Thrillers discussion

He got out at once and threw a quick glance in both directions as far as he could see. The spot was appropriate. Then he rushed to the back and unlocked the boot. There beneath the matting in the shallow rectangular hole, it lay ready for him to curl his callused fingers around it and grip it, and it would prove an obedient and savage slave as always. Then all that would be left was to ask the girl to come out and lend a hand. This is how it had been, every single time, without an exception, and everything that followed too, everything – he need not think, just perform, like a tightly wound-up tin-clown with its elaborate and complex machinery. There was nothing new to it, nothing at all, except the victim, but even there, how different was human flesh from human flesh? The faces were always different. Yes, the faces – especially the eyes. The eyes above all. It was the eyes that always called out to him, spoke to him even in the thickest of crowds. It was impossible to ignore them, impossible not to give them what they begged for, what they deserved. And even after he had quenched the light in them, so that they remained little more than fleshy balls that made his stomach turn, they did not stop begging.

- from my debut novel 'Anomaly'

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