Carol is a retired school teacher, born in 1941, the
seventh child in a family of ten.
The family was not rich in wealth, but very rich in shared
experiences. Her upbringing was a fertile background for story writing,
encouraged by her mother who loved the English Language.
Upon retirement she had the time to pursue her love of
writing; short stories, poetry for pleasure and all festive occasions and, best
of all, novels.
Click, Click, You’re Dead is her second novel, and as her first, Pestle & Mortar, brought her so much pleasure in fan-mail, guest speaking appearances and self satisfaction, she now hopes that her many fans will enjoy her latest publication.
He was nearly ready. He’d been labouring for weeks on the false wooden panel behind the double bed in the bedroom of his top of the range caravan. By adapting the bedroom dimensions and pushing the bed forward, it offered him a space of about one and a half metres. Matching the panelling to the existing wood camouflaged the existence of the false wall. He’d positioned two matching bedside cupboards, which pulled out easily to reveal a tiny crawl space, leading to the hidden room.
Tied and bound, a captive could be hidden in there with no fear of detection. He stepped back and admired his work. Backing into the kitchen dinette, he keenly gauged a visitor’s first impression. All appeared normal as no fore shortening was obvious, only the neat luxury of a lovely wood-panelled room with matching bed and furniture. The curtains complemented the deep blue and white doona, sporting a simple abstract design. Two deep blue pillows offset by two white ones completed the ambience of the room. It begged you to come and put your head down. Nice. Clean and restful.
Critically he viewed the rest of his caravan. This was still in its pristine condition, unaltered by the demon at work. The kitchen boasted a microwave, cooker oven and four top burners. There was a small sink and ample bench space. Occupying one corner was a small refrigerator abutting the dining table. Positioned over the table were glass racks, securing all glassware against breakage.
It was very compact but cosy and liveable. The foremost section of the caravan hosted a spotless ensuite with shower and toilet, a luxury he depended upon, as he realised with a possible victim hidden inside, he would require off road parking.
He was obsessed with the orderliness of his home on wheels. He’d purchased it brand new and if it was up to him, it would never age or become cluttered with unnecessary junk. In his life everything matched and lined up. He recorded mentally where every article of clothing was stored, how many pieces of cutlery in the drawers, how many ice cubes in the tray and possibly how many matches in his match box. Anything out of alignment gave him a blinding headache until it was repositioned correctly. He realised how an oyster must feel when it got a small irritant in its shell. A beautiful pearl was the outcome of that disaster, but he didn’t think he would be casting out pearls. Body artistry, perhaps.
Retreating back into the bedroom, he tested pulling out the left-hand side bedside cupboard, viewed the space and crawled inside. He had standing room and could easily reach the shelves he’d constructed. These were to be stocked with water bottles and nutritious snacks. He tugged on the chains and constraints attached to the wall. Arm cuffs and manacles if they were necessary. He was depending on drugs, ropes and duct tape to render his victims immobile.
Admiring his handiwork he exited via the small hole, crawling carefully, and repositioned the cupboard.
His face was expressionless as he climbed down the two front steps of the campervan. Then again, it always was. A handsome bland mask, waiting to mimic the visage of others. To capture the emotions of people was a skill he acquired as a child. He’d learned to show no expression at home so as to stem the wrath of his father, but to ape others at school so as to fit in. Life was just one big stage, where the best actors got the starring roles. What an epic he was engineering, only, as yet the other players hadn’t been chosen. Fate would decide who performed.
He’d confirm his booking with the Dongara Caravan Site, and then do a brisk work-out in the gym near his home in Cottesloe. Tomorrow, hopefully, he would complete his packing and begin his journey.
He hadn’t left anything to chance, rechecking all details continually. He felt elated and smug. No one knew of the black wind that was blowing their way or what devastation and horror it would wreak.
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