I know what you’re going to think when I begin this account. But you’re wrong, I assure you.

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I’m not a serial killer. I would never kill or even hurt anyone, unless I had one helluva good reason. And I’ve never abducted anybody in my life. It’s not something I’m capable of. You have to believe me, I’m a good person.

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All right, yes, there was a woman locked in the boot of my car. She was bleeding. She was screaming, begging to be set free. From how she was kicking and pounding at the door of her tiny prison, I knew she was frantic and terrified.

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That sounds terrible, I know. But you’re not seeing it in context. You’re only glimpsing one piece of what happened tonight. Please, don’t judge me until you know everything.

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I had… a helluva good reason for doing what I’d done. In my position, if you’re a good person too, you would have done the same thing.

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I’m rambling because my mind is muddled. All the terror, the horror, the adrenaline and the pain is gone, but I’m cold, exhausted and sick to my stomach. I need to get a grip on myself and make this account coherent: for your sake, so you’ll believe me, and for mine, because if I don’t share the story I might just go insane.

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Let’s go back a few hours further than I had originally intended. To when my life was normal and my greatest nightmare was the recent breakup with my long-term girlfriend…

 

*     *     *

 

You need to know a little about who I am to understand what I’ve done.

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I was brought up to possess a strong sense of right and wrong. A middle-class Christian family in the heart of England. A single child who wasn’t doted upon, rather given responsibilities as soon as I could shoulder them. We visited church regularly; I went to Sunday School; I took part in every fund-raising event in our little town from the age of ten. There were four elements of life taught to me: what was right, what was wrong, acting responsibly and having a direction in life.

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At nineteen, while I was away in college studying engineering, my life turned upside down. When I’d left home at the beginning of the academic year, everything had been normal. Three months later, I received a letter that hit me hard. My parents had sold their house and its contents, plus their small printing business, and were emigrating to Australia. I wasn’t given the option of going too – because it would ‘disrupt my studies’. I never heard from either of them again.

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My reaction was one of total stupidity. I dropped out of college – in my mind I believed I was spiting my parents, in reality I was ruining my future. And I got drunk. Not just staggering-back-home drunk, but mindlessly intoxicated. The police arrested me at a train station: apparently, I’d stood on a bridge and urinated on a train passing below. I’m glad I can’t remember being such an asshole. Getting locked up for forty-eight hours, screamed at by officers whilst suffering a hangover, and later having to explain myself to a magistrate, proved to be a wake-up call. I reverted back to those four life elements I’d had instilled into me, because I realized if I didn’t I would either end up homeless or be found dead with a needle in my arm.

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Six months of job-hunting got me a lousy position in a warehouse. I was on-time every day, worked hard, covered for any teammate who needed it, and earned the respect of my miserly employer. A great reference from that job got me a better one in the warehouse of a food processing plant. They in turn saw I was smart and loyal, so eventually transferred me into the sales office, where I prospered further.

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At twenty-five I had been promoted to Sales Officer, a dumb title. In essence, I travelled the UK (and sometimes ventured into Europe), keeping existing customers happy and touting for new business. My firm liked me because I drew in plenty of orders. The customers liked me because I was no-nonsense: I’d never make a promise I couldn’t keep, wouldn’t lie about how good the products were and didn’t overcharge. A customer the company gained through me was always a long-term customer.

I was happy, had a nice apartment, plenty of money and a stable job. Falling in love with Natalia seemed to be the perfect next stage in my life. And for three years everything was great. I was full of joy and energy. Natalia seemed to glow every time we met. Things progressed beautifully. We found a nice big apartment and moved in together. We got engaged.

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Then, she made an abrupt, life-changing decision. And I wasn’t included in it. Natalia decided the UK was no longer for her, and since I was content here, it meant we had to split up. I got the whole crazy story over a cup of coffee one night. All my questions went unanswered. My offers to change my life to suit her, went ignored. A barrier came down between us – like a portcullis in a medieval castle – and it would never be raised. I was stunned and heartbroken.

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And worse still, where had she decided to emigrate to? Of all the countries across our planet, which one appealed to her as a new home?

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Bloody Australia, that was where. Now, I’ve met a number of Aussies through business and socially, and they were all fine people. Friendly, down-to-earth, honest. But why did their country have to take both my parents and now my beloved Natalia away from me?

 

*     *     *

 

8:14 PM tonight.

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Faced with a lover who suddenly decided to destroy their life, most guys would be furious. My upbringing had made me more passive. I try to understand why other people act the way they do, to have empathy for them. I tend to feel that getting angry won’t help, it’ll just deepen wounds. Smashing furniture wouldn’t have changed Natalia’s mind, it was set on course to Australia and nothing I did would make any difference. So, would I want her last memories of me to be of an enraged ex or as someone who tried to understand and accept?

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My work colleagues had another description for my attitude. They said I was a sap.

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And when I told them I’d agreed to transport some of Natalia’s belongings into storage for her, for later shipping to Australia, they said I was a bloody fool.

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Natalia had already packed all her clothing before our fateful, final cup of coffee together. What she left behind was a collection of fine china figurines, all bubbled-wrapped and boxed in our spare bedroom. Her departure also meant I would have to leave the apartment we had moved into together and find something smaller. I began packing my own things the next morning – it was mostly clothing, a few books, DVD’s and assorted items. Our apartment had been furnished, which made the exodus a little easier. Well, easier physically, mentally it was agonizing.

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The breakup was ten days ago. By 8 PM today, I was finished cramming everything from the apartment into my car. The vehicle was a large sedan, built for comfort rather than storage. Sheer stubbornness made me want to take the whole lot in one journey – I didn’t want to return to the apartment once it had ceased to be my home. Most of the stuff was Natalia’s ornaments. After four attempts, I resorted to putting six of her boxes on the back seat and the final, largest one on the front passenger seat, with the seatbelt fastened so it didn’t slip over while I was driving. My belongings fitted into the boot, though I had to sit on the lid to close it.

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There were tears in my eyes when I took a last look back at the apartment block. I’d spent the best years of my life there alongside a girl who I’d believed to be my soul mate.

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I drove off before emotions could overwhelm me completely.