I AM HERE TO KILL YOU

by Chris Westlake

  The words linger. It sounds like I'm pleading, like I'm seeking her approval. Dave and Geraint mock me for being under the thumb, for Kat wearing the trousers. I've hit a nerve, though. The power of manipulation. I've never been to her Saturday group - of course - but I know what they talk about. Girl Power. I'm telling Kat that another member of the female species needs our help. On another day it could be Apinya, or even Rose. I'm testing her.

  Her face breaks and softens and the scorn vanishes; suddenly, my wife is beautiful again.“The world needs more men like you, Ray Roberts," she says. "Knight in shining armour, that's what you are."

  With a quick kiss on the lips and a brief goodbye, I'm out of the door. My calves strain as I climb the hill. I reach the top and look around.

  She isn't here.

  I'm not panicked. I'm disappointed. She must have sorted herself out, found her friends. Which is good. Fantastic. But I missed my opportunity to be a hero, to make Kat proud. Knight in shining armour, that's what she said. I turn on my heels, my job done. And then, something grabs my attention.

  What's that on the other side of the road?

  It's Tony, the guy from the pub. He has his back to me. My fists tighten into balls. Blood flows to my burning face. My feet quicken into a jog. All of me - sixteen stone of brawn and anger - transfers to my right shoulder, as I barge him. Perfect connection. Tony's upturned arms flail into the air. He stumbles and staggers like a punch-drunk boxer, bending at the knees to stay on his feet. I don't look at his face - I don't want to - but I know it has crumpled into one of confusion and anger.

  “Here you go, love,” I say, aware of my crackling voice. I don't stay six feet this time. I deliberately invade her space, parting my legs and widening my body to offer a protective shield. Black mascara smears her puffy, blotchy cheeks. Her eyes dart to the road, to the pavement, reminding me of a puppy that isn't sure if I'm going to stroke or slap her. Right now, I suspect that she'd prefer a slap to a stroke.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, a flickering smile appearing and then disappearing. She holds my eyes. I nod. Unspoken words. I understand.

  "It's my fault. I shouldn't let myself get into this mess..."

  I begin to speak, begin to tell her that no, it is not her fucking fault, that she should never blame herself; just as I open my mouth, just as I'm about to spit out a barrage of words, the girl puts her hands to her eyes, shielding them from the taxi's blinding lights. Taking both of her hands, I pull her up. The girl is unsteady on her feet, but I resist slipping my hand around her waist to balance her.

  The driver peers out of the window, eyes widening as he spots the stains on her top. My heart sinks. What must he think? A paralytic girl with a guy old enough to be her dad. He isn't going to take her, is he? I can't blame him. This is his business, his livelihood. He's self-employed, just like me. He has to fill in tax returns, too. He thinks she is going to make a mess in the back of his cab, create a massive valet bill.

  "Where does she need to go?"

  I want to kiss him. Maybe he has a daughter of his own? Maybe he has a heart of gold? Right now, I don't care. The girl manages to give the driver her address. He nods his head. Knows where it is. Slipping him a note, I tell him to keep the change. Feels like a drugs deal. The driver says he'll make sure she gets home safely. The car reverses - turns around - and I watch as the engine fades, the light disappears.

  He is still here. Tony. I can almost smell him. I can sense him next to me on the pavement edge, just a dark shape. Thought he might have taken the opportunity when the taxi turned up to slip away. Think he should have taken the opportunity. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The digits pass in and out of my mind. I want to stand in silence, in the biting cold, for a handful of seconds, just me and him. I turn around.

  “What the fuck were you doing?”

  Tony looks straight ahead, hands bunched in his pockets. "Don't know what you mean, Ray. You asked me to stay here and look after her whilst you did your whole Superman thing, and that's what I did."

  "You know what I fucking mean."

  His eyes drop to the floor. He straightens his back. Sucks in his belly. "Thought you'd be thanking me. What's the problem? She was a pretty girl. She was cold. I kept her warm..."

  "She was drunk. She was sitting in a puddle of her own sick. You had your hands on her. I saw you. What is wrong with you?"

  “Didn't hear her complaining...”

  I don't even think about it. Pure instinct. I bend my knees. Rotate my body. Transfer my weight. My left hook slams into the side of his jaw. Knuckle against bone. Tony drops to the floor like a felled tree. I stand over him, feet apart, fists still rolled into balls whilst Tony, kneeling on all fours, hands and knees digging into the tarmac, shakes his head. No way is this chump going to stand up and fight back. Nobody is around - he can tell his mates in the pub he fell down the stairs. No shame. This is hardly ever about physical pain. Clutching a handful of hair, I pull his head down and smack it against my knee. He rolls onto his back. Digging my knee into his chest, I pummel punch after punch into his face, his bloodied cheeks smothered with saliva.

  An image invades my mind, one I'm constantly trying to push away, and somehow - just - I manage to stop hitting him.

  Standing up, I brush myself down. I walk up and down for seconds, possibly minutes, my cheeks hot despite the cool breeze. Tony purrs like a helicopter ready to take off. He presses his hands down against the floor, gingerly rises to his feet. I turn to him and he flinches, puts his hand up to cover his face.

  "If I ever see you around here again, Tony, I will fucking kill you. Do you hear?"

  The man - a stranger again- nods his head.

  Sunday 26th August 2018

  Sheena

  The duvet rolls in a neat ball to the side of my naked body. My eyes fix to the ceiling. I know I'm smiling.

  The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip-hip-hooray. There is no need for an alarm. Regardless that its Sunday, there is no real need to get up. Not anymore. Not here, in Pontbach. I don't have a job, and yet I still have money. I know its morning because light slips through the flimsy bedroom curtain. Another day. But unlike back in London, where I was just another faceless person, herded here, there and everywhere but with no real purpose - no real reason to exist - now I look forward to waking up, to another day full of wonderful possibilities.

  Not that anybody in Pontbach has really seen my face, seen who I really am. That will change. Soon. Deliberately, I've been a ghost. Sure, I've allowed a few glimpsed shadows, like Katherine and Rose in yesterday morning's meeting, but they were so fleeting I left them confused and befuddled. But I've seen plenty of faces in the few weeks I've been here, just from afar.

  I can't hear anything. I could be deafened by noise in London and yet still be lonely. Now, all alone in my bedroom in Pontbach, my body is covered in goose bumps. No TV. No voices. No passing cars outside. Not even the ticking of a clock. Possibly just the hint of my breathing as my belly rises and falls. With my head engulfed in the fluffy pillow and my long blonde hair scattered everywhere I think, with a smile, that if rose petals were dropped from the ceiling onto my naked body then it would be like the scene from American Beauty.

  When it happened, about two months ago now, I was ready to move anywhere just so long as it was away from London. Literally, I was prepared to just close my eyes and stick a pin in a map. Daniel, of course, had other ideas. He knew the day would come. In a way, he prompted it. He'd secretly planned, thought ahead. He never let on. Kept me completely in the dark. This is one of his (many) weapons.

  "There is only one place you should go to," he said. "Pontbach."

  I raised one eye, waiting for him to expand. He stayed silent. Pontbach? Was that in Wales? Wasn't that country full of mountains and sheep? I shrugged my shoulders. There had to be a reason. There always was.

  "Do your research," he said, reading my mind.

  Twenty years ago this would have meant a trip to the library. These days
, of course, a fountain of knowledge is available at your fingertips. Still, initially there didn't appear to be that much information. About sixty miles inward from Cardiff. Just over two thousand residents. Three pubs. A Thursday market. A small brick bridge crossing the Wye River.

  I wondered how I'd stay awake. Where was the drama? Part of me wanted to go back to Daniel, ask for more information, just a starting point, but I feared his disapproval and I dreaded the thought of letting him down. And so I kept clicking the mouse, continued flicking from screen to screen until the headings expanded before me.

  There it was. The reason he said it was the only place I should go. My fingers trembled at the enormity of the reason.

  Creaking my head to the side in my new home now, I look down at the reflective laminate floor. There is not even a glimmer of fluff on the skirting board, no mess whatsoever. A spider appears from underneath the bed, confident and cocky, almost dancing. Smiling, I press the back of my hand on the floor, inviting the spider into my palm. The spider weighs up whether I'm friend or foe. He has no reason to trust me.

  "There you go. I'll do you no harm. I'll look after you. You're safe with me.”

  The spider pauses – stops – almost as if to take in the words, a fish checking whether a hook is attached to the worm. Certain this is no trap, he climbs onto my hand, ascents up my bare arm.

  Everyone, and every thing, trusts me.

  I roll the spider between my two fingers like a ball of chewing gum. Flick it away. The spider is like a newborn calf. It scrambles away, before disappearing down a tiny crack in the skirting board.

  This is the stimulus I need to get out of bed, to end the bliss. Pressing my feet down on the cold floor, I pull the curtains wide, open the window. I push my head outside, not caring if the neighbours can see my naked body. The cold air makes my body shiver. The sky is clear and vibrant. What wonderful power God has, I think, to make it a good day or a bad day for billions of people, just by deciding whether to make it rain or shine. I inhale deeply. Crisp. Fresh.

  “Beautiful,” I say, bending at the waist and pushing my arms forward, a cat that has just woken from a nap. The floorboards creak as I make my way to the mahogany fitted wardrobe, the centrepiece of the bedroom. Twisting my neck to the left and then to the right, I crinkle my nose and bare my teeth, stare unblinkingly at my reflection in the mirror. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  My fingertip creates a smudge down the mirror. I'm reminded of the soreness in my wrist, of the sharp, glorious incision in my skin. I pull my fingers to my nose; the scent is dull and familiar, like lead from a battery.

  I think back to the early hours of the morning. I stood right in this spot. The window was wide open then too, the breeze caressing my naked body. It was cold and black outside then, and my body, tinged blue, shivered and shook. My pink nipples stiffened and darkened, not from the cold air outside entering my room, but from the blood flowing through my body. The whites of my eyes reflected back at me in the mirror, growing wider as the scissors plunged into my wrist. I closed my eyes and, as the pain hit me, the tingling crept up my thighs.

  Looking down now, the droplets of blood have dried, darkened to the point they are nearly black. My smile widens. My teeth glisten. My fingers trace the outline of the letters I smeared onto the mirror.

  Carnage.

  Bernard

  The lines appear etched in his cheeks. His freckled forehead slopes backwards. The head shakes from side to side. The expanding eyes fix on me. He says nothing. The look tells me everything I need to know.

  I repel him.

  Blinking the sweet sweat from my eyes, it takes me a few moments to realise I'm no longer asleep. When will I learn? The dream is recurring, yet it never fails to trick me.

  I take a sideways view of the alarm clock. 8:14. Sunday. Wish it was an hour earlier. Whatever time I wake, I always wish it was an hour earlier, just to give me some time before I have to face the day. I stretch out my arm to the other side of the bed. My hand continues grazing the silk bed sheet. I pat my hand down, like I'm building a sandcastle.

  Apinya isn't in bed.

  Memories of last night's argument flood my mind. Was it even an argument? Apinya just shouted at me. Despite the light in the room and the glowing August sun outside, dark clouds hover and fester in my world this morning.

  Showered and dressed, I tiptoe down the stairs. She doesn't notice me enter the kitchen; I observe her for a few moments at the stove, frying eggs and sausages and simmering baked beans. She always strived to be the perfect wife. The oversized apron hangs to her knees. Her hair is tied in a bun. The beautiful scents make my nostrils twitch. This house is already beginning to feel like a home again, like it did when I lived here with my first wife and our two children. I stand motionless in the doorway, a smile forming. I want to hate her. She deserves to be hated. How can I? Apinya does a double-take when she turns around. I extinguish my glimmering smile, like water on a fire. Her reaction is almost comical. For a moment, she wonders if an intruder is in her home. Our home. For a moment, I wonder if she's right.

  "How long have you been there?"

  "Not long. Just admiring the view."

  This is intended to sound affectionate, a loving husband complimenting his beautiful wife, and yet heat burns my cheeks. I feel like a Peeping Tom, like I've been caught spying with my trousers by my ankles. Apinya pauses; she isn't sure of the correct way to greet me. She throws down the oven gloves and wraps her arms around my neck, planting a kiss on my lips. "I'm so, so sorry," she says.

  "It's okay."

  "It's really not okay, Bernard. You mean everything to me. You treat me like a princess. Yet this is how I repay you?"

  Breaking our embrace, she sits down on the sofa, tightening her arms around her chest. I'm reminded of my eldest boy; he did this when Mummy told him off. But then, he was about ten at the time. Whilst I sit down next to Apinya, it feels like I'm observing her from afar. "You have your reasons," I say.

  "That's not an excuse."

  It is almost a question. The auburn eyes are pleading. She wants me to reassure her that it is an excuse, that her behaviour is justified because of the terrible things that happened to her in Thailand.

  "We all do things we regret," I say.

  "Sometimes the memories build in my mind until they bubble over. I get so angry, and then I take it out on the one person I truly love."

  "I should take it as a compliment in a way..."

  "I hate myself for it."

  "Don't. Just don't."

  "Didn't you see the signs?" she asks. "Didn't you see it building?"

  I lose eye contact. "I didn't, Apinya. You were out at your group in the morning and I was still in the garden when you returned. We didn't spend that much time together, did we? Maybe my mind was elsewhere."

  She strokes my arm. I flinch. She doesn't notice. "You were distracted yesterday, darling, I could tell. Thinking about your family. That's why I gave you some time. I tried to help."

  "I was. And you did give me some time. I appreciate it."

  Apinya jumps to her feet. "I've cooked you breakfast, sweetheart. You deserve it..."

  I tell her it smells great (which it does) and minutes later I tell her it tastes great (which it absolutely does). Apinya plays with her food, pushing it around her plate with her fork. Again, I'm reminded of the kids. I have no idea how many mouthfuls she eats (if any) before she scoops her food onto my plate. I'm tinged with frustration. No wonder I have an inflatable dingy around my waist whilst she remains as slim and perfect as the day we met. My endless sessions on the treadmill merely compensate for eating for two. Apinya tops up my cup of tea.

  Sitting in silence, I glance occasionally at Apinya. Her watery eyes redden. She looks up at the ceiling and then at the clock on the wall. Today is Sunday. We have no plans. I long to quieten the guilt, gnawing away at my heart.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "You're right. I should have paid more attention. I shouldn't have let it buil
d up to the crescendo last night. It was my fault..."

  Apinya's creased face softens. Jumping off her stool, she plants a wet kiss on my forehead. "Thank you, Bernard," she says. "It means so much for you to say that."

  Wednesday 5th September 2018

  Sheena

  I step over dandelions as I walk along the bumpy path in my flat shoes. Flowers are beautiful. Flowers are harmless. They don't deserve to die.

  Before locating the information Daniel wanted me to find, I discovered that Pontbach is picturesque and delightful, the perfect place to unwind. Fair play, whilst the contributors to the forum probably had too much time and not enough life, their observations were spot on. Of course, the internet didn't suggest actually coming to live here (are you crazy?), not unless you'd retired and were already counting down the days till you die.

  Naturally, I'm not ready to die. I'm happy to push the clock hand forward a notch or two for some of the other villagers, though. Part of the thrill - as I'd already discussed with Daniel - was deciding which ones.

  Time is passing. I'm itching to get started. I've made my presence felt with the men in the local pubs, just by not having a dick. Their tongues dropped and they shuffled uncomfortably on the wooden stools. The men may not yet know my name, or where I've come from, but they're talking about me, that's for sure.

  Daniel said to bide my time, to watch and learn before I made my first move. Patience, he said, is a virtue. Think of it like a chess game. Who am I to argue with my intellectual superior? And so I am a shark circling my prey, ready to attack.

  Call me a callous, shallow cow, but at first I was struck, not by Daniel's intellect, but by his beauty. The sharp contours of his face appeared carved from mahogany. His lips were the colour of rose petals. Slim, strong wrists poked out of cuff-linked, cotton shirts. The last thing I sought was love. I longed to find myself, not to find somebody else. Our first handful of meetings were brief. I did most of the talking. His questions allowed me to open my heart.