Intention: a compelling psychological thriller

by C. S. Barnes

  ‘We’re home,’ she announced, as if perhaps I hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Do you think you might be drunk?’

  The only experience I’d had of drunken behaviour was that exhibited by my father, which seemed an inappropriate schema on which to base future incidents.

  ‘I’m just so tired, Gillian.’

  Despite her alleged exhaustion, she wouldn’t let me help with her preparations for bed. Outside the door I waited until I could hear movement: a zip being pulled down; a drawer being opened. Downstairs, waiting for bread to toast and milk to warm, I put three relatively low dosage Diazepam tablets on a spoon before placing another spoon over the top and crushing them into a powder, which I stirred into the mug of warm milk.

  Inside her bedroom I found her hunched over a wedding photograph that I had never seen. Tears dragged mascara from her eyes, down her cheeks, and on to the glass that protected their happy moment.

  ‘I made you something to settle your stomach.’

  It perhaps wasn’t the right thing to say, but it was better than any alternatives I could construct at such short notice.

  ‘Gillian, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Right now I think you should eat something, and sleep.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, love.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think that it was.’

  She looked away from the frame and settled her eyes on the tray. I lifted the plate of toast and placed it on her night table, and then placed the mug of milk beside it, deliberately closer to her.

  ‘You should drink that while it’s warm. I don’t think it helps as much when it gets cold.’

  And, as instructed, she drank the whole thing in five thirsty mouthfuls.

  The too-large duvet bunched up around her, leaving her small and childlike beneath it. I strategically borrowed one of her favourite moves from my childhood and, after tucking the quilt in around her, I leaned forward and left a single kiss on her forehead. It felt strange for the both of us, I suspect. I turned off the light, pulled the door shut, and waited downstairs for a little over an hour.

  When I was confident she was asleep, I left the house and walked to my usual spot.

  Chapter 4

  It was raining enough to be slightly cinematic. The moon was a convenient spotlight for him as he wandered towards me. This place had always been a popular area for his type. The worn wood of the park bench beneath me was growing more uncomfortable by the second but I couldn’t move now; I knew that I’d grabbed his curiosity.

  There was a jingle, like change in your pocket, as he clambered into the space next to me. I didn’t make the first move despite being prepared to. Socio-cultural norms reminded me that as the woman I should wait for the male to make the initial contact. In my peripheral vision I could see that his eyes had settled on me. I counted down, setting deadlines only to immediately move them just before they were reached.

  If he hasn’t done something by X time…

  I felt the outline of a skull nudge its way beneath my hand. His head was neatly cupped inside my left palm, as if the two were made for each other. As a result of his determined nuzzling, my fingertips collided with a bright red band wrapped around his neck; faux leather and sporting a small disc, the size and shape of a two-pound coin, it rattled beneath his padded chin. He was clearly well-fed, something that the majority of animal owners believe is synonymous with much-loved.

  One side of the disc read: If found please call…

  The other side had been branded with a name: Maurice.

  ‘You don’t look like a Maurice.’

  He pulled away from me, lolling his head to one side in contempt or confusion, perhaps both. At this distance it became clear that behind the overgrown mop of black fur there were two brown button-like eyes, each iris sporting a collection of light-coloured flecks. As the rain persisted his fur became damp, ruffled, creating a severe edge to his appearance.

  ‘I’m Gillian.’

  His head rolled from one side to the other, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘You don’t look like a Gillian.’ I could almost hear.

  After this he reassumed his position, his head beneath my hand while the rest of him made efforts to creep closer towards me. I pressed my palm a little heavier against his brow while my fingers closed in tight enough to deliver something more than a squeeze. There came a low and satisfied rumble from somewhere inside his throat as I slowly released the pressure. I wasn’t sure how much, if at all, he had enjoyed the crush, but it certainly went in my favour that he didn’t stand up and leave.

  ‘I imagine that you feel quite lucky, Maurice. Of all the crazy people you could have stumbled across this evening. Do you know, a week ago I read a story in a newspaper about a cat being set on fire while it was still alive, somewhere quite near here actually. It’s disgraceful what some people will do to an animal.’

  Eventually a self-stroking service was established. While my hand remained still on the roof of Maurice’s head, he intermittently shifted himself about beneath it, simulating the sensation of being petted. The rumbles emerged from his throat at six-second intervals while his eyes half closed, forming a satisfied slant. For a second or two I envied what he must be feeling.

  ‘What’s it like, Maurice, to be so easily pleased?’

  He threw his head backwards to regain control of my hand. He moved his body along the bench then, closing the small distance between us until my arm had encased him and his small ribcage was pressed neatly against my own. I held my breath and waited to feel the intake and expulsion of his. They breathe differently, you see. At the higher end of our average breathing beats per minute we are just about level with the slowest breathing rates of lesser animals – cats, for example. I took short and necessary breaths every few seconds, trying to intertwine them with Maurice’s own.

  I felt him living, quietly, for one minute and twenty-three seconds.

  ‘I wonder how you ended up here, Maurice, with me. I wonder what it means that you did; if it means anything at all.’

  I was disturbed by his vocal outburst, followed by my own: ‘I can’t let you go now.’

  He tensed; I could feel his muscles shifting inside him. With an unexpected burst of energy he began to wriggle, pulling away from me as if his life depended on it. I pinned his abdominal area against my side with one hand holding his front legs steady; my other hand craned towards his neck. He persisted in throwing his head from one side to the other. My fingers fought through an excessive amount of damp fur before settling a grip around his throat.

  A small, surprised wheeze escaped from his open mouth as pressure fell on his windpipe.

  I really wanted it now, and this was taking too long.

  I needed to see him, properly, before I could do anything else. I left one hand secured around his neck as I tucked the other beneath his stomach, keeping them both steady in their respective positions as I held him out in front of me. Suspended in mid-air, his hind legs thrashed about faster than I’d thought they’d be capable of given his size; his claws took repeated swipes at my forearms, enough for him to draw blood but not enough to be a deterrent. The park was abandoned at this time of night; it always had been. The streetlights that ran around the outer edge of the entrance didn’t do much to light the inside space. I knew that Maurice and I were safe here. But I couldn’t chase away the image, inappropriate though it was, of someone wandering in and observing this perverse reimagining of The Lion King.

  I took a final proud look into his eyes before I jerked his head backwards. And it stayed there. His head sat at an abnormal position against the top of his spine while the unsettling crack seemed to swell in the space around us. He reminded me of a well-worn doll missing a chunk of stuffing as I lowered the body down. The head hung off my leg with the consistency of excess fabric while the rest of him remained seated on my lap; the only sign of life now being the occasional ruffle of fur, prompted by the wind.

  I picked through his coat, tracing the
odd streaks of white and grey fur with my fingertips. Inhaling – one, two, three – and exhaling, I tried to keep hold of him for a second or two longer.

  ‘I should say sorry.’

  I held the body up to my face, rolled my nose through his smell, ran his fur along my lips, and listened for any last slips of life spilling out. As I stood up I continued to cradle him, supporting his head as you would with a newborn child. He looked as peaceful as I felt. I held him for a moment longer as the last of the tension slipped away from me. There was a lightness in my stomach that hadn’t been there before, and I think I remember kissing him then. The same small and awkward kiss that I had, only three hours ago, left on my mother’s forehead. And then I set him down on the bench; he lay on his side, legs outstretched, relaxing after a long evening stroll.

  ‘I really should say sorry.’

  I could barely convince myself to move. I wondered who would find him, what they would do with him; would he be okay? He was too big to fit alongside the other specimens, and I would struggle to find a jar to hold his frame. But, despite knowing this, it still didn’t feel right to leave him behind. I pinched his front right paw between my finger and thumb, feeling his rough pads, weathered from years of wandering. I could have brought something with me – a scalpel, a small box – to take a piece of him away, but the opportunity had passed now. I had no choice but to leave him.

  Crouching level with the seat, I leaned forward and planted another small kiss on his head. Then I walked away, wondering, again, who might find him.

  Chapter 5

  You want to know what it’s like. I can understand that; I wanted to know as well, I suppose. Ultimately, it’s like anything else that any one person does despite knowing that they shouldn’t. But they do it all the same, because they’re too familiar with the feeling that they’ll experience afterwards.

  Life is so heavy most of the time. You’re struggling under the surface with a weight on you and what do you do? How do you find a way to breathe again? We’re all dying to know the answer – and don’t think that I haven’t noticed the wonderful irony there – but, lacking any feasible explanations for life’s largest dilemmas and questions, instead we simply guess. We assume things that will improve our little existence. And these assumptions, they then become our unashamed justifications for whatever condemnable behaviours we throw ourselves into. ‘It makes life a little better,’ we say, excusing our tendencies to cheat on our partners, overeat unhealthy foods, smoke. It makes life a little better, and for the majority of us that is reason enough for anything.

  Does any of this sound familiar? There must be something – one mostly harmless little thing – that you allow yourself. That one cigarette at the end of the day; that eye contact with a colleague you hold for a beat too long?

  ‘No human beings were harmed in the making of this bad habit,’ we remind ourselves; a disclaimer to our misdemeanours. It’s only a problem, you see, when people become aware of it, when people are hurt by it. That’s when the masses will frown and judge – as though that has become the benchmark for human depravity. You’ve hurt another human being? Well, that’s a line! But it’s a line that we love to see crossed, don’t you think? There’s nothing better than finding someone more evil than ourselves because those people really put things into perspective.

  ‘I might be doing this but at least I’m not doing that. Besides, who is it even hurting?’ Oh, wait, you know who I’m really hurting now, don’t you?

  Playing the poor girl from the damaged home is difficult, especially now you know this much of the story. Maybe the reality is closer to the poor home from the damaged girl; maybe we’ll never know which came first. There are – or at least there would be, if I discussed these issues openly and honestly with a medical practitioner – theories. In fact science could likely offer several feasible interpretations of and explanations for this situation. Sociopathy, psychopathy, narcissistic personality disorder (that last one seems unavoidable, really). Someone would find a textbook explanation of a power-hungry only child whose inherent egotism interacted poorly with overexposure to violence during her attachment-forming years. The abuse – my father’s penchant for abuse – would play a part in their discussion. It may even be the hook of their discussion; I understand that abuse is often the first thing that they look for in these circumstances. They would find it and use it to great effect, I’m sure, because it’s neat. It’s a tidy explanation for every damaged and/or defective element of my personality and they have to offer little to no insight into me as an autonomous individual then. What a bonus. They can explain it away with nature versus nurture discussions around the family home and parental values, and society can take something of a back seat. Although it will inevitably play its part as well, because doesn’t it always these days?

  We like to explain away the deranged logic of killing things as quickly and efficiently as we can. The people who do it, well, they’re a biological anomaly; look at who they grew up with – with a name like that I’d murder people too! Even though killing is one of the most human things about us, really. It’s what we’re built for. People will need to believe that I kill things because of biology/society/daddy issues, or a horrendous combination of the three. It would be the last thought to cross the general population’s mind – assuming it has a functioning one these days – that I do it because I want to, or because I need to. And it is a need, I think – deep-rooted, inherent, human. We lost our way somewhere along the evolutionary chain but this behaviour is normal. There was a time when all humans did was gut animals and rut; we’re too politically correct for the former now, and far too liberal with the latter.

  For my own curiosity then, tell me: what shocked you more, the animal with the broken neck or the patricide? Really take some time to consider that, and then tell me why I’m the only monster here.

  Morally, you’re right to believe that it’s wrong. There’s not a textbook or an essay in the world that would correct you – at least, not one that I can find. So yes, it is wrong – but it’s also required. It’s a compulsive cure as much as cheating, overeating, smoking.

  Q. Why does he cheat?

  A. Because it feels good.

  Q. Why does she smoke?

  A. Because it calms her down.

  Q. Why do I kill things?

  A.

  Well, picture this: it’s been a long day. You come home and eat an inadvisable amount of something that will offend your arteries. You watch the news, which further compounds your ambiguous mood, and you make dinner. When walking from the kitchen to the dining room with your dinner, you spill a significant measurement of your accompanying beverage on the floor – and you cry. In the grand scheme of things – with a news report delivering word of another random stabbing in the background – this is an inconsequential incident and your emotional outpouring is disproportionate to the tragedy of a spilled drink. But, my God, you cry. Like someone greeted with the threat of perpetual torment, until your eyelashes are sodden and your lungs have a debilitating stutter. Then you continue to cry, like the world is about to come to an end and for a moment, in between the third and fourth moment of crying, you quietly hope that it will. And when you run out of tears, your face is sore and your eyes are swollen, and your lips are resuming their usual lineation rather than the misshapen downturn they’ve held for the minutes prior to this, you are a visual mess; but you feel a hell of a lot better than you did half an hour ago.

  Q. Why do I kill things?

  A. See above.

  That’s the closest I can get to explaining it. It might not be close enough, I know. There’s a decent chance that you will read that and still not understand, assuming that you even want to understand such behaviour. You might even still be curious about why, how, what it’s like. The kill is the cry and the afterburn is the deepest exhale, a shoulder-sagging sigh that leaves you empty, ready to be filled again by the world and your day-to-day struggles in it. There’s nothing quite as refreshing
as breaking up life with your hands. But even after all of this, I’m still not sure that I’d recommend it.

  You’re probably safer with smoking.

  Chapter 6

  My mother had never been the questioning kind; perhaps that was due to years spent living with my untameable father. Perhaps that’s also why, in his absence, she suddenly felt moved to ask all of the questions that her mind could muster. Where are you going? Who with? How long do you think you’ll be?

  ‘You’re going out again?’

  My right hand was just a centimetre above the lock on the front door when my mother lassoed me. It was a difficult question to answer. I thought from my attire and from my angle towards the exit it was clear that yes, I was going out again, but it was also clear to me that that was not the answer that my mother was expecting.

  ‘I thought you were sleeping,’ I replied, instantly aware that this wasn’t the right response either.

  My mother had taken to napping in the afternoons. The days of frantic cleaning from morning until late in the day had been stuffed inside my father’s coffin alongside him, and my mother now spent her days pining. Maintaining her role of downtrodden housewife, she would quietly sweep up, tidy away what she referred to as clutter, and when those menial tasks were dealt with, she would indulge in some quiet time. She read, occasionally, and stared at the damned spot in the hallway frequently, like she expected something about it to change. And then, at around this time every day, she slept, exhausted from her morning of mourning.

  ‘Why are you going out all the time now?’ she asked, with a greater measure of suspicion than I thought the question warranted.

  ‘That’s what normal people do, Mum.’