The Games We Play

By Alistair B Hayward

**Extreme Content Warning: Reader Beware**

Two brutal killers. One bloody game.
ARE YOU READY TO PLAY?

Hello. I'm David. But that's not my only name. The media call me The London Strangler . . . and I've been terrorising this city for years. But the thing is: I'm getting bored. Murder's a lonely game and I need someone to play with. Now I think I've found the perfect partner. Someone I know well. Someone I trust. Someone who has a secret as dark as my own - a secret I know he'll kill to keep hidden, whether he wants to or not . . .

It's killer vs killer in this disturbingly gripping and bloody thriller, perfect for hardcore fans of Clive Barker, Stephen King, American Psycho and Luther - and definitely only for readers with strong stomachs!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alistair B Hayward
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224105175

Alistair B Hayward

Alistair B. Hayward is the author of gleefully graphic, gripping and disturbing serial killer horror books that will leave you unsettled and shaken. In real life, however, he's very nice indeed. When not exploring the beautiful outdoors and plotting the terrible things that will befall his characters, he's a big fan of death metal, 70s paperbacks, 80s slasher films and the stories of Stephen King, Bret Easton Ellis, Bryce Courtney and James Patterson. He lives in Auckland, New Zealand with his family. He'd love you to tell him how disturbed you were by his book.

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Copyright © 2024 Alistair Hayward

First edition 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Alistair Hayward using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Alanis Smithee for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

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Alistair b. Hayward

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Prologue

One man was shouting orders at the other.

Stop being such a fucking pussy! he yelled as the other man vomited.

A third man lay on the side of the dark road. Even in the dark, it was clear that both his legs were severely broken. The left shin bone had pierced through the skin, and an enormous puddle of blood was forming on the road. The man wore a headlamp, offering the only light. The man appeared dead; his face a mushed-up mess. Their car had stopped further down the road, its headlights pointing away from where the man lay.

Get the fuck up and help me! the first man shouted again. The second man had stopped vomiting, and was now whimpering.

I can’t! he yelled back at the first man, who walked to where he was kneeling.

The first man bent over and slapped the second man hard, causing him to fall. He then grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him up. Help me move him, he said calmly.

They both walked back to where the man was sprawled, unmoving.

Grab his legs, he ordered.

The second man did as he was told. He leaned over to grab the left leg, and felt the warm puddle of blood. Fuck! he said, then faced away from the leg and vomited again. The first man grabbed the corpse by his wrists and lifted him, careful not to get any blood on himself. The second man took hold of the man’s legs again, with more success this time. Both carried the body to the back of the car.

Open the trunk. Hurry, the first man said calmly again.

After fumbling for the keys, the second man opened the trunk. They placed the body inside and stood staring at it for a moment. Suddenly, the man in the trunk gasped for air and tried to sit up.

Finish it! he yelled at the second man. Use that, he said, pointing to the tyre iron. Now! Hurry!

The second man grabbed the tyre iron, took a small step back, and swung it hard at the man’s head, cracking it open with one blow before dropping to his knees for a fresh round of vomiting. They both looked at the runner’s lifeless eyes, knowing he was undoubtedly dead this time. The man placed the tyre iron next to the runner’s head and closed the boot, then dropped to his knees, retching again.

That was the first time the first man had ever seen someone kill another person. We have to go, he said calmly, reaching over and pulling the second man up by his shirt. We need to go now.

The second man walked around the right side of the car to get into the passenger seat.

No! You’re driving, the first man said.

But, I’m—

You are fucking driving, the first man said slowly.

Okay, he said, defeated.

They left the scene without any traffic passing them.

***

The second time he witnessed someone kill another person was years later, in a different city, in another country, under entirely different circumstances. The same two men had kidnapped a girl and taken her to a forest. They tied her to a tree in a dark, secluded area they had found at the end of an old pathway. This time, both men participated in the torture, but the first man stood back to watch the other man take the girl’s life.

Chapter 1

It wasn’t very cold considering the time of year, but a slight breeze had picked up, dropping the temperature just enough to give me shivers. My knees shook and my jaw trembled. I wasn’t sure if that was from the chill or the adrenalin, knowing what would happen.

It was early November 1997, and the sun had already set over London’s skyline. Rain had fallen the entire day, softening the dirt beneath my feet and dampening the rustle of the leaves as I walked. I moved away from the path and walked in the shadows under the trees until I reached the spot I’d visited numerous times in the last few weeks, certain it was perfect for what I intended. I stopped and took a deep breath, relieved that the time had come.

The day had seemed to drag on forever. It was one of those days where every minute took an eternity to flow into the next dull moment. Anticipation of this evening had preoccupied me the entire day, making it almost impossible to concentrate on work. It had been a while since my last hunt. I breathed out and watched my breath fade away into the night.

The evening had an eerie quietness about it, interrupted occasionally by the wind as it picked up and died down again.

Relax. Breathe slowly.

From where I stood, the view was spectacular. To my left, I could see the towering image of One Canada Square amongst the Canary Wharf buildings, its top glowing in the night, illuminating the clouds above it—a red light on the pyramid-shaped roof flashing on and off, warning any aircraft of the impending danger the buildings posed.

I enjoyed all the views from my hiding place on top of the hill in Mudchute Park. I’d found this spot some time ago while out jogging. Running was a perfect opportunity to scout remote parts of the urban jungle, looking for locations I could use in my favourite pastime: killing.

Today’s events now seemed a lifetime away—all that mattered was how this evening would play out. It was time to put everything out of my mind and focus entirely on what would take place. Attention to every single detail was paramount. After all, this attention to detail was what had kept me from being caught for so many years.

It seemed like I’d stepped into another world; one filled with cold darkness. It was almost hard to believe I’d been in my brightly lit, warm office only an hour ago. The walk from our offices to where I now knelt wasn’t very long, taking me alongside Canary Wharf, past the London Arena, to Asda. I’d stopped briefly in the trees next to the parking lot to watch all the people stream into the supermarket like ants entering and exiting their hill. I enjoyed watching people go about their daily lives completely oblivious to what and who was around them. This was something I loved doing when I lived in New York—especially in Central Park and Times Square—sitting quietly on a bench in either location, simply watching people. Imagining who they were, where they were going, what they were thinking. Oblivious to the game I was playing.

I had walked along the dark treeline towards the entrance to Mudchute Park, keeping in the shadows, watching carefully, making sure I wasn’t noticed. Since finding this spot some weeks ago, I’d returned almost every night, ensuring I was familiar with the surroundings.

No surprises.

The sun set incredibly early in London this time of year, so it was dark by the time I left the office. It was much easier to move around this concrete jungle unnoticed after sundown, and even easier under the deep darkness of the trees. The night felt even darker by the time I got to the park’s steel gates. I had looked around again, training my eyes on the few parked cars nearby. Satisfied no one had noticed me, I pushed the cold iron of the turnstile gate and entered a whole new world.

My playground, where I still had many people to kill.

I walked up the gravel path, which wound its way up to the top of the hill. My footsteps were the only sound breaking the silence of the darkness. When I reached the top, I ducked under another line of trees, through some bushes, and carefully took my place behind the large tree. Before leaving the office, I’d changed out of my suit into black pants, a black polo and a pair of black sneakers, the tread of which I’d worn down to make the sole as smooth as possible with no trace of the make or brand. I left the office looking the way I did every other evening: wearing my black gloves, black beanie, and black coat.

My breathing had slowed down, and I managed to get my heartrate back down to its regular, relaxed pace. The tremor in my knees had disappeared, and so had the breeze. I was relaxed and ready for what lay ahead. From my coat pocket, I removed a clear plastic poncho and the new black scarf. I unwrapped the poncho and carefully unfolded it, mindful not to rip any part of it. I lifted the open end over my head and slipped it over my clothes. I was ready.

From here, the world seemed so far away. I breathed out slowly and watched again as my breath turned to white mist and disappeared.

Focus.

My senses had adjusted to my surroundings, my ears tuned into every sound, my retinas opening wide, completely adapted to the darkness. I’d rehearsed this almost every night for the last two weeks: standing in this spot, quietly waiting for her to walk along this path, unaware that I was watching her. It was a horribly dark path for someone to take, especially alone and at this time of night. Unsurprisingly, like so many people who don’t think that death could be lying in wait for them, my lady took this path every night I’d hidden to watch. I would stand quietly, waiting for the gate’s squeal to end the silence, quickly followed by footsteps on the gravel path. A tall tree and a few bushes were all that hid me as she walked by, utterly oblivious to death watching her. I’d stare after her as she continued towards the bottom of the hill before slipping through a gap in the trees. The park ended a few feet beyond from there, where a line of houses began.

I’d followed her out of the park twice and watched as she retrieved the key from her bag and entered a house. On both occasions, I had seen another lady, a bit older, watching TV in the living room. I wondered who she was to my lady—her sister, her lover, or maybe just a flatmate? It wasn’t important. I wondered if my lady ever felt scared walking home alone in the dark. Did she ever think one of those nights might be her last?

Quietly I would walk back down the path towards the iron gates, ensuring I wasn’t seen. On only one occasion did someone else walk up that path after I’d watched my lady disappear through the trees. Hopefully, fate would be in my corner tonight, and no surprise guests would join our party.

I waited patiently for the next twenty minutes, listening to every crack and rustle, listening for the sound of her feet on the stones. The wind picked up again, making it harder to hear anything. Thunderstorms were expected later that evening, and I hoped the storm would hold off until my lady reached our little rendezvous point where we could play my game.

Please don’t rain yet.

Suddenly, the wind died down, as if on cue. It took me a moment to register the silence. Just as suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of someone pushing open the iron gates. It turned only once, assuring me that there was only one person.

My prize.

I hid behind the tree, stretching the scarf between my hands, ready to wrap it tight around her neck. I kept my breathing shallow to conceal the mist. As the seconds passed by, my breathing slowed even more. My heart beat loudly in my ears and adrenalin built up in my veins, causing the knee tremors to resume. I could hear the footsteps more clearly now as the silhouette in the dark moved closer and closer. Again, I tightened my grip on the woollen scarf. Again, I stretched it taut between my hands.

The footsteps were close now, and I could hear the rustle of a plastic shopping bag. I could make out her features. She was carrying two bags, one in each hand. The bags rubbed against her legs as she walked, the noise thunderous. She sounded to be muttering or singing to herself. At about eight feet away from me I could see she was short and skinny, even under her coat. She walked past me, oblivious.

She sang quietly to herself, the song turning to mist as it left her mouth. It would be the last good thing she would ever hear.

I stepped out of the trees right behind her. In one swift movement, I wrapped the scarf tightly under her chin, instantly restricting her breathing and making it nearly impossible to make a sound. She dropped the bags, raising her hands to the scarf, trying to free herself from my hold. She kicked the air. I was a lot taller, and I quickly pulled her back and up. She lost her footing and struggled to return to her feet. I moved back into the darkness beneath the trees, keeping her from regaining her stance. I used her unsupported body weight to strangle her. I tightened my grip, pulling harder. I watched as her chest heaved under her coat, trying unsuccessfully to inhale air.

I wished I could look into her eyes as she struggled to remain conscious. I moved one end of the scarf into my other hand and turned her around to face me, tightening the scarf even more.

She’s beautiful.

I guessed her age to be about thirty years old.

Cut short in the prime of her life.

I twisted my hand to tighten the scarf even more, but it was as tight as I could get it. All I had to do now was wait. It didn’t take long; maybe thirty seconds. I could picture the small blood vessels starting to burst in both eyeballs, the larger veins now erupting in her neck under the pressure of the scarf, causing major haemorrhaging. Her eyes closed slowly as the blood struggled to reach her brain, depriving her body of oxygen. Her legs buckled as all strength left them.

She was gone.

I lowered her to the ground, still clutching the scarf, noticing how swollen her beautiful face had become.

I dragged her further into the undergrowth of the trees and lay her down, returning to the path to get her shopping bags. I placed the bags beside her and leaned in closer to ensure she was dead. I have never walked away from a victim without making very sure they were dead.

I clasped both my hands around her head and twisted sharply, listening for the crack. It was louder than I expected, but it didn’t matter—no one else was around to hear it. I put my head right up to her face and listened for any trace of life.

Nothing.

In my early days, I would have removed my glove to feel for a pulse, but I knew better than that now—the law of transference: when two things come into contact, something always transfers from one to the other.

That law would apply tonight, and it was up to me to keep transference to a minimum—no fingerprints, no blood, and a minimal chance of footprints because of the leaves. I hadn’t brought anything with me except for the poncho and scarf, the poncho reducing the risk of transference even more. I kicked around the surrounding leaves to disturb whatever impression I may have made. I put the scarf into my pocket, glanced down at her one more time, smiled, turned around, and left.

Chapter 2

On my walk back to the office, I wondered if the lady watching TV in the lounge was worried that her friend, sister, or lover had not returned home yet.

The exhilaration I would typically feel after playing this game had subsided.

I’m bored.

After an hour of battling through traffic, I pulled into my driveway and parked the car in the garage. Climbing out, I noticed the drop in temperature. It was a lot colder out here in the suburbs. Stanmore was on the outskirts of London, connected by the tube.

I grabbed my briefcase from the passenger seat and reached into my coat pocket for the scarf. I examined the scarf under the garage light for any evidence of its purpose, but none were apparent, so I wrapped it around my neck then grabbed my gym bag with yesterday’s sweaty running gear from the back seat. I would burn the scarf later in our fireplace.

Where were you after work?

I went for a run.

Chapter 3

Boredom. I needed to change the game. I had thought about adding an additional player for some time now. Maybe not player—pawn was probably the right word. Usually, I would steer well clear of any conversation when a topic regarding killers came up, but the perfect opportunity presented itself.

Linda had gone out with Jane; ‘a girls’ night out’ they called it. Usually this gave me some time to myself, but lately, a girls’ night out meant Pete would come over, or I would go over to their place.

I need more time to myself.

Pete arrived about an hour after Linda went out to meet Jane. Their girls’ night out was a change from their regular cocktails with friends. They were attending a fundraiser for abused women at the National Women’s Hospital in the city. Jane and Linda had lost a very close friend to domestic violence years ago when we all lived in Boston.

By the time the pizza arrived, Pete had polished off three beers and I was slowly sipping on a glass of Grant’s whiskey, about to watch a movie.

Happy first anniversary in this cold, wet city, I said, lifting my drink. Pete almost knocked his beer over, trying to reach it.

All thanks to you, my friend, for getting me the job, he replied, smiling and clinking his beer against my glass. I knew he didn’t mean it.

Well, you haven’t embarrassed me yet! I laughed. Did I tell you Steve thanked me the other day for getting you in there?

He did? That guy’s such a dickhead—I don’t care if he’s my boss, he replied.

We both laughed.

The B-grade movie we watched was about some stupid idiot who murders someone and gets caught in the end. Simple and predictable. No one seemed to come up with genuinely brilliant movie ideas anymore. I missed the days of movies with original plots ending with a twist. Movies had become so similar: the same basic storyline with a few minor adjustments and character changes. But Pete laughed the whole way through the film, commenting on how stupid you’d be to not get away with something as simple as these murders. I enjoyed hearing his ridiculous views on killing and murder. Sometimes it sounded as if he’d forgotten about the guy we killed a few weeks after we met, but I reminded him when I needed to. I reminded him of how he killed the guy, and I helped him cover it up. I reminded him that I had the murder weapon and the car he drove, hidden in storage.

An insurance policy. An ace up my sleeve.

He would stare at me with deep resentment, maybe even hate, whenever I did this. He knew I owned him. I knew. He knew an anonymous phone call would lead the police to a storage unit under his name containing his car. In the trunk was a lot of blood and a tyre iron that would be linked to the missing man. The missing man’s grave would also be provided. He’d be fucked forever, and there would be no trace of my involvement. Now when he spoke about how easy it would be to get away with murder, he sounded naïve and confident at the same time. It frustrated me, but I usually got some amusement out of it, wondering what he would think if he knew what I actually was: a serial killer.

There’s something about the term serial KILLER that conjures up thoughts of the most profound evil rooted within humanity. It’s true: to kill for the love of it is an unimaginable evil that some people are born carrying. Everyone is born with some kind of purpose. Mine was to play the game better than anyone else. I had to win every time.

I killed because I wanted to, and had done for a very long time. My purpose in life was to kill. I’d killed in a few cities and was known in many places by different names. Currently, the police were looking for the London Strangler, who had killed twelve people in my two years in London, including the lady I took a week ago on the Isle of Dogs. In the beginning I was compared to Jack the Ripper, but that soon stopped when people realised I was far worse than Jack. I’d butchered, tortured and mutilated my victims with a morbidity that Jack could only have wished for.

Back in New York, the NYPD and FBI were still looking for an unnamed killer who killed eighteen people over the broader New York area.

The Heart-Break Killer.

In Boston, I went by another alias.

The Say Cheese Killer.

I had my first kill when I was eighteen and hadn’t stopped since. I’d never been questioned about any killings, and as far as I was aware, I’d never even been suspected.

Now I was here sipping on whiskey, and Pete had had a few beers. He always needed a few drinks when he spent time with me. He needed something to help him deal with me owning him.

What a moron. I could do that so easily, and no one would ever catch me! I baited Pete, knowing very well what his response would be.

That’s what everyone thinks, Dave, and they always get caught, he said, dismissing my comment as a foolish statement not worthy of discussion. He turned back to the television; the matter closed as far as he was concerned.

But I didn’t want to drop the subject. It’s just a movie, Pete. It’s not like that in real life.

Oh yes it is. Murder is murder, and eventually, you get caught.

I found this shutdown strange because he knew it was possible to get away with murder. All I could put it down to was him trying to avoid discussing what happened that night or even thinking about it. He was still watching the television and hadn’t bothered to face me, clearly not interested in pursuing the subject anymore.

Understandable, I suppose.

"Well, when you think about it, how can you compare this movie to real life? I said. These people make mistakes and leave evidence, meaning they can be caught. It’s all part of the plot. I was on a roll. If this were real life, that guy would have got away with it. Police are never that lucky or clever enough to find those silly little clues and catch the killer. People kill every day, my friend, and most of the murders go unsolved. Think about it: back home, people get killed in the city every day."

He finally turned to face me.

I continued. But you hardly ever hear about murderers being caught and going to jail, do you? The only time they catch someone is if it’s extremely obvious who did it or if the police get lucky. People who leave fingerprints and stupid evidence like that all over the place deserve to get caught anyway. The music and credits for the movie stopped, and my next three words lingered in the silence: We proved it!

Well, why don’t you prove it again…? he said, raising his head and looking me straight in the eyes. Cold. It felt like my new game had started. I didn’t expect it to be so easy. I felt a rush of adrenalin. This would be the riskiest thing I had ever done, but my plan was perfect. The rules of the game were perfect. I stared back into his eyes, waiting for him to look away. But he didn’t, and the moment seemed to gain intensity as the stare continued. It must have only lasted a few seconds, but it felt a lot longer.

Pete and I had known each other for a few years. He had been seeing Jane when I first met Linda in Boston. We’d spent a fair amount of time together, but I didn’t particularly like him. People, including Pete, would have guessed that we were friends. We weren’t. I knew Pete well enough to realise he had become the new player in my game. He was daring me to prove that I could kill someone—after all, he/we had done it before, is what he was insinuating. I supposed Pete might have thought this would be a good way to scare me off or make me back down. I was sure he didn’t really understand the consequences. How could he? This was his only way of proving that he was right, by default, because there was no way I could prove him wrong without committing the deed myself.

What do you mean, ‘prove it’? I said, finally breaking eye contact.

Well, if you think it’s so easy to kill someone and get away with it, I would like you to prove it, he said, glaring at me. His eyes filled with intent.

You mean you want me to go out and kill someone to see if I can get away with it?

That is exactly what I mean. If you think getting away with it is so easy, why not prove it to me?

I wondered if it were possible that Pete didn’t consider his killing a ‘murder’. After all, he hadn’t set out that night to kill someone—it had just happened. And now he had a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen before—cold and evil.

You can’t be serious. I think you’ve had too much to drink! I laughed, smiling back at him.

As I looked away, he leaned over and grabbed my arm firmly. I am dead sober, buddy, and I’m being dead serious. I dare you to kill someone. He enunciated each word carefully and clearly, ensuring I understood the seriousness. His sternness surprised me.

Just who would you like me to kill? I said sarcastically.

Anyone, he replied coldly.

We had reached a point in the game where I knew there probably wouldn’t be any opportunity to turn back, and the game would officially start. You’re being serious, aren’t you? I waited, pretending to give the idea some thought. Okay. Why not? I’ll do it, I said, a smirk creeping over my face. What proof would you need? I could just tell you I killed a bum in an alley, and you would never know if I was telling the truth or not. I took a sip of my beer. Or you could go with me.

It was funny to think that I could point out so many articles in the paper relating to the murders I was responsible for and tell Pete I did it. Of course, he wouldn’t believe me. It was the London Strangler, after all.

No, you do it by yourself. Then bring me proof.

What proof? I don’t take trophies.

And what kind of proof would you like?

The eyes, he said.

I love it.

Pete’s life would never be the same again, and that excited me more than he could imagine. This would be the first time I ever shared the knowledge of a killing I’d committed, and it was scary to think that another person would know what I’d done. But the risk in doing this with Pete would be very low. Acceptable risk. I needed this new excitement.

The secret to success in being a serial killer was simple. Never get caught, never tell anyone, and never leave witnesses.

The phone rang, and I got up to get it. It was Linda saying they were on their way home and that we should put the kettle on or pour some wine. The train was delayed at Wembley Station, and there were a lot of people coming back from the England versus Poland football game. I slowly walked to the kitchen and filled the jug, flicking on the switch.

Pete followed me into the kitchen and stood staring at me, not saying a word. We