[2018] Abel's Revenge

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Wow? You say wow? A gang stabbed an immigrant to death in the street yesterday.’

  ‘I apologise. Wasn’t I shocked enough for you? I didn’t realise we have acceptable comments to make for that sort of thing.’

  She gives me a small shake of her head so I know I’m wrong, but a smile sneaks out.

  ‘Sorry I snapped. I’ve had a draining day.’ Tiredness hangs heavy on her face.

  ‘You wanted to live here.’ Heaven knows why I thought it necessary to slip in that blade. That argument is old and weary.

  ‘Have you seen Charlie?’ she asks.

  Is it a question or a demand?

  ‘Yeah. Chucky is in the kitchen trying to hammer something square into something round. Like the fridge into the washing machine.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’

  ‘You wanted to call him Charles.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done if I knew you’d keep calling him Chucky.’

  ‘I didn’t know the devil possessed him back then.’

  ‘He’s a normal three-year-old boy.’

  The wreckage of our house indicates otherwise, but I can see when I’m beaten.

  ‘What’s Grace doing?’

  ‘God knows. I’ve not seen her for hours.’

  A final dirty glance lets me understand any more banter wouldn’t be appreciated.

  ‘She’s in her room, lining up those plastic things that cost more pound for pound than gold.’

  ‘Are you meeting Ian?’

  She knows I am. Why do I feel guilty? I nod with caution.

  ‘Don’t get too pissed.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I turn to leave and consider if I should kiss her goodbye. Bailey’s stomach gurgles which is a regular occurrence, unless it was Olivia’s. Either way, I give it a miss. She barks another comment at my back.

  ‘Remember what I said.’

  Are there any worse words a woman can say to a man? I have no idea what she’s on about. Since having children, my memory has become a piece of wood left in water — a heavy, useless thing that absorbs little. I forget the names of everything. Those plastic things, the names of other people’s kids and any date of importance to make sure I’m always on the back foot.

  Our goldfish even stare at me as if to say, ‘Nice to see you again, Dan’, and I can’t remember what they’re called. Their bowl is in the hall. Cleaning it is one of my jobs. I peer into their murky world and note they’re still relaxing on the surface.

  My shoes aren’t where I left them. I swear she moves them to further mess with the little confidence I have in my ability to recall even the most basic of information. My dog walking boots will do. I hope the mud and grass will fall off on the way. She marches out of the lounge as I put my hand out to close the front door, and I think she’s come to kiss me goodbye after all. Instead she climbs the stairs, adding a closing directive.

  ‘Don’t forget.’

  The door shuts, and a chill wind buffets my nervous eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Olivia Jones

  I climb the stairs, picking up a tie on the way, and step over his shoes at the top. I toss his work shirt into the wash basket. Why does he leave them next to it? Surely it can’t be that much more effort to stick things inside. I trip over a pair of trainers in the bedroom and wonder again if he has early onset Alzheimer’s.

  I must try not to nag him. When did we become a couple that didn’t kiss each other when one left the house? He is trying and I know he struggles to live in such a busy city after growing up in a little town and the life he later led. I brought him here. Responsibility lies with me.

  We met in Vietnam. Initially, on a bus. There were many shocking twelve-hour rides when you backpack through a place like that. We didn’t talk the first time we saw each other. Every seat was taken, and he had to ask a man to move a box so he could sit down. After many hours of stern silence, the man growled at him in terrible English that the box contained his wife’s ashes. Poor old Dan. Those never-ending journeys along damaged roads on broken seats are rarely easy but that took some beating.

  We sat ten seats away but caught each other’s eye. He gave me a small grin as though he’d known me his whole life. It still makes me smile now when I remember. I was approaching forty and yet I stuck my tongue out at him in the manner of a naughty schoolgirl. He laughed, bold and loud, like he didn’t care what anyone thought. He held my stare for a few seconds, then winked, and a shimmer ran through me. I somehow knew he would be important in my life and a sense of calm came over me that had been missing for a long, long, time.

  I do what I’ve often done since he moved into my house, even though it’s been many years. With stealth, I slip to the window to watch him walk down the street. He usually saunters along, smiling at people, and it always makes me relax. I hate that we argue as I love him so much. Things will get better when the kids are older. Then we’ll have more time for each other. He hasn’t come into view yet, so I wave at our neighbour cleaning his fabulous car. He’s a nice guy. We’re lucky to have friendly people around us.

  I adore where we live. I bought this house over a decade ago before prices went crazy. It’s so peaceful. We couldn’t afford to buy here now, with me being part-time and Dan’s salary. I try to make him think it’s both our homes, but I know it can be difficult to move to a place where someone has lived a life before you met.

  The leaves are turning in the long tree-lined street. It’s as though we live in a village as opposed to the suburbs of London, and I know we’ll be okay. Soon we’ll marry, and then he’ll belong.

  Chapter 5

  Dan

  I rest my head on the front door for a minute. Olivia and I are drifting further apart. Will we ever get it back? On cue, to sour my mood, I hear the idiot next door whistling. I can’t sneak out the rear of the house as the railway line runs along there, so I have to walk out the same way every time. He will be in his drive, cleaning that monstrosity of a car. If I hustle he might not notice.

  The Chariots of Fire theme tune powers my legs as I pace past him.

  ‘Hey, Dan.’

  His posh New York accent stops me in my steps as if a border guard shouted freeze.

  ‘Mike, good to see you. Washing your car?’ Again.

  It’s getting late in the year and the air has a nip at this hour, yet he wears a tight T-shirt. I’m a pansy in my three layers. His car looks like it cost more than our house. It’s a flame red behemoth with an enormous bonnet. He cleans it with long, languid strokes as though he’s stroking his penis. Being British, I’m too polite to comment. Instead, I admire his rippling muscles and squint at the flash from his megawatt smile.

  He’s a doctor or surgeon or something. He has told me before but I couldn’t concentrate due to the rubbing.

  ‘Car looks great.’

  Our ride sits embarrassed next to his and is far from great. We have a sensible people carrier, and it's brown. Yes, that’s right. Try to think of the last brown vehicle you saw. Why make a car in that colour? We, for obvious reasons, bought it cheap. I didn’t think driving a shit-coloured car would bother me. Yet, every time I get in it, a piece of me dies.

  It’s not even well made. The seats at the back are, in effect, a crumple zone for when you are rear-ended by any of the plethora of uninsured cars around here. If we have to give other people’s kids a lift along with ours, I always shove theirs in the back. Is that normal? Or should I share the risk? When I’m driving them, I have visions of a squashed tin of sardines with the tomato sauce oozing out.

  Not only is it an eyesore, but it’s also a total money pit. The thieving sharks at my local garage grin when I turn up. I’m practically paying their pensions with their exorbitant demands. Every time I’ve arrived to collect my car the mechanic has been sitting on a tyre, smoking. Even Mike says he’d like to teach them a lesson. He calls the manager Thieving Terry. We still use the garage as we suspect they’re al
l like that and at least Thieving Terry’s is situated nearby.

  Mike nods in agreement at my car compliment, and taps the wing mirror next to him as though it's his dog.

  ‘Thanks, man. I love this car. When you coming over for a few beers? I have my own theatre. We could watch the game or a movie.’

  Never. There’s no way I’m going in there. I'll bet he preys on men such as me. Beaten down by life, so we’re too weak to fight him off.

  ‘Soon, buddy.’

  He makes me say words like buddy, too. I disappoint myself.

  I deliver a rictus grin, hunch my back, and shuffle away.

  Chapter 6

  Abel

  I scare myself. The venom is building.

  Each fresh insult from the people in this city drags me back in time to those slow months after I quit college. I returned to my parent’s home a failure, and wallowed in pity on my bed. Anger coursed through me, but instead of going mad, I let the darkness loose.

  There was only one victim. The shadowy path by the river was a place I knew well. Only a few ventured there at night even though it was a shortcut to the housing estates from popular pubs. I cared not about the gloom and cycled without lights. I bumped into the man and knocked him to the floor. He was a target selected and drowned due to his lonely, drunken vulnerability.

  I awoke next morning in soaking clothes and remembered something; not much, but an intoxicating taste of power.

  Mother avoided my bedroom, so I concealed the evidence. That said, part of me wanted to be caught. The headlines called it a tragic drowning. The newspapers wrote of the perils of drink. That made me laugh because I was the danger. In my mind, I had cleansed him with the silence of eternity. I considered handing myself in and owning up because everyone should know my name. I lusted for recognition.

  But living at home was like existing in a vacuum. There was no joy or pain, no highs or lows, and more importantly, no stress. We had regular, healthy meals and trips to church. The Abel who watched the fire he set after turning the neighbours stove on, the boy who shoved his friend off a wall, the student who abused that girl, and the man who did that terrible deed, departed. The urges died as the memories faded. I decided I wouldn’t become that which we fear when we glance over our shoulder. With a vow of no more sickness, I would be a person who respected others. One who forgave their foolish ways.

  My mother gave me money, I suspect to get rid of me, and I left to float around and enjoy life. I took jobs for little reward and even less responsibility. Days melted into months of an alcohol-filled haze with no concerns. I lived cheaply and saved hard, knowing I could always just leave before any pressure came to bear. The slightest stir from the sleeping demon had me packing my bags. Soon, he was completely forgotten. Many years went happily by.

  How foolish am I? Of course, Abel attempts to return. I ignore him, but time weakens all. I trained myself to never look back and to never give in. There were to be no more regrets. Nevertheless, I fear he takes control. Already, there are huge holes in my memory. What do I do? Or is it already too late, and should I be asking myself what have I done?

  I could see a psychiatrist but, as you can imagine, it’s hard to tell someone you possess a murderous part you struggle to control. Besides, I’d hate to peer too deeply inside my soul and see what lurks at the bottom. I don’t want or need analysing because I know Abel wants to be recognised. He yearns to be known and feared. Would more people die? I doubt that is his true purpose. However, if he breaks free, nothing remains sacred, and in his pursuit of notoriety, no one is safe.

  Chapter 7

  Dan

  It should only be a ten-minute stroll to the pub, but it’s dusk and I’ll have to walk around the park instead of through. Strange things happen in there. This city is brimming with CCTV cameras, but not in that place. It’s like a different world in there.

  The junkies hang about near the entrance. Got any spare change, guv? I might as well give them a can of cider and cut out the middleman. The beggar couple I often see outside the railway station is there. Sores weep on her face. I chuck them my coins and tell them to buy vegetables. He has the good grace to laugh, and stands to chat.

  ‘Thank you. Some people actually spit at us.’

  ‘There are a lot of pricks about.’

  ‘You know, I hate them. I despise my existence enough without that. One day, I’ll have my revenge. By the way, I accept notes.’

  ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t be in this position if you accepted jobs?’

  I leave chuckling as he shouts after me to offer him one.

  Like that man, I never expected, or wanted, to end up in a place like this. My job destroys me. It’s worse than being a battery hen. At least they don’t have to go out for lunch. My salary seems reasonable, but here it’s minimum wage. A fantastic salary in Cannon Ball, North Dakota is a poor one in Los Angeles. The same amount gets you nice things in Bitchfield, Lincolnshire, but little in London. Yes, these places do exist.

  The only ones lower in the food chain than me are the Australians crammed four to a room. At least they’re all high. What I’m saying is only rich people have a good time here. These big, urban areas are places with no emotion. Make a mistake and crack a smile, then a huge hand comes from the heavens and two fingers pop your head.

  Only a few streets from our road, the houses deteriorate in quality, and passing faces admire the pavement or their latest phone. I regularly see an old man wearing an ancient three-piece suit in his bay window, the paint peeling from the frames. Today, he stares. I raise my hand in greeting but his gaze goes right through me and his expression remains the same. Ignorant sod.

  I’m looking forward to seeing Ian, though. Apart from work friends, he is the only one I can meet for a no-pressure beer. He’s mad, but keeps me anchored. I think I’d go insane myself without Ian. He reminds me of the fun person I used to be.

  I lengthen my stride, fantasising that I’m on my way to a country pub. I’ll find large comfortable chairs and open fires. The barman will greet me by name and have a pint of chilled, frothing lager ready without even having to ask for it. Next to my drink? A big bowl of home cooked crisps, unfettered by anyone’s piss-covered fingers. Ian will be waiting, waving, as the jukebox quietly plays a selection of my favourite tunes.

  Instead, I stand outside Café Bleu, and groan. It looks as inviting as a dentist from the front, and the only thing that will be blue is me when I pay their eye-watering prices. Glossy, disinterested teenagers staff this anaemic shell. They serve me as though I’ve inconvenienced them. Every time I arrive, I stare at their blank faces and it’s clear I’m unwelcome.

  There used to be loads of good pubs and bars, but over time they closed due to the double-edged axe of the smoking ban and ridiculously cheap supermarket alcohol. In the UK now, it’s cheaper to buy a can of lager in those shops than a bottle of water. Not here though. We could meet elsewhere, but Ian is happy to come here, and it means I don’t have the depressing experience of waiting for, and then getting on, a city bus.

  The place, as always, is empty. Ian is nowhere to be seen. I stand at the bar and attempt to burn the back of the barmaid with my Superman X-ray vision. It doesn’t work. She must have heard the door go, but tenderly slides a finger over the screen of her iPhone.

  On every other occasion I’ve been here it has resembled an arctic winter, but tonight it’s boiling. My many layers cook me like a microwave meal. By the time she graces me with her presence, sweat stings my eyes.

  She’s the one Ian calls ‘The Russian’. She is chillingly beautiful. Azure glare, platinum hair, make-up three or four inches thick, and a face that never smiles. Not for me anyway. She looks twelve years older than my daughter which is a sobering start to my evening. I admire her slim figure in haute couture clothes, and glance at my filthy shoes. I feel like the vagrants in the park I’ve just been pitying.

  Ian always describes her as being ‘so clean’. As though she’s different from someone els
e who is fresh out the shower. One reason I enjoy his company is that he has amusing low-moral fibre. He says she’s so hot she could poo on him if she wanted. She is pretty, but I’d probably draw the line at that.

  My pint looks like a glass of urine. She doesn’t even ask for the money, only holds out her hand and gestures at the till. I take a note from my wallet, reach in my pocket for coins, and remember I gave them to those blood-sucking tramps. She plucks the note from my fingers as though she’s removing a hair from a slice of cake. Ian arrives as she slams my change on the bar.

  ‘Make that two, please.’

  There is a pause, a glance to her phone indicates she wants to say no, then a scowl as she pours.

  Ian looks me up and down.

  ‘Have you been hiking?’

  Chapter 8

  The squat

  Barry Butler loves his job. Not his actual profession of course. That’s a mind-numbing role where he watches the minutes and his life tick by while advising people on the best deal to save money on their energy provider. It’s a pointless self-defeating existence. They’ve even brought in hot desking, so he has to sit at a different terminal each day. He can often smell whoever had the misfortune to have finished their miserable eight hours on the phone before him.

  After his girlfriend dumped him for their boss, he’s stopped bothering to pin his photographs up at the start of a shift. However, the money is good. He upgraded his wheels and bought new Under Armour tactical boots. As soon as he put them on, he gritted his teeth. He wears them tonight, and he feels pretty damn good.

  That’s because, for thirty-two hours a month, he is Special Constable Butler — a man with power. Admittedly, they don't pay him, but he loves it so much, he does it for free. He knows he walks taller in the uniform. He doesn’t belong in a suit. Sometimes Barry lets his imagination run wild and imagines himself as Judge Dredd. He growls to himself, ‘I am the law.’