the gag along with him. He breathed, and I knew he could smell the stink from the socks.
	“Open your mouth.”
	I didn’t need to threaten, not now. I hardly needed to spell out the “or else”. His mouth opened.
	“You can’t do th-mmph!” I pushed the sock ball into the back of his muzzle and threaded the rope behind his head, tying a clumsy, but serviceable and tight knot over his cheek. The rope bit into the corners of his mouth.
	“Grrrmph!”
	The best anger comes through when words cannot come through, when expression can only communicate via feral noise. Anger soon gave way to its more dominant brother; fear. I started to tie the first length of rubber tubing around his arm, just above his elbow. He watched me, and I heard his breathing ramp up to hyperventilating pants. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating. A faint tinge in the air grew to a torrent of hormonal musk, and the rope of his restraints creaked as his strong, bound limbs tested their resolve to hold him fast. He fought and got nowhere. I left him to plug in the saw. I returned to his thrashing, fighting body, seeing blood already on his wrists where the ropes cut against his struggles.
	He screamed into the gag, wild wordless pleas tumbling over each-other, trying to appeal to my mercy in one last desperate attempt to obtain some control over such an awful situation. I laid my paw on the handle of the saw and leant over him, almost nose to nose, my pink eyes filling his world, unblinking and void of emotion.
	“Hold still,” I said. The tingling, burning itch RAGED. And the electric scream filled the air.

*     *     *

Ugh. I really didn’t like blood. Not in such quantities. I left him, still breathing, amongst the wet chaos, unconscious and absorbing much-needed supplemental blood from a pack from my refrigerator, the fourth such pack that he’d needed. Oh Musuko, could you have forseen this when your investigations delivered to me his blood type? I left him to rest while I did the same.

*     *     *

I had not expected to dream, but in my exhausted stupor my mind set to work organising my experience. I slept in the van’s driver’s seat, reclined right back, preferring it over the dust and mold in the house proper.
	The blade had cut almost without noticing the resistance of flesh. That had stuck with me. Blood sprayed, and the motor howled, and the flesh split and parted. Then metal touched bone, and I almost lost my grip on the saw, feeling it try to launch away. In my wandering imagination, it did just that. Spinning teeth bounced across his chest and ripped a ragged gash that fountained blood, more than the lucid fragments of my mind expected. The wolf moaned like an unearthly creature, or perhaps some wet, globulus deep sea monster, and opened his eyes to stare right at me. His gag had gone. In the dream, this didn’t confuse me. He opened and closed his mouth, silent puckering, chewing the air. His ribs cracked, then started to creak open. Air bubbled in the blood.
	I scrambled for my tools, trying to rescue the situation. I fumbled the needle and stabbed myself. The iodine bottle shattered in my paw. Bandages unravelled and bounced across the dirty floor, unusable. Everything went wrong. I felt control disappearing. I watched the wolf dying. Panic stirred in me, rising and growing, threatening to overwhelm me towards a scream.
	I woke to the quiet, coolness of the van’s interior, dark and ordinary, tinged only with the gentle reminder of my activities; the smell of blood dried into my clothes. I lay still for a while, thinking, recuperating, reflecting on reality and closing it off against my dream. I hadn’t failed. My grip had held true on the saw. I had followed the guidance written in the book, leaving excess skin and flesh to close over the stump. I had tied the tourniquet tight enough. The dead limb fell away on a clean cut. My stitching served admirably, forming a tight, if crude and uneven, seal. It had gone well. Very well. And the other three limbs served as additional practice. He had lived. I fed his body blood and antibiotics. I disinfected and bandaged. If I used such improvised skills to save a soldier on a battlefield, or a victim in a car wreck, I could imagine my actions would gain me considerable praise.
	He didn’t pass out until mid way through the very last cut, and suspect that only occurred because I allowed his blood pressure to drop. He stayed awake and aware for nearly every moment of of the ripping, screaming agony. I thought I would enjoy seeing him suffer, but I couldn’t feel it after a while. I hurt him at a level far too intense to satisfy me. The gentle symphony of torture that I enjoy transformed into a deafening wall of formless noise. The finesse disappeared from the situation the moment the blade first cut. His senses overloaded from that instant onwards, and he lost all sentient thought, unable to mentally assess and dread his situation. He had escaped reality and its horror as completely as he could have done so with unconsciousness. He became a thoughtless animal, and I found no joy in an animal suffering.
	However, some true melodies awaited me now. If he had survived the last few hours alone. I exited the van and unlocked the door to the cellar, making my way down.
	He lay unmoving on his side on the floor beside the table. I imagine the fall must have caused a lot of pain. If he had screamed, I hadn’t heard it. I saw his chest moving, breathing. He lived. His bandaged stumps had red patches, but not as large as I expected. I really had done well. His arms and legs ended now at knee and elbow, their articulation truncated to short, useless, waggling rods of flesh, useful for nothing more now than walking like a feral. Once they healed, of course. If they healed. So much could kill him now.
	“Wolfy,” I said, standing over him.
	His head turned, slowly. His eyes wandered vaguely, eventually settling and fixing on me. A noise passed the sodden, mangled mess of chewed socks and rope still pressed hard against the back of his mouth, and I struggled to classify it for certain as a whimper or just a laboured breath.
	I crouched down and touched my palm to his forehead. He didn’t flinch, but laid his head down on his upper arm and closed his eyes. He felt warm.
	“How do you feel, puppy?” I said, the concern in my voice surprising me, until I reasoned that I cared for the success of my efforts, and not for him.
	He gurgled. I pulled his head up to access the knot and pull the sopping gag from his mouth, tossing it away.
	“Hurts,” he whispered.
	“Of course it hurts.”
	“Hos...puh...tal.” I had to strain to hear him.
	“Afraid not.”
	“Let me...”
	I waited, but the last word did not seem forthcoming. “Let you go? No.”
	“You...said. Would.” His chin began shaking, and his closed eyes welled up.
	“I lied. Of course I lied, stupid puppy. I lied and you believed me. You allowed me to restrain you, and you allowed me to permanently rob you of any hope of a normal life. You might even die very soon. I have absolutely no confidence in my own surgical abilities. I have never before touched a blade to someone with the intention of keeping them alive, so we explore this new territory together.”
	“Wuh...why?”
	“I said I had something to show you. I told the truth in that respect. I just haven’t shown it to you yet.”
	“Wuh...”
	I interrupted, my patience ebbing. “I intend to keep you here, in this room, for as long as you last, and you will witness every single thing I do in this room with those I bring here, and you will live with knowing that you can not stop me.”
	I stopped talking. Perhaps a full minute passed. Maybe even two. He lay still, apart from the trembling. His eyes stayed clenched shut, tears brimming on his eyelids. I savoured the wait, because I knew the words I soon would say, and he didn’t. That felt wonderful. I exhaled, and allowed him to hear the pleasure in my quiet sigh.
	“And I intend to make you help.”

*     *     *

I had no way of judging whether his recovery progressed slowly or quickly. The answer probably awaited me somewhere in the medical book, but I had not the patience nor the motivation to find it. I cared for him as best as I could. Our daily routine became a constant rotation of bandage changes, disinfection, feeding, bathing. I felt like the owner of a newborn kitten, and in some ways I rather enjoyed it.
	The wolf had become mute, barely saying more than two words in the weeks that followed. I briefly considered investigating the possible psychological explanation, but decided against it. I liked the mystery, and his silent, trance-like docility made my life easier for the moment. Later, if he survived, I could explore ways of bringing his mind back to full health, so he could properly register his situation and suffer it face-on.
	I visited pet shops. I purchased a sturdy leather collar, no doubt designed for strong dogs, along with several backups. I bought feeding dishes. With a rather grim sense of satisfaction, I purchased a full pallet of wet dog food and obtained a decent bulk-buy discount.
	I stopped at several different DIY suppliers, getting a six foot length of chain cut and buying several the largest padlocks they had available.
	One corner of the cellar sported a sturdy iron ring, completely coated in rough rust, but strong enough to resist my attempts to break it with a sledgehammer or pull it from the wall. I had used it in the past to restrain some of my more feisty long-term guests. I had allowed the wolf to have full roam of the cellar, although in practice he had barely moved from the rugs I gave him for bedding. I had specified one corner for him to use as a latrine. That corner. The one near the hook. The one where I now led him, where I fitted his collar tight around his neck, padlocking it, where I chained his collar to the hook in the wall, where he would now spend every moment of his life, naked, restrained within a six foot radius, to crawl and sleep and eat and piss and crap on the dirt floor, amongst the stink and filth and flies and crawling spiders attracted to the rank mess he had made of the corner. I removed his bandages. The stitches needed to remain in place, but the wounds no-longer bled, and he could walk on his stumps if I coaxed him to, with considerable pain, or so I assumed from his sobbing when he did.
	I starved him for the first two days of his newly constricted life. On the third morning, he rose on all fours when the lights came on and pulled at the extent of his chain. He spoke for the first time in weeks.
	“Please...”
	I ignored him, walking over to the refrigerator. He walked an arc to stay close to me, scuffing his tender stumps on the floor and through smeared fecal muck. I opened the lid and pulled out a cold metal tray. I carried it towards him, and heard him yelp. An arm. His arm. His severed arm, laid on the tray, cold and stiff and laying in a pool of coagulated blood.
	I set the tray down at the extent of his reach. He retreated all the way back to the wall, staring at it. His shoulders hunched, and his body bent over convulsed. His mouth opened, croaking out a dry heave, having nothing inside his stomach to sick up.
	I left the cellar, leaving the lights on for once, wanting him to see everything as he did it, and knowing that he must know to the fullest that I intended him to do so, as I had always returned him to darkness every time until now when I left him alone. I didn’t need to watch. I had gained my pleasure, from the tiny, almost immeasurable shift in his expression, that sweet moment when he realised and knew, the first note of the lovely melody of misery that would come.
	I heard the rattle of the chain as I climbed the stairs, and I knew I would find the tray bearing only scraps and bones when I returned.
	Bliss!