Robert Wilkins stared blankly at the woman before him. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was even. He made sure he gave her enough chloroform to keep her asleep long enough for him to prepare her.
The woman was in her early fifties. Her hair was dyed a light ash blond to try and disguise the grey, however her face belied her feeble attempts. The area beneath her eyes sagged even with her eyes closed, the wrinkles crisscrossing, making intricate patterns and giving the onlooker of an ordinance survey map of her life. Her lips were dry and cragged, with deep lines either side, beginning from the base of each nostril, leading down to her chin.
Robert looked at her in distaste. No wonder she wanted plastic surgery. No one would want to wake up with that staring at them in the morning. He checked to see if the restraints were securely fastened and made sure he had all the tools he needed for the job at hand. He felt quite proud of his makeshift operating theatre, which boasted his very own operating table (it was really a mobile stretcher which he purchased from an auction held at a retirement home for the elderly). There were gas and air bottles (which he rarely used for any of his operations, mainly because he didn't have the right equipment to set them up properly), and he even had a surgical gown and mask which he bought from a costume shop.
However, this was no hospital or indeed even a clinic in Harley Street. No, this was Robert Wilkins's garage in a leafy suburban area of London. The woman that lay before him was someone he had picked up at a bar that night, a sad lonely old woman who found the attentions of a reasonably good looking man too tempting to resist.
Robert was handsome in a quirky sort of way. He had olive skin which complimented his pale eyes. His thick black hair was loosely worn to just below his neckline, and his youthful looks belied his 40 years. He was wearing his surgical gown and gloves as he gathered his 'instruments' together. As he cleaned them with surgical spirits, he thought back to his meeting with 'Brenda,' the woman who lay before him. He hadn't meant to operate so soon after his last attempt, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. All evening she had moaned about how her love life had suffered since divorcing her husband, who incidentally left her for a younger model, and she bleated on about the virtues of plastic surgery and how it would change her life.
Because Robert always dressed immaculately, even when going to the shops, clean pressed shirt, dark trousers, polished shoes, he always gave the aura of someone affluent and important, which was an important factor in obtaining the confidence and trust of his victims. Therefore, Brenda assumed he was either a doctor or a lawyer, and he"not wanting to disappoint"went along with the charade that he was a plastic surgeon.
The woman was in her early fifties. Her hair was dyed a light ash blond to try and disguise the grey, however her face belied her feeble attempts. The area beneath her eyes sagged even with her eyes closed, the wrinkles crisscrossing, making intricate patterns and giving the onlooker of an ordinance survey map of her life. Her lips were dry and cragged, with deep lines either side, beginning from the base of each nostril, leading down to her chin.
Robert looked at her in distaste. No wonder she wanted plastic surgery. No one would want to wake up with that staring at them in the morning. He checked to see if the restraints were securely fastened and made sure he had all the tools he needed for the job at hand. He felt quite proud of his makeshift operating theatre, which boasted his very own operating table (it was really a mobile stretcher which he purchased from an auction held at a retirement home for the elderly). There were gas and air bottles (which he rarely used for any of his operations, mainly because he didn't have the right equipment to set them up properly), and he even had a surgical gown and mask which he bought from a costume shop.
However, this was no hospital or indeed even a clinic in Harley Street. No, this was Robert Wilkins's garage in a leafy suburban area of London. The woman that lay before him was someone he had picked up at a bar that night, a sad lonely old woman who found the attentions of a reasonably good looking man too tempting to resist.
Robert was handsome in a quirky sort of way. He had olive skin which complimented his pale eyes. His thick black hair was loosely worn to just below his neckline, and his youthful looks belied his 40 years. He was wearing his surgical gown and gloves as he gathered his 'instruments' together. As he cleaned them with surgical spirits, he thought back to his meeting with 'Brenda,' the woman who lay before him. He hadn't meant to operate so soon after his last attempt, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. All evening she had moaned about how her love life had suffered since divorcing her husband, who incidentally left her for a younger model, and she bleated on about the virtues of plastic surgery and how it would change her life.
Because Robert always dressed immaculately, even when going to the shops, clean pressed shirt, dark trousers, polished shoes, he always gave the aura of someone affluent and important, which was an important factor in obtaining the confidence and trust of his victims. Therefore, Brenda assumed he was either a doctor or a lawyer, and he"not wanting to disappoint"went along with the charade that he was a plastic surgeon.