Shape-Shifter

by Pauline Melville

  Suddenly, I punched out hard over my left shoulder. My fist smacked into his eye socket. I lashed out twice more. I tried to look round at his face but he jerked his head back so that I caught the merest glimpse of a high forehead, shining in the meagre light from the window, and a strand or two of fairish hair. I never saw his face. I jabbed my flat, stiffened fingers into his gullet and held them there, pushing hard. He countered by grabbing my hand and bending the fingers back violently. More fighting and we fell to the floor. It ended with my recapture. He sat with his back to the bedside cupboard, his left arm locked once more around my neck. I sat with my legs outstretched, his left leg curled about my waist. My back was to him. I saw the grubby trainer shoe on his foot. I was tired. I wanted to fall into a deep sleep.

  ‘Don’t move or I’ll hurt you,’ he kept saying.

  In a mockery of snug intimacy, I sat nestled between the legs of the man whose face I had not seen. We stayed locked together like this for some considerable time, in fact, until the first birdsong at the break of dawn. The battleground changed. It became a battle of wills and of wits. For the first time, we conversed.

  ‘Listen.’ The voice was gruff and urgent. ‘I want three things. I want money, food and a bath. I’ve been on the run for three days and I’m filthy. I’m filthy and I’m starving hungry.’

  When he said he was filthy, I got the impression he was describing his inner self.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to put a pillow-case over your head.’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘That’s too frightening.’

  Now we were to bargain oyer every move, the advantage slipping from one to the other.

  ‘All right, then. All right. I’m going to tie up your hands and feet. Give me the rope back.’

  ‘No.’ I still held tightly on to the thin piece of rope.

  ‘I’ve got another piece here.’ He reached in his pocket with his free hand and dangled a second piece in front of my face.

  ‘I don’t want you to tie me up. You might rape me.’

  ‘If I was going to do that, I’d knock you spark out. If I was going to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. Give me my rope back.’

  ‘No. I’m too scared.’ My mind raced. I knew I had to keep him talking. ‘Where are you on the run from, anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t escape from nick. The police were coming to pick me up and I went on the run from them.’

  ‘My husband’s on the run too,’ I said, trying to make common ground between us.

  ‘Well, I hope he doesn’t end up in the same nick as me after all this.’ There was a pause.

  ‘He did diamond robberies,’ I said.

  ‘Is that where you got the money for the flat from?’ I detected a strong, northern accent.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Where is he now?’ he asked, suspiciously.

  ‘I dunno.’ I tried making a bond between us. ‘I’m on your side, you know. Let me go. I won’t call the police. Most people I know are on the run, anyway.’

  Playing for time, I embarked on a story of how a friend of mine escaped from jail. How she took a chance when one of the screws wasn’t looking and ran offfrom the party working on the outside gardens. How she knocked on the door of a stranger’s house and asked to use the telephone to call a taxi. My captor grunted to show that he was listening.

  ‘Naturally, as she’d just done a bunk, she didn’t have any money on her. So when the taxi came, she drove to a jeweller’s, told the cabbie to stop for a minute, ran into the shop, sold the gold chain from round her neck and that’s how she got the money to pay for the taxi.’

  ‘Then what?’ he asked.

  ‘Then – and this is brilliant,’ I continued, ‘she went to a battered wives’ hostel, told them she’d run away from a violent husband and they took her in. They hid her, helped her change her name by deed-poll and got her re-housed. Now she’s living round the corner with her four kids.’

  He gave his grunting laugh.

  ‘So why don’t you just go away,’ I suggested quietly. ‘I won’t call the police. I don’t like them any more than you do. How long do you want me to give you to get away?’

  ‘Three weeks,’ he replied. We both laughed.

  ‘Now listen,’ he said, ‘I want you to put your hands together so I can tie you up.’

  ‘No. That’s too scary. You take what you want and I’ll just sit here and I won’t say anything.’

  He became agitated.

  ‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you. You’ll do something. You’ll do something.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said. But I knew I would, given a chance. And he knew it too.

  ‘Are you a rapist or a burglar?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a professional burglar. I’m a professional burglar.’ He spoke with the insistence of a man trying to convince himself.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. It’s you that’s hurt me. I only attacked you once. You’ve attacked me twice. I’m still seeing stars from where you punched me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied with false contrition. ‘Anyway, I don’t punch hard. I’m no Frank Bruno. I feel more like Barry McGuigan.’ I had recently seen Barry McGuigan on television being carried, bloodstained and defeated, from the boxing ring.

  The man laughed. I decided to play for sympathy.

  ‘Ooh. I’m feeling sick,’ I said. ‘I think I’m going to faint.’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit,’ he hissed and I stopped.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said, ‘I’m going to roll myself a smoke.’ He took his arm from my neck and began to feel for cigarette papers.

  ‘Don’t bother to roll one. There’s a packet of mine on that little cupboard behind you. I want one too.’ He felt around for them in the dark.

  ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘I can’t find them.’

  ‘They must have fallen on the floor in the fight,’ I replied.

  He found them and lit one for me.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Carole. What shall I call you?’ I phrased the question in that way because I knew he wouldn’t give me his real name. He hesitated for a minute and then answered:

  ‘Charlie. Charlie Peace.’

  It was not till days later that I discovered the true identity of Charlie Peace. The true historical identity that is – not the identity of the man who held me captive. Charlie Peace was a nineteenth-century murderer. He was born in Sheffield, son of a shoemaker. He was employed as a tinsmith and later as a workman at a rolling mill. Strangely enough, he also worked for a while as a cabaret artist. He appeared on stage in Worksop in 1853, a comic performance in which he impersonated the modern Paganini, playing the violin with one string. His criminal career as a professional burglar began later. He first killed in 1872. Apparently, he eluded capture in a wonderful manner, assuming many disguises and still committing burglaries. He moved to London and lived under the alias of John Ward. He shot a policeman and attempted suicide. He was betrayed in London by a married woman. He confessed to yet another murder before being executed in Manchester in 1876.

  I knew none of this as I sat imprisoned by my assailant. In fact, I laughed when he used the name Peace. I thought it ironic that such a violent man should choose to call himself by the name Peace:

  ‘How did you get in, anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘You left the door open,’ he replied and laughed. ‘You left the door open.’

  The reply disturbed me. I knew without a doubt that I had locked the front door behind me as I came into the flat. It doesn’t shut properly otherwise. It was as though he was referring to some other door, as though I had unwittingly nudged open an invisible door to some infernal region, enabling him to slip through. It occurred to me that I would never know how to shut this intangible door or worse, that I would never know how to avoid accidentally opening it again, this incorporeal door to hell.

  ‘You’ve got a cut on your back,’ he said. ‘
It looks quite deep.’

  ‘I want an ashtray,’ I said. He passed me the empty Silk Cut packet to use as an ashtray. We both stubbed out our cigarettes in it. In the dim light, I caught sight of a large black shape by the wall. I tried to puzzle out what it was. I thought he might have brought a black bag with him, but it turned out to be the overturned television set.

  ‘Put your hands behind your back so I can tie them.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a bloody nuisance, you are.’ He sounded exasperated.

  ‘You might want to tie me up because you’re a …’ I could not bring myself to say the word.

  ‘A pervert.’ He finished the sentence for me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘How do you know I’m not a poof?’

  ‘You can be what you like,’ I answered with a liberalism born out of wariness. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Look. I’m going to get really angry in a minute. If you don’t do what I want, I’m going to knock you spark out and then I will rape you. Give me your hands so I can tie them up.’

  ‘Why?’ I stalled for time.

  ‘Because I don’t want you to see me stark bollock naked in the bath,’ he hissed furiously.

  ‘Well, look at me,’ I said indignantly. ‘How do you think I feel? I haven’t got anything on. I feel terrible like this. Let me go and get a dressing-gown.’

  ‘Let me tie your hands and then I’ll get you a nightgown.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ I said. ‘If my hands are tied up I won’t be able to get them through the sleeves, will I?’ My logic made him change tack.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty-eight,’ I lied. I lied for a reason. That summer, in London, a strangler was on the loose. He was called ‘The Whispering Strangler’ in the press and he only murdered elderly people. It had already occurred to me that this might be the same man, so I knocked a chunk off my age.

  ‘Come off it. How old are you?’

  ‘All right, fifty-eight if that suits you better.’

  ‘Tell me how old you are.’

  ‘No. You might tell the police.’ He laughed.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he announced.

  ‘Let me get you something to eat.’ I sounded like a new bride.

  ‘No you won’t. Don’t move. How much money have you got in the flat?’

  ‘Fifteen pounds.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell.’

  ‘Well, I’m skint. I’ll go and get my purse if you like. It’s in the hall.’ So many small attempts at escape.

  ‘Don’t move. Don’t move. I’m going to tie your arms and legs.’

  ‘No. You might rape me.’

  How can I rape you if I’ve tied your legs up? We seemed equally matched for logic.

  Suddenly, his tone changed. He became gentle, almost shy, as if trying to be genuinely helpful:

  ‘Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked.

  ‘No!’ I replied. I was exhausted, so much so that I almost yielded. I had sat hugged up in his arms for nearly an hour. My body was telling me what a normal thing it would be to do. But I feared he would kill me afterwards. The first birds of the dawn chorus began to sing. He became fierce:

  ‘Look. It’s getting light. It’s getting light. I won’t have time for a bath.’ I could hear the agitation in his voice. There were sound, practical reasons why he should not be abroad in daylight. Someone might see him. He might be recognised. Perhaps there were other reasons too why he had to be gone before the day fully broke.

  ‘Let me tie your hands.’

  I was so exhausted that I agreed.

  ‘All right then, you can tie them as long as you tie them up in front of me and you don’t tie them too tight.’

  ‘Give me the rope then.’ I gave it to him.

  ‘Put your hands over your head.’ I put my hands over my head for a minute and then put them down again.

  ‘I don’t like doing that. It makes me feel frightened. I’ll put them over my shoulder.’ I put them over my left shoulder, elbows together, hands opened.

  ‘Put your hands together,’ he ordered. I closed my hands and opened my elbows.

  ‘Put your elbows together,’ he said. I put my elbows together and my hands flat together and I pulled my wrists as far apart as I could. We used to do this as children, playing games of prisoner and captor, to enable a quick escape. All the frightening games of childhood are a preparation for this sort of experience: skirmishes, hunting, tracking games, tying up to a tree games. It’s a shame we stop playing them. We get out of practice. He tied my wrists, knotting the rope carefully between them. From the way I had held my wrists, I knew immediately that there was enough leeway for me to be able to slip the bonds when the opportunity arose. I would wait until it became absolutely necessary.

  As soon as my wrists were tied he became more savage. In a sudden outburst of violence, he manhandled me towards the bed. That was to be the pattern. The more concessions I made, the more cruel he became. Any weakness from me generated his power. With hindsight, I understand that it is pointless to co-operate with a demon or appeal to his better nature when he has the upper hand.

  ‘Kneel down by the bed. Are you going to do what I say?’ He spoke with the same, growling, whispered intensity.

  ‘Yes, sir. No, sir,’ I replied, with the cunning obsequiousness of the slave. He held me by the neck while he dragged the woven Mexican blanket off my bed. He draped it over my head and helped me gently to my feet. The blanket hung about two feet over my head. If I held it out in front of me I could see the floor.

  ‘All right. Where’s your purse?’ He asked.

  I walked out into the hallway with him close behind me. I fumbled around on the trunk but couldn’t find my purse:

  ‘I can’t find it. Let me switch the light on a minute.’

  ‘Don’t switch the light on.’ The words were spat out. Under the piles of papers and letters on the chest I knew that, somewhere, there was an iron tyre lever. I couldn’t risk rummaging around for it. He was too near me. The opportunity slid past like a ship in the night that fails to see the life-raft. I found my purse and opened it. He was still behind me. I felt him come closer. His chin must have been near my shoulder because it was then that I felt his stare. It was a stare of such power and evil that I knew, from that moment, that I must never attempt to look at his face. That was partly prudence. If he knew that I could identify him he would have greater reason to kill. But there was something else. I thought that if I turned, I would see a visage so appalling, so fearful that I would be paralysed with terror. I looked in my purse:

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s only ten pounds here.’ I handed him the note. I fiddled around in the purse again and found two one pound coins and a fifty pence piece. A stubborn meanness came over me that made me want to keep it:

  ‘You don’t want all this small change, do you?’ I said confidently, as if that was the end of the matter.

  ‘No,’ he acquiesced. I seized the advantage.

  ‘You know when your mouth goes all dry because you’re frightened,’ I said. ‘Well, that’s how my mouth’s gone. I want a glass of water.’ Tentatively, I began to call the shots. We walked back along the hall and into the kitchen. The blanket was still over my head. He stayed close behind me. With tied hands I reached for a glass from the shelf over the sink and poured myself a glass of water:

  ‘Do you want some?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ I felt him jerk back like a man with hydrophobia. On the draining-board, next to the sink, lay a large Sabatier kitchen knife. My thoughts ran here and there like a rat in a cul-de-sac. I could make a grab for the knife but he might overpower me and use it against me. He was being cooperative at this moment, perhaps it would be better not to antagonise him. But finally, it was the desire to kill that was lacking in me. I let it be, hoping that he had not seen the knife.

  Of course, he had seen it.

  ‘What food have you got?’ he enquired.

 
‘There’s some bread.’ I opened the big cupboard and took out a green plastic carrier-bag. Into it I put the remains of a loaf from the bread-bin. On the fridge were three nectarines.

  ‘Why don’t you have some of those, they’re nice,’ I said, sounding like a shop assistant at a greengrocer’s.

  ‘What are they? Plums?’

  ‘No. They’re nectarines.’ I hoped that didn’t sound too fancy.

  ‘I’ll leave you one for your breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ I opened the fridge door, crouched on the floor, the blanket covering my head. The fridge was nearly empty.

  ‘Blimey, there’s not much here. There’s only a bit of cucumber. Do you want it?’

  ‘No.’

  He began to push me towards the bathroom. He picked up a chair from the kitchen:

  ‘I’ll take this chair so you’ve got something to sit on.’

  ‘It’s all right. There’s one in there,’ I said.

  In the bathroom he told me to keep the blanket over my head and stand still. He switched on the light. Then he took some books and papers off the chair so that I would be more comfortable. The chair was beside the wash-basin, facing the toilet. I sat down. For the first time, I began to feel sick. Bathrooms are dangerous places to fight in. There are too many hard edges. I thought he was going to run the water in the bath and drown me, or push my head down the toilet bowl and murder me that way. I leaned forward and put the toilet lid down. That would delay him another second or two:

  ‘I’ll sit on the toilet seat,’ I said.

  ‘No you won’t. Don’t move.’ He didn’t want me seated behind him while he was facing the sink in case I saw him in the mirror of the cabinet. I could not see what he was doing. I just, heard sounds. I heard the water running in the basin. He seemed to be doing something with his gloves. He asked for soap. I told him where it was. Whatever he was doing, he was doing it carefully and methodically. He asked for a comb. I heard him combing his hair for a long time, slowly, ritualistically. It was then I knew for certain he was no ordinary burglar. I think he used one of my towels. Then he took a damp cloth, lifted the blanket from behind and washed the wound on my back. When he had finished in the bathroom, he announced that we would go and get my dressing-gown. We walked down the hall and into the big bedroom. I was relieved to be out of the bathroom.