Stewart - The Facebook killer. Part one

### Product Description

Dermott Madison has lost everything. His wife, his daughter, his cherished home and most of his face. One man is responsible; Abdul Hamid. When his Old Bailey trial collapses, due to a technicality, Madison takes matters into his own hands.
His manner of revenge comes to him in a dream; but how can you track down someone's nearest and dearest? You log in, look closely and let the devastation begin.
Madison takes you on his journey from being a middle-class banker to a serial killer, through his own eyes. You will feel his emotions, the hatred and rage, pain and guilt, culminating in his descent into madness itself.

The Facebook Killer: Part One

M.L. Stewart

Copyright M.L. Stewart 201

Published at Smashwords

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Chapter 1

Allow me to introduce myself. My name isDermott Madison. I am forty-nine years old and used to live inLondon. Used to, before all of this happened that is. I also usedto be quite a successful banker in the City. Up every morning atsix thirty to join the faceless masses at Ealing Broadway tubestation. I used to read the paper all the way to Canary Wharf. Eyesdown, minding my own business. I was a nobody and that was the wayI liked it. One of the faceless people. Do my job, come home atseven. Eyes down. Nose clean. Spend the night at home with my wifeand daughter. I never went to the pub, a restaurant now and again,granted, on special occasions but I was never a drinker. Not backthen. Not before. I took pride in my job and my appearance. Achildhood spent in public schools and a four year stint in theRoyal Marines, taught me this. You could say I was a model citizenbefore it all went wrong.

I had the perfect wife, Anna, wealthy in herown right before we met; she worked as a freelance fashionjournalist. A couple of years younger than myself, wed beenmarried for almost twenty years. It would have been our twentiethanniversary two weeks after it happened. Laura, our daughter, hadjust turned eighteen. We had booked a cruise for her to the EasternCaribbean. She was supposed to fly to the Dominican Republic thenext day to meet the ship, Laura and two of her closestfriends.

But that was all before. Before this. Beforehim.

To this day I still dontknow how he found out about her birthday party. All I know is whatthe police told me. After all, I wasnt there was I? That damnedtube strike made me decide to work late. Id promised her I wouldbe home by ten thirty at the very latest. Then that blasted emailfrom New York arrived just as I was about to leave the office. Ididnt know who to blame. The Tube, New York or him . Maybe all them wereguilty?

When things went wrong atwork, I always looked on the bright side the eternal optimist, awhats the worst that could happen? kind of a guy. Have you everwondered that? What is the worst thing that could ever happen, to you I mean. Thinkabout it for a moment.

Try this one on. You get home from work atalmost midnight, racked with guilt because youve missed yourdaughters eighteenth birthday party, you broke your promise to herand whats worse you had a blazing row about it all with your wifebefore you left the house in the morning which ended something like yeah, you can go and fuck yourself too, Bitch! Believe me, herside of the conversation was much harsher.

To take my mind off the exorbitant andrapidly rising cab fare on the journey home, I planned my apologiesand excuses. I had a bunch of yellow roses for Anna and Id boughtan extra present for Laura during my lunch break, a beautifuldiamond bracelet from Liberty.

I could smell the smoke from almost a mileaway but thought nothing of it. It was only when we got to the endof my street and I saw the neighbours huddling in the cold, bluelights strobing through a smoky haze that I realised there might bea problem.

I was still carrying Annas flowers andLauras bracelet when I ran into the house. My last memory is ofthose beautiful yellow roses wilting in the intense heat.

Not only did I lose their presents thatnight, I lost them and half my face as well. Apparently a firemanpulled me clear just before the roof caved in.

Three weeks later they must have started tolower the dosage of sedatives. I began to realise that I was in ahospital. Somewhere. For some reason. Maybe I had been in a caraccident? I had no idea.

The bravest man I have ever met in my lifewas that doctor. The one who had to explain everything to me. Isometimes wonder how long it had taken him to build up the courage.How many times he had been over and over it in his head.

Mr. Madison, Im afraid I have some very badnews for you, he had said, there has been a tragic fire at yourhome. Im sorry to have to tell you that neither your wife nor yourdaughter made it out alive.

He didnt mention the fact that my facelooked like it had been put through an industrial potato peeler.One step at a time, I suppose.

The next few days are still a blur. Bedriddenpolice interviews. More drugs. Trauma counsellors, a few friendsfull of condolences. More drugs. Police updates, a visit from thefamily lawyer. Anyway, you get the picture and so this went on fortwo more weeks. The mind numbing sedatives keeping all my emotionsat bay. One of the strangest feelings Ive ever experienced. Ourlawyer talked about life and property insurance payouts totallingmillions but nothing was registering. A small pea-sized compartmentof my brain was just waiting to get out of this bloody hospital andget home to my family. They obviously found a pill that killed thatpea.

Five weeks later I was out. I had promised mybest friend and work colleague, Graham, that I would call him assoon as they released me from the hospital. I was supposed to staywith him and his wife for an indeterminable period of time. I nevercalled Graham. I did something that I hadnt done for ten weeks. Iwalked, and walked, and walked. Eventually finding myself in HydePark for some reason. It was around ten at night. My mind was stillclosed to any emotion, I had no feelings. I was numb. I now hadclose to three million in the bank, my loved ones were dead and myhome was gone. Yet I felt nothing, neither the need to cry nor theurge to talk to anyone. Absolutely zero.

I took a cab that night. Ihad to see for myself if it was all true. That it hadnt just beensome awful nightmare. Fifty minutes later I found myself standingin front of what used to be my beech hedge. Sorry, our beech hedge. Nowreplaced with seven feet high sections of wire fencing sportingcrooked Health & Safety signs, the ashes of my life lyingbeyond.

Now, you are probably thinking to yourselfthat this is when the reality hit me, but youd be wrong. I climbedback into that cab, I went to the Hyde Park hotel and booked amodest suite. Bare in mind that the sum total of my worldlypossessions were the clothes on my back, loaned to me byGraham.

I had momentarily forgotten about mydisfigurement but as I entered that hotel lobby, the Great Britishpublic, being what they are, took it upon themselves to remind me.At this point I hadnt been near a mirror since the fire. I hadbeen told to continually wear the half-faced clear plastic mask tohelp assist the healing and prevent harsh scarring, therebyallowing corrective surgery to be an easier task.