Torturous Grief - Book by C.G. Buswell
C.G.BUSWELL
Writing from the heart of Scotland

Torturous Grief

Cameron stepped back into the shadows, satisfied that his route here had been unobserved. He had bided his time and performed recce after recce. There were no CCTV cameras here and none had detected his journey. More importantly, no cameras would monitor or record his trip to the cottage. He gave a wry smile despite the circumstances because he thought it ironic that a police station was just one street away. No vigilant homeowners had installed the ever-present all-seeing recording eyes, but then this was only a small town and not only were the police backwards, so too were the residents.


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'No,' he thought, that's not fair at all, his mind must stop such dark thoughts, especially after tonight. He would do what he needed to do and then try and move on with his life after his duty was done. The people here had been such a support and he felt part of the community. As if in acknowledgment of his dark thoughts the door to a nearby pub opened and laughter swept onto the street as the bar staff said a cheerful goodnight to their favourite patrons who always stayed late for just one more drink. 'God, I could do with a drink myself,' he thought.

'No!' he shouted inside his head. 'There is no God, no caring God would have allowed it to have happened, and no God will forgive me for what I am about to do.' As if to affirm his commitment and take his mind off his wandering thoughts he snapped on his black latex gloves, the kind favoured by tattooists so as not to frighten their living canvases with the sight of blood on normal coloured gloves. But this was not to be a normal night. Nor was he afraid of the sight of blood, in fact he relished it, much would be deservedly poured tonight. Blood did not revile him nor frighten him. He'd lost count of the times he had ran through blood, had it splash and seep up his boots, through his socks, soak up his trousers, penetrate through gloves, down through his wrists and squelch amongst his fingers and thumbs as he tried to save lives. Only tonight no lives would be spared.

A seagull silently swooped down through the alleyway on a carefully frequented route towards the kebab shop, conveniently placed between the pub and the nightclub. It knew that soon drunken revellers would be pouring out and dropping chips, lettuce and, if it was lucky, morsels of meat for it to devour. The bird knew it was worth the broken night's sleep and that his patience would pay off, as did Cameron as he waited silently and patiently for his target.

He had dressed in lightweight thermals to allow freedom of movement when the time came, and he was grateful for them as the temperature dropped on this harsh winter's night. But he had carefully chosen this time of year for he knew that most folk would be tucked up in bed or sat in front of the latest downloaded boxset munching on their snacks. There would be less people out and about and Cameron hoped for no witnesses. Not that being caught bothered him, he had so little to lose now, what he cherished had been so cruelly taken from him, and now, after months of training and careful planning he would even the balance sheet. He just needed a few hours, though days were preferable, if only he could.


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