I AM HERE TO KILL YOU

by Chris Westlake

  The women cooed; the women fell in love.

  Apinya is one of the few people of any shade of colour in Pontbach. You don't get many ethnics in Wales, let alone in a sleepy rural town fifty miles from the closest city. We all say we're frightfully liberal, of course, but most of the residents eye her with fascination, like a bird not seen before in the garden. She is like Dafydd - the only gay in the village. Even the bigots say (behind gritted teeth) she is a fantastic advertisement for outsiders joining the town. Naturally, of course, she remains an outsider. If only, I think, other outsiders were actually interested in joining our gorgeous little town.

  “That said,” Rose continues, deep, straight slits carved in her cheeks, “we welcome anybody – not just women, of course – to join us here at Crossways School. I have no doubt we'd all be very welcoming.”

  I glance around the room again, at the five straight rows of (mainly) abandoned wooden chairs, searching for anybody who is not a woman. Traditionally, this species is called men. This is just for amusement. Of course there are no men. There never has been, not in the twelve years Rose has run the meetings. It would take a very brave man - like Thor with his hammer - or a very dumb one, to attend this group. I haven't seen any Thor's in the town recently, and so I'd opt for the dumb option.

  Rose moved to Pontbach about twelve years ago. We met at the summer fete, an annual event held on the rugby pitch. We held this year's extravaganza last week. I never made it to the evening barn dance that year, and I don't normally break routine. I hadn't been out of the house for weeks. Conscious of my chalky, lifeless complexion, I painted a smile on my face but diverted my eyes. Standing in the queue for candy floss, I shuddered when a dry, calloused hand grazed my arm.

  "Its Katherine, isn't it?"

  I nodded my head, ensured my smile was the right way up. At the time, I didn't want to engage with people I knew, let alone strangers.

  "I don't think I've seen you around here before?" I asked. We hadn't met, but it did feel I knew her.

  "I've not long moved to Pontbach," she said. Her smile was warm enough to thaw an iceberg. "I suspect we have a few things in common, Katherine."

  Her pained face explained that she, too, was mourning - her husband had recently passed.

  "Did he drown like both my parents did?"

  Holding up her hands, Rose took a step back. Firing the words at me, she apologised for my tragic loss, said that she'd found solace in the church, asked if I cared to join her. The shake of my head may have been too quick, too rigorous.

  "My parents were both very religious," I said. "I lost faith when my brother died, and then I completely lost faith when Mum and Dad joined him."

  Back home, when the rest of the town partied at the barn, I told my husband about our exchange. His face dropped. Did he drown like both my parents did? What sort of a horrid thing was that to say to a woman who'd just joined the town, whose husband had just passed away? He was right, of course. It was wrong. Unforgivable. But my husband didn't persist. He did forgive. My downbeat, negative behaviour often gets forgiven, not just by him, but by the other residents in Pontbach. After all, how many of them can say their brother was murdered, that both their parents drowned?

  Rose wasn't deterred, either. We always bumped into each other as I ventured out more and more over the next few months. She always greeted me with a hug; I disappeared within her soft, cushioned body. She never gave any indication she was offended by my initial rudeness. A few months later, when she asked if I'd like to join a group she was setting up to help people just like us, I agreed. Saturday at 11am, she said. People like us? Mourners? Turns out it wasn't just for people like us, but anyone who needed some extra support, anybody who wanted to share their difficulties.

  Rose addressed the seventeen women who attended the first meeting by rubbing the dark shadows of her eyes. I'm the only one of those seventeen women in attendance to witness Rose opening the meeting in the same way today.

  With my attention wavering - again - I imagine Ben, sat cross-legged on the hard, wooden floor, palms pressed together, eyes closed. This room was the assembly hall. I confess, this place holds a morbid fascination for me. I've only ever been in this room, the toilet and the kitchen, with its long laminate worktops, empty of nearly everything (particularly life). Red rope cordons off the stairs (the building was a mansion house before it temporarily became a school). The hallway spirals in many different directions, with long, narrow, dark corridors, leading to closed doors. I tried to open one of the doors once, but - inevitably - it was locked. I jumped when I heard the voice behind me. Are you lost, Katherine? It was Rose, of course. Once again, I was a schoolgirl sneaking inside my parents' bedroom, searching for a wardrobe leading to a parallel world, to Pandora's Box, to excitement, to anything but this.

  Casually, I turn to my left. My heart jumps.

  We have a new member.

  My mind recites the words. We have a new member. We have a new member. Where did she sneak in from? She wasn't there a moment ago. Or was she? Members often leave. Sometimes they rejoin. Rarely do we have a completely new recruit. I just know this one is different, too. She has a purpose. She is here to stay. My eyes flicker, trying not to be too obvious, to be caught.

  "We are all here for a reason," Rose announces to the group.

  Exactly. We are all here for a reason. She says this every week. She has asked me, both openly and privately, for my reason.

  To overcome the tragic death of my parents and my older brother.

  Nobody in the village ever talks about Ben, though. I understand why people don't talk about his death, but why don't we celebrate his life? There again, who am I to complain? I rarely bring him up, either. I deliberately try not to draw attention to myself. I deliberately try to melt into the background.

  Distracted heads turn. Who is that? What is her story? They look for bruises, for cuts. They observe her body language. She gives little away. There are few clues. I bet the women in the group will never guess her true story. A silk scarf covers her bowed head. The baggy top is too hot for the summer; it gives little indication of the body hidden underneath. She is diminutive, though, and - possibly - she is fragile, like a newborn bird. Rose likes them when they're fragile.

  I don't look for clues. I don't try to work out who she is.

  Steam emits from Rose's china cup. She seems oblivious to the newcomer. How could I have been wary of her? Fine, dark stubble coats her upper lip. The grey cardigan dangles like a tent from her folded shoulders. "Now, would anybody be kind enough to share with the group? No pressure, of course. Just being here together today makes us stronger..."

  My hands grip the sides of the chair. I want to put my hand up, to say a few words about this and that, about the things that really plague my mind. On the other hand, I know it is best I remain oblivious. My head rotates, pleading to the room. I glance left. What? Where has she gone? It is like she wasn't here at all.

  I graze my silver metal tongue ring (what a rebel) against the underside of my front teeth.

  “I'll share."

  The voice came from someone at the front, I'm sure, but then it doesn't really matter where, because it didn't come from me. Closing my eyes, I unclench my hands.

  I'm free for another week.

  Bernard

  Boys with toys, that's what they say, isn't it? Well, I consider, this is definitely the right toy for this boy.

  Sat three or so feet off the floor with the luscious green lawn stretching out in front of me, a thought comes to me - maybe I should take up golf? Think about it. A golf course has eighteen holes (or so those in the know tell me); that amounts to thousands upon thousands of yards of immaculate, nurtured lawn to savour. After all, they employ greenkeepers to ensure the course remains meticulous. Absolutely I could take up golf! Driving around the course on an electric buggy in my favourite Canali trousers, taking photos of the ponds, parking up next to the delightful sand features - what in life could provide greater s
atisfaction? If only I could escape hitting any of those damn, dimpled white balls. What a dreadful chore that would be. Whoever it was who said golf ruined a good walk was likely a genius.

  Taking a swig from the champagne flute, I smile. I'm getting carried away, aren't I? I should probably just stick to this marvellous lawn tractor. Hours of fun. With the steering wheel in one hand and the champagne flute in the other, it's a shame really that I can't buy a third hand (a cigar wouldn't go amiss, either). I wipe a layer of salty sweat from my top lip with the back of my arm, then jerk my hand back on the steering wheel as the buggy veers towards a bush. Inhaling the glorious scent of freshly mowed lawn, grass gathering in mounds, the lawn as spectacular as Old Trafford on match day, I'm struck that I'm alone in over an acre of land. My land. I open my mouth wide so I can hear my own singing above the roar of the engine.

  Here's a little song I wrote. You might want to sing it note for note. Don't worry, be happy.

  The garden is a frequent discussion point at my celebrated dinner parties. Frankly, I make sure it is. When the guests gaze out of the dining room window (tipsy on Dom Perignon Vintage) and they gasp, then I know my work here has been done. Suddenly, I'm Hitchcock on the opening night of Psycho, savouring the audiences reaction to Janet Leigh's untimely shower death (bless her). The house (correction: the mansion). The garden. The indoor swimming pool. Unknowingly, their gasp is their judgement of my life's work, my reward for long, lonely hours in the office when, most likely, the rest of the town idled in The Swan or The Oak, intoxicated on a cocktail of booze, gossip and unrealized dreams.

  I bring the tractor to a halt. Motionless, a sitting target, the sun is like a laser beating down against my neck. I take a quick sniff of my armpit - I definitely need a shower before dinner. Perhaps I should cool down with a swim in the pool first, though? Or - maybe - I could work up a real sweat in the gym first before cooling down with a swim?

  Decisions, decisions, decisions...

  ******

  That workout was a terrific idea; it really got the happy endorphins flowing and made the relaxation that followed so much more satisfying.

  Clad in my jeans and white tee-shirt in the main living room, I stretch my legs out across the sofa. The world is a peaceful place with the TV turned off, the phone put away. I truly understand why people pay a fortune just to stay in a tent in the middle of nowhere practicing Buddhist poses and yoga and drinking jasmine tea.

  Blinking open my eyes, my wife, Diane, stares back at me. Her smile is wide and set, with a tiny gap between her two front teeth. Her hazel eyes fix on me, face alight with contentment. My two boys, eight and ten, have their blond hair brushed forward in a straight fringe. They are freshly scrubbed, straight out of the bath; both look awkward in their freshly ironed shirts. I'm there too, slender and handsome in my favourite grey suit; the proud family man.

  That was then. This is now.

  The family portrait hanging on the living room wall was taken on my 35th birthday, twenty-two years ago. Part of me wishes I could pause time. I'd happily live this day over and over, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. The slender and handsome man is now portly and tired with straw arms and legs, despite the gym, despite the swimming. Our two boys fled the nest as soon as it was feasibly possible to do so. They hardly speak to me. They never come to visit. Diane is no longer my wife.

  What was I supposed to do? Live the rest of my days alone? I was forty-nine years old; either I shrunk and withered, or I started again.

  I look away, to distract myself with something - anything - in the room, but - again - I'm drawn back to the portrait. Sometimes I think it is a curse, on par with Dorian Gray's portrait, hidden away in the upper room of his house. How could I think this about my wife and my children? Occasionally I'm tempted to hide the portrait away in the loft, with the draught and the spreading cobwebs - out of sight and out of mind. I never would. Even though it brings tears to my eyes, I cling to the happy memories. And besides, how could I dump Diane in the cold, heartless loft, away from human life?

  “I caught you, Mister. Sat on your own. Billy No Mates, you are. Daydreaming again, weren't you?”

  The silence, and the solitude, is broken.

  I lower my head, hoping my red-rimmed eyes aren't visible. I hadn't noticed her enter the room, but then she is so delicate, so light on her feet. Her buttocks sink into the sofa next to me; the legs fold underneath her like a toddler. Strands of lustrous dark hair brush against my arm, sensual like a feather. Her caressing hand tingles my cheek.

  I smile. "Sorry, Apinya. You're right. You caught me. Just having a quiet moment to myself."

  My eyes drop to the row of bright, straight teeth, to the delicate mole just above her lip. I often find myself staring at my second wife in wonder, like she is a work of art. How can a person be so perfect, so unblemished? Mesmerised, I take in the angular contours of her face, the flawless olive skin. How did this beautiful, divine creature ever become part of my life?

  I push away the taunting voices. Plenty of people in the town have an explanation or three. The chaps from the pub - Dave and Geraint, for example - have said as much to my face. I don't begrudge them - they're the honest, brave ones. They don't mean any harm. Not really. I'm reminded of Debbie McGee on the sofa with Mrs Merton. But what first, Debbie, attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?

  Apinya's thumb circles the indent in my chin. “Don't be a silly sausage. I want my husband to be happy. That is my job, Mister, to make you happy."

  I don't say anything. Does my smile translate as a grimace? My ears feel like they've reddened. Her lips edge closer to my cheek. "And besides, if I don't make you happy then you may ask for an exchange, send me back to Thailand..."

  I pull my head back. Has she been reading my thoughts? "Oh no, I'd never do that. Why would you think that...?”

  She cackles loudly. My eyes cloud over as she playfully slaps my wrist. "I'm playing with you, silly. Besides, you've been a busy boy today haven't you, whilst I've been at my group? You were on that tractor thing of yours for hours, mowing the lawn or whatever it is you do. And that garden is so big, so much lawn! You deserve some peace and quiet, bless you. You must be tired. Don't mind me.”

  Her bony knee digs into my chest. All her joints are sharp - her knees, her elbows, her ankles. They contrast with mine, which are cushioned with fat. Usually, I ask how the group went. Often I'll enquire about Rose and Katherine. Particularly Rose. Today I'm not convinced my interest is genuine. I try not to be disingenuous. Looking up at Apinya, I'm aware my face is probably pleading, like a puppy wanting a treat. “I am a bit tired to be honest, Apinya. An early night wouldn't go amiss. After all, we have tomorrows for a reason...”

  Apinya's nose rubs against my cheek before she kisses my lips. Her legs effortlessly expand. Which way will this go? What is wrong with me? My wife's young, beautiful, lithe thighs wrap around my rotund, aging belly, and yet here I am craving my bed (to sleep).

  “I was thinking the same thing, darling. An early night is just what the doctor ordered!"

  I follow the confident swagger of her pert buttocks as they move further away. She turns around just as she reaches the living room door. Her eyes straighten. Her smile widens.

  “Bedtime, Big Boy.”

  Hearing the flutter of her feet tiptoe up the wooden staircase, I close my eyes. So many men my age would kill to have a sexy young wife with an insatiable sex drive. Me - I'm worried she might kill me off. If Diane were still here, then I'm sure she'd be content with naked cuddles and tender kisses in the morning. What would she think of this? She'd probably bounce back and forth with laughter. No. Don't compare her to Diane. That's unfair and heartless on Apinya.

  The shout from upstairs is loud and caressing. "I'm waiting..."

  Pushing the bedroom door open, my jaw drops. Apinya lies on her back on the bed, her knees slightly raised, hands pressed flat. She has changed for bed. Only, she has not put on striped, cotton pyjamas. Four-inch b
lack high heels dig into the cotton bed sheet. A red bodice makes her midriff impossibly slender and it squeezes her breasts up and out. The tiny black leather skirt flutters over naked buttocks. Parting her legs, my eyes follow the trail all the way up her thighs.

  "Has this woken my tired, darling husband?"

  The frog in my throat hops. We've been married for two years and yet she still manages to turn my fifty-seven-year-old self into a giddy teenager discovering top-shelf magazines for the first time.

  "I think I am fully awake now, yes."

  "Relaxation is good for your heart..."

  "I'm not sure this will do my blood pressure any good though, Nurse...”

  Her laugh is loud and thunderous.

  I perch on the edge of the bed like a hospital visitor delivering grapes. Immediately, Apinya gets to her knees, tugging at my jeans. I try not to look at my pasty, bumpy legs, at the red dots, at the blemishes. I'm tempted to tug back when she unrolls my pants. She asked me to shave, said it was hygienic and sexy; I feel like a pre-pubescent teenager.

  "You certainly have woken up," she says, looking me in the eye, holding me in her hand.

  That has never been a problem. There have never been any humiliating behind-the-counter purchases of Viagra for me. Quite the opposite. Thrusting my pelvis forward, my eyes move to the ceiling. My open hand presses down against the top of her head. Desperately, I try to think of horrendous things. People with piles. Brexit. Margaret Thatcher naked.

  It is too late. None of this is anywhere near potent enough.

  Apinya jerks away, coughing and spluttering. I don't dare to look at her, at the white goo flowing from her mouth. This was supposed to be the warm up. The referee hasn't blown his whistle yet. I've blown mine. My wife wanted me inside her, to give her a good time. I know, and she knows, this isn't going to happen now.