There’s a fire spreading out of control on Saddleworth Moor. Perhaps it’s the vengeful spirit of Ian Brady wreaking havoc on the place he once said he felt most at home. The place he killed and buried his child victims along with his lover, our Myra, back in the 60’s when life was good and times were simpler. Perhaps his shadowy entity wishes destruction on the place that owned his soul so as no one else will ever be able to claim it as their own. It’s difficult to say. I’ve got these blisters on my feet. It’s from all the walking I’ve been doing late at night. Does a place own my soul the same as the Moors did to Brady? More than likely it’s the quarry, but I don’t kill kids up there, just drink beer happy to be away from other people. Taking a needle and placing it in the flame of my lighter, I turn it around in my fingers then pop the blisters so they ooze clear liquid that dribbles down my toes onto my bedsheets. It’s a strangely sexual experience. Reminds me of a woman I saw in town earlier in the day. She had the tightest body. Great ass. Great everything. She wore this clinging dress that hugged every inch of her. Made me grow so hard, but when I visualised her as a walking bag of bones, strangely enough, she lost her charm. She smiled at me y’know, and although I smiled back and her body flowered before my eyes, there was nothing there at all. Running a bath, I rub salt into the wounds on my feet and grimace. The pain is brief yet illuminating, and as the tears roll down my cheeks, I suck on a cigarette and blow the smoke out through my nose. On the news they show firefighters battling the blaze as thick plumes of smoke carry up into the sky stretching for miles across Manchester. I wonder how close the fires will go to the body of little Keith Bennett, the victim they were never able to find, and of which Brady would never reveal, not even as he neared death himself in his prison bed. It’s strange how the years get behind you while all the time never leaving your side. How faces disappear only to remain in your heart as fresh and as soft as they were when you last held them in the palm of your hand. Gazing at the water as it spits and sputters from the taps, I suck on my cigarette while drifting away like I so often do.