Dark | Crime | Thriller

A Fireworks Display is a Killer’s Best Friend

A psychopath uses a festival on a small island as cover for his next murder

The sun lit up the blue water, a pattern of sparkles leading from the mouth of the bay into the harbor. Derwent watched it over the rim of his coffee cup, apparently enjoying the view of the old city, its pinkish brick structures and domed church roofs as any tourist might.

The town was quiet this morning, people rising later because it was a Sunday, but also because of the festival last night. The harbor inlet had looked quite a different then, lights reflected in the dark mirror of water in pastel lilac, aqua and peach tones while the sky above was filled with the spectacle of fireworks.

Fantana had advertised its festival for weeks, bringing visitors from surrounding parts of the countryside and attracting tourists to choose this week for their holiday. When Derwent had seen the poster in a shop window, his heart had leaped at the opportunity. His lizard brain would not let him forget it after that. Every moment of his dull working day it had nagged at him to make a plan, ready himself, take action.

Which he did, no attempt to resist — why would he when it was such a thrill?

The festival didn’t start until late, not even a pop of light in the sky until after ten, but the crowds had flocked to Fantana, enjoying its restaurants and bars, street performers and pop up stalls thronged the streets. Traders hoped to utilize the influx of cheerful, careless people, just as Derwent did, but likely not quite the same way.

Earlier that day, he took a trip on a small pleasure cruiser, sailing round the bay with other tourists who took photos and were shown the sights. He’d worn a hat and sunglasses, kept his arm In a sling, and talked to nobody. The other passengers had enjoyed sangria, with calamari and mussels for lunch. Derwent drank water, eating silently, planning and waiting.

He’d watched intently as the passengers transferred from the cruiser back to the row boat which then ferried them to the jetty, how it was moored up, where they stored the oars. He stood, his eyes obscured by the black of his sunglasses, observing their routine, while holding his phone as if capturing pictures of the volcanic coastline.

It had been relatively easy, hours later, to mooch about amongst the thronging people in the town; to select his chosen victim, a young woman alone. Obviously he took care that she wasn’t a local, but her clothes signaled that loud and clear.

She was showing lots of skin and carried a crisp new tote bag emblazoned with Fantana over the image of a cross and a crescent moon — like the town’s flag.

Derwent followed her for a bit, ensuring she wasn’t meeting a friend. She captured pictures of the historical town buildings, took selfies with its statues. He kept well back, it wouldn’t do to be caught on her camera.

It was a simple matter of brushing past her in the crowd with a tiny syringe ready, nobody noticed the young woman’s startled look, or paid attention to one more sightseer seeming to be intoxicated. Derwent held her up and spoke to her sweetly. Any onlooker could conclude she was his date and he would take her home, rather than his prey, that he intended to drag down an alley.

The girl gave so little resistance when he stabbed her, that it almost killed his buzz, but Derwent still needed to dispose of her. That should be fun.

It took some effort, and furtive use of dark side streets, then industrial yards,to travel to the waterfront with the young woman’s lifeless body. He’d draped her in a dark brown poncho he’d brought, so any leaking blood wouldn’t show. But once they were at the boatyard, he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

Time was passing, it was nearly ten. Derwent knew people would already be gathering the other side of the spit of water, to spectate from sitting along the low, polished concrete wall that lined the water’s edge. From there, they would have a bird’s eye view of the firework display, which was, even now warming up with clumsy, sparkling explosions from the local guy who owned a cannon. He was known to fire it in the mornings, rousing the town awake.

Derwent was confident that all eyes would be on the sky once the display proper began. The booming sounds and the attractive displays of fireworks bursting open like sparkling chrysanthemums would provide cover for his nefarious activities or any noises he might make.

Suddenly, the sky was lit with a huge oval: millions of green spots of light, which quickly morphed into tangerine, then faded against the indigo sky.

The display of colorful bursts of light and explosions of bright colors had begun — Derwent could move onto the next phase of the operation.

He tipped the young woman’s body unceremoniously into the rowing boat that he’d borrowed from the cruiser earlier that evening. He flipped the brown poncho away from her torso and cut the straps of her backpack and went through her possessions. He pocketed her money but her credit card and phone he intended to dispose of far from here. None of her jewelry was worth keeping, but he’d save her watch as a trophy, so he pocketed that too.

Derwent had bought a generic dark blanket that afternoon and found a few bricks, so he wrapped her body with the bricks in the blanket and cocooned it using ropes. stepping carefully into the boat, he worked to loosen the knot around the mooring post and settled back on the seat to row. with his back to the prow of the boat he rhythmically dipped and pulled on the oars, a skill he’d learned as a boy, taking the boat out towards the sea.

Nobody’s was watching the water. the attention-Grabbing display, its flaring spectrum of colors and spilling droplets of light exploding dramatically above his head virtually guaranteed that. But if anyone was curious about the small craft rowing out to sea, they couldn’t see the oarsman’s face and he planned to be gone by tomorrow.

Derwent perversely enjoyed the slight niggle of worry that someone could be watching, or binoculars might be trained on him, but the slim girl’s body was concealed, like a pile of rags in the foot-well of the small craft.

The moon was on the wane — it had been full seven days ago, a sturgeon moon the internet had told him. by the time he’d propelled the boat from the narrow inlet into the sea proper, Derwent’s back and leg muscles were aching. His arms felt tired too, but he wrestled the girl from the floor of the boat, and dropped her off the side.

She made a splash which only her killer heard, above the cacophony from the festival of fireworks.

He must return the rowing boat to the cruiser, to cover his tracks. he didn’t need suspicion to be drawn by its theft. so Derwent rowed black the way he came, this time more inclined to watch the drama as bursts of gunpowder decorated the night sky with patterns of light and color.

After he’d returned the boat to its usual place, Derwent double checked its surfaces were clear of blood, then moored it with the knot the sailors had used. Having worn gloves after kidnapping the tourist, he knew his prints wouldn’t give him away.

He saw a fire engine rush past on a main road. Most likely the dry brush at this time of year had caught fire from sparks, most spectators would be agog, he concluded.

Now he stood and tucked some currency under his coffee cup, enough for the bill plus a tip, but nothing flashy. It was important not to stand out or be remembered, better to be the type who went under the radar. He’d be long gone by the time his victim failed to vacate her room, or meet up with friends, then questions would be asked, the police becoming involved. That would be his pay dirt, his moment of fame.

Derwent pondered what headline they’d think up, how many inches of column space the story would merit.

She was his sixth in two years, and Derwent was waiting to see if the island police would discern a pattern, if he’d earn the status of serial killer. As yet he’d been clever, kept one step ahead, but it was a strange tightrope and part of him craved the infamy.

The End

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