A Room Full of Killers: A gripping crime thriller with twists you won’t see coming. Michael Wood

been behaving so oddly.

      There was a leak coming through the light fitting in the middle of the room. It didn’t make sense. The bathroom was above the kitchen, not the living room. My eyes adjusted. Shit! It wasn’t water pooling on the coffee table. It wasn’t water dripping and splashing all over the cream carpet. It was blood. I looked up at the light; the surrounding ceiling was a mass of blood. It was dripping down, splattering against the glass, bouncing off and soaking the carpet. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. I was having a nightmare caused by my fever, surely.

      Max barked. I looked down at him and he was speckled with blood. His paws were covered in it. Oh my God. This wasn’t happening. Surely, I was running a fever from all the vomiting and having a nightmare.

      I ran out of the living room and up the stairs, two at a time. ‘Mum, Dad, wake up,’ I called out. It was pitch-black and still early so my voice echoed around the house. I didn’t care if I woke up the whole street.

      I knocked on their door but didn’t wait for a reply. I grabbed the handle and pushed. I flicked the light switch on.

      ‘Mum … ’

      That was the moment everything stopped. My life ended right at that second as I looked into my parents’ bedroom and saw a scene of horror. All I could see was red. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, everything was covered in red. Huge sprays of blood covered every surface.

      I could feel my heart pounding hard in my chest as if it was about to erupt. No. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be real.

      I walked further into the room and looked at the bed, trying to make sense of what my eyes were seeing, but my brain hadn’t caught up yet. The bed was a tangled mess of limbs and everything was dripping. It was like a scene from a torture porn film. I didn’t know if anybody was on the bed or not. Then I saw it. Dad had given Mum a really expensive watch for Christmas, just a week or so earlier. She’d loved it and spent most of Christmas Day staring at her wrist. She was still wearing it but the face was smashed. Her arm was covered in blood, but it wasn’t attached to her body. I swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising in my throat. I saw Dad’s leg with the Manchester City football shield tattoo. Like Mum’s arm it was splattered with blood. And there, in the middle of the bed, I saw the worst horror of all: the blood-stained white face of Hello Kitty winking at me.

       ONE

       Norwich. Sunday, 2 October 2016

      According to the satnav it would take three hours and nineteen minutes to drive from Norwich to Sheffield. Add on traffic jams, roadworks, and fuel stops, and they would easily make the Steel City in four hours.

      The seven-seater people carrier was waiting outside the back entrance. It was parked as close as possible to the door. The windows in the Citroën were tinted; the locks from the back doors had been removed, and there was a security grill between the front and back seats.

      In the front passenger seat was Craig Jefferson, his extra-large uniform straining at the seams. He checked the glove box for provisions: boiled sweets, three cans of Red Bull, and a Sudoku puzzle book. Behind the wheel sat Patrick Norris. This was Patrick’s first run. He knew the route; he had been studying the A-Z all afternoon, but the worried expression on his face was for his charge, not his driving ability.

      Time ticked slowly by. They should have left by now.

      ‘What’s taking so long?’ Norris asked, fidgeting in his seat.

      ‘Red tape probably. Just when you think you’ve filled in all the forms you find another batch that needs signing.’

      ‘They do realize Norwich are playing at home today, and it’s a late kick-off. We’re going to get caught in the traffic.’

      ‘They don’t care about that. Once they close that door their job is done. It’s down to us then. They don’t care if it takes us three hours and nineteen minutes or nineteen hours and three minutes. Mint imperial?’ He held out the packet.

      ‘How many of these runs have you done?’

      Jefferson sighed as he thought. ‘Too many to count. I don’t go to Sheffield very often though. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went. You know it’s bad when you’re given a run to Sheffield.’

      ‘Do you think there’s some kind of hold up?’ Jefferson asked, craning his neck and looking out of the back window at the dormant building. ‘Maybe it’s been cancelled.’

      ‘Trust me, it won’t get cancelled. They’re as keen to get rid of him as we’ll be to drop him off. Are you any good at Sudoku? I’m not sure if that should be a three or a five.’

      The steel door creaked open and two burly men in similar uniforms to Norris and Jefferson came out. They towered over the young man between them.

      His face was gaunt and pale. His hair had been recently shaved which added to the emaciated refugee look. He was a slight build, short for his age, and had the appearance of an innocent man heading for the gallows.

      While one of the men secured him to the back seat, the other tapped on the passenger window. Jefferson lowered it.

      ‘What took you so long? It’s freezing out here.’

      ‘If you must know, we had a hard time saying goodbye. He’s such wonderful company.’ His reply was laced with sarcasm.

      ‘Well you can join us if you like?’

      ‘Tempting offer but I’m clipping my toenails tonight. Here you go.’ He handed over a clipboard with the required paperwork to be signed once they reached Sheffield. It was like delivering a washing machine.

      ‘Off we go then, Patrick. Head for the A17 and no stopping under any circumstances except for fuel for me and the car.’

      Shackled in the back of the car was fifteen-year-old Ryan Asher. Norwich born and bred he was about to leave the city for the first time, and he was never coming back.

      His left leg jiggled with nerves. He had been told what was happening to him, where he was going, and what his final destination in approximately three years’ time would be, but it was the unknown he was scared of. A new city and new people, where the only things they knew about him was what the newspapers had reported. Nobody knew the real Ryan Asher anymore. Nobody wanted to know.

      In the middle seat of the car, he sat back and looked out of the window at the darkening Norwich landscape. He was born here. He played with his friends here. He went to school here. He murdered here.

      A three-hour journey with nobody to talk to, no radio, nothing to read, and a wall of darkness outside the window to torment his troubled mind. He couldn’t get comfortable and kept adjusting himself. He bit his bottom lip and could taste blood. He wondered how fast they were travelling? Was Sheffield far from Norwich? He hated not knowing. They could be taking him anywhere. Maybe he wouldn’t make it to Sheffield. The driver kept gazing at him through the rear-view mirror. His look was sharp and scared. What did he think Ryan was going to do? He was a fifteen-year-old boy who looked twelve, not Hannibal Lecter.

      The driver and the front seat passenger didn’t speak much. The odd banal comment on the amount of traffic and how dark it had become, but that was it. They would probably save their conversation for the journey back when it would be just the two of them. Ryan could guess what the main topic of conversation would be – him.

      Ryan let out a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding and closed his eyes. The first image that came to mind was the look on his mother’s face the first time he saw her after their world had been torn apart. She didn’t look like his mum anymore. Gone were the bright blue eyes, the cheery smile, and the dimples – replaced with a look of horror, fear, and loathing. She had brought a monster into the world. She had given birth to evil and stood back while her son destroyed lives.

      ‘I’m