A Sneak Peek of "Motivation to Kill" - prior to publishing with Hay House publishers...🔪

Motivation to Kill

Prologue – Target 1

A young fisherman sat at the bar, drumming his fingers impatiently for his next drink. Humidity and the familiar smell of a salted spray wafted in. He sighed, brain itchy with frustration and arm pit stains the size of cereal bowls. Fishing the ash filled seas with the fires at the Bay had been rough this week, all he’d caught was an already half dead flat head and a baby ray. The tourists, the town’s main source of income had hurriedly left the area last week. Shortly, a well-dressed man entered the bar, sat down on the stool beside him, ordered a Grey Goose Martini and said a warm hello. The fisherman had just started his sixth drink when the well-dressed man asked him how his day had been. ‘Fucking rough’ he replied’. The man flinched. He found swearing to be grotesque. ‘I understand’, he replied. The young fisherman, now heavily drunk at all of nineteen years old started to vent. ‘The locals have it pretty tough right now, unlike like those rich bastards who come down when it suits them to their fancy coast houses. I haven’t seen one rich bloke help with the fires to date. Did you read about that rich prick who has a beach house someplace up on the point? anonymous of course. He could be publicly donating, supporting the locals, but instead he bought that wanky, pretentious piece of shit painting for a 100 million dollars. You know the guy who painted that blurry shit? Well, I hope his house burns down, painting too’. The well-dressed man’s face hardened. It was him who had bought the Monet. He stood up and made a gesture that he was leaving. The next day the young fisherman was dead.

HUGH BOWMAN

SUMMERTIME:

Our country is burning. The hills are laden with red hot blazes of fire and our cities are filled with smoke and ash. Skeletal remains of once regal gums flank our roads, looming ominously, creatures from a dark world. They remind me of myself. I suppose I should be more worried, but I have other things on my mind. For one thing, I can’t stop thinking about murder. Maybe I’ve watched too many serial-killer shows and slasher movies, but I have always thought about murdering someone. I wonder how it would feel, if I’d enjoy it or if I would even feel any remorse. Sometimes I think it would just depend on the person. Over the last ten years I have felt the urge to murder dozens of people. The surly man next door who abuses his wife, the ex-lover who broke my heart and moved on to greener pastures, the emaciated junky who robbed my house, the boss who treated me like a stray dog decaying, wilding and smelling like shit. I even considered murdering the rude woman at the local grocery store whose attitude is what I consider to be abhorrent. I haven’t killed anyone yet but there is an urge, like a tic in my brain that won’t switch off. It’s getting stronger.

I’m Hugh Bowman. I’m a pretty normal guy from the outside looking in. I have a family; two kids, Sid and Mike, and a wife Audrey. I have a normal job as an English teacher at the local high-school and a great bunch of mates that come over once a month for a BBQ and some beers in the shed. All in all, I guess people see me as a regular Joe. I know this should be enough. It’s enough for most men my age; late thirties and settling into suburban “bliss” with a good mortgage rate and a comfortable salary. Yet, as hard as I try, I can’t get rid of the tics in my brain. It’s like tiny insects crawling all over the inside of my scalp waiting to be fed and their appetite is getting stronger by the day. Booze, Valium, sleeping tablets, anti-depressants, you name it, nothing stops the crawling insects, the craving, the thought of taking someone’s life and getting away with it.

There’s only one active serial killer (that the police know about) in the region I live. The police are calling him the Sensory Killer. This is because when they find the victims their eyes, ears, nose and tongue have been cut out. I’m not sure if they’re dead or alive when the slicing and dicing begins but I’d sure like to know. From what I hear they believe; the killer may have some sort of facial disfigurement that compels him to murder and maim his victims in such a way. Now I know I’m no profiler, but I really think they have it wrong. I reckon this guy is an uber rich son of a bitch and the reason he cuts off their primary sensory organs is because he thinks he is better than anyone else. His targets are probably people who don’t appreciate the finer things in life. Art, classical music, the notes and tones of a fine glass of wine or brandy would be among a few. If I worked the case, which the Australian Federal Police (AFP) are handling, I’d tell them to look for a wealthy male in his forties, who attends high society charity events, donates a hefty sum and has a snazzy beach house on the South Coast; which is an hour or two from the capital city I call home, Canberra.