The beautiful green and yellow fields are replaced by the shadow of houses. I can't do anything here. I'll be seen. I'll be caught. There could be witnesses. Cameras. Ray will tell you - in the old days you could get away with things. The flashing indicator is like a bulb in my brain. The van turns left. I slow down, keep at a safe distance. The van stops. The man gets out. Slams the door behind him. Kicks out his long legs.
He has no idea I'm here. Stupid, knucklehead men.
His narrow, sliding shoulders contrast with his belly which is inflated like a balloon. Shoes drag against tarmac. He enters a house. His house. Through the safety of my car window, I watch the man plant a kiss on the cheek of a portly woman. His woman, no doubt. His poor, insufferable wife. He disappears out of sight, into another room. And then, he returns. He sits on the sofa with his feet up, at peace with the world, with no regrets.
I'm in control from here. I can see him, but he can't see me. I'm a sniper, taking my time, zoning in on my target. My finger taps away at my phone. Right now, this phone feels much deadlier than a gun. It starts ringing. I watch as the man digs inside his jeans, as he puts his hand to his ear.
“Hello?”
My breathing is heavy. I say no words.
“Who is this?” he asks. "Is anybody there?"
"Yes. Somebody is here."
"Who is this?"
“This is the woman who you just spat on.”
The man rotates his head, looks around the room. I laugh. Make sure it is loud and clear through the receiver.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“What if I told your wife what you did to me?”
There is a pause. He sucks in air.“My wife isn't here.”
"Fair enough. If your wife isn't there then maybe I should just wait here until your wife comes home, then I can tell her you've just kissed another woman in your own home. How does that sound?"
The man is on his feet now, of course. Looking through the window, he reminds me of a gorilla in a cage. Spotting me in my car, I wave, all nice and friendly. His face turns a darker shade of red.
“Listen, darling,” the man says, “I don't know who you think you are, but you sure don't know who you're messing with-"
"You look really scary, with that little fat belly-"
"Do you want me to go and get my wife? This really isn't much of a threat, sweetheart. She knows what I'm like on the road, that I sometimes lose my temper. It's just a man thing, you know? She's seen me do that before. What she'll be more concerned with is some psycho woman following me. It's not me you need to be scared of, it's her. She'll come after you, not me...”
I pause, let the man's bravado subside, let him dwell in his cesspit.“So you do have a wife? I just want to check with you. What is it you think I'm going to tell her?”
The man glances over his shoulder. Looks back. “That I spat on you.”
I laugh. Long and hard. "But that's child's play. Like you said, she already knows her husband is a dirty, filthy little bastard. What would be the point in telling her that?"
"But that's what I did. What else would you tell her?"
I push open the door and step out of the car. Start walking down the drive, my heels clicking. He is jumping up and down in his living room now, suddenly very concerned.
“What you going to tell her...?”
"I'm going to tell her that you got out of your van and you abused me. That you touched me up. Tell her that you really are a dirty, filthy bastard.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I fucking despise you, and men like you, that's why.”
I can no longer see the man. He is out of range because I am too close.
“I'm stood right outside your house. Ready to press your doorbell.”
“No. Please. What is it you want?”
Pause. Good question. My hand hovers over the doorbell.
“I want you to tell me you are sorry.”
“What? What else?”
“Nothing else. Just tell me you are sorry. That you did it because you have a tiny dick, that picking on women smaller and weaker than you makes you feel bigger and stronger.”
“I'm sorry. Honestly, I'm sorry..."
"And?"
"I really do have a small dick, too. Tiny.”
I press a button and the phone goes dead. The walk back down the drive feels longer than the walk up. I hold my head up, oblivious to the dreary drizzle.
I'm hit by a thought, one which thwarts my bluster somewhat.
This is exactly what Sheena would have done, isn't it?
Monday 22nd October 2018
Rose
Am I deliberately walking into a burning fire? Every inch of my brain and every ounce of my heart tells me to stop - to turn around - to walk back in the direction I came from and don't look back.
Naturally, I keep walking towards the burning fire.
Pontbach train station has but one platform; even that seems surplus to requirements. I imagine the station is fairly busy early in the morning, with villagers commuting via Cardiff Central to Newport, Bristol and Swansea, to cities actually offering employment. It is now mid-morning and I could lie down in the middle of the track and the first person to see me would be the driver of the train veering towards me. The wooden bench lies damp and uninviting. With my head bowed, my eyes scan the cracks in the concrete, soggy chewing gum and traces of spit. I walk up and down the platform. Up and down, up and down.
From the way Bernard spoke, it sounded like the ladies had a wild social at the river. Katherine did text me, asking how I was, enquiring where I was. I told her I had an upset tummy, apologised that I hadn't got in touch, that I'd been too busy running to and from the toilet. She was hardly going to ask any more questions now, was she? I didn't tell her the truth, that I could barely function, that I didn't have the desire to even bathe myself. She sent me another message the next morning asking if I was feeling any better, no doubt suffering with a hangover. I didn't need to lie the next day. I was feeling better. Truth be told, I sprung from bed that Sunday morning with more motivation than I ever have living in this town.
Katherine has always been good to me. I need to warn her of the threat. I just need to work out how.
I'm joined by a few other lost souls on the train, with hair sticking up at the side and blurry eyes staring at the passing countryside. The carriage rattles and shakes, stops and starts, seems in no hurry to get there. I'm not hygiene obsessive, but even I wonder who last sat in this seat, what they had on their trousers. Every time I board a train, I'm always reminded of Ringo Starr narrating Thomas the Tank Engine. Just how did a Beatle end up with that gig? Stepping off the train and onto the platform at the other end, I look around. Are there any old faces here from back in the day? If there were then they'd certainly be old. Don't be silly, Rose. Who am I kidding? That day was so many days ago. I've long been forgotten. Sure, the locals may still gossip about my family, but they won't recognise me; we are confined to folklore.
There is only one person in this town who really knows me.
The street sloping downwards from the train station is so much steeper than I remember. My thick thighs rub together; I can almost imagine blue veins popping out of my calves. Wiping a film of cold sweat from my forehead, I'm almost tempted to stop at the pub at the bottom of the hill, even if it is just for a coffee (or what about a nifty whisky?). I keep walking though, across the road. I have a purpose, for a change. I'm here for a reason. If I stop, the nerves will just keep growing. I may look like a sweet little old lady, but I'm a sweet little old lady who could easily spend the whole day in the pub drinking, hiding away from her fears.
It isn't a long walk. I just need to head out of town, across the bridge, towards the park. The memories are everywhere, though. I keep my head focussed forwards. I daren't look around. Nearly every street has a story, indirectly linked to me.
I stop outside the house. The square patch of lawn is only about ten feet by ten feet. It would onl
y take a minute or two to mow. And yet my knees graze against the spiky tips of the grass. The grey paving slabs are stained at least three shades darker than their original colour. My body slants with each step, threatening to topple over. There is no doorbell, and no brass knocker. The blood has flowed to my head. I long to shovel some sugar cubes into my mouth, like a horse. Taking a deep breath, I knock the door.
Nothing.
I grab for the excuse. At least I tried, I think. What else can I do? But then I spot the outline of a hunched figure through the stained glass. Damn. Too late now. He'll see me, even if I try to run. The door opens.
The way he shields his red-rimmed eyes from the sun it's like he's been living in a cave. Black and grey hairs sprout from the top of his faded vest. It looks like he has dipped his hair in a frying pan. His eyes widen; his mouth opens.
"Rose?"
I think it is fair to say my husband is shocked to see me.
******
I follow him down the hallway, his tattooed arms hanging low like a gorilla. Maybe I am becoming a hygiene freak? Either way, I narrow my body, make sure my fingers don't touch the greasy walls.
"Take a seat," he says, before heading to the kitchen.
I wait until he shuts the kitchen door before I step over the newspapers scattered on the floor to open the window. Even the window seems to sigh with relief as a cold, sharp gust of wind enters the room. Sweeping aside some empty cans of Coke and Stella, I plonk myself down on the sofa. Warm fluid trickles down the cushion. Dear Lord, please let that be drink from one of the cans. Realistically, that is the least of my worries.
"Ta," I say, as he hands me a steaming cup of coffee. Milk and two sugars. He remembered. Just like Bernard.
Pressing the red button, the daytime TV disappears. Moments pass without either of us saying anything. Depressingly, it feels just like the old days.
"So, is this a social visit, Rose?"
My face breaks into a smile. He quickly follows. To a lesser degree, Bernard had the same thought. I know what it looks like. After years and years of nothing, I return to the house we lived in together, as husband and wife, and silently drink his coffee. I'm not one to swear - I'm a sweet little old lady, after all - but I'm aware my husband wants to know what the fuck is going on.
"I've just been thinking, that's all," I say. "I've had a lot on my mind."
"Such as?"
"I want to talk about her."
"Her?"
I cast him a look. Don't you fucking dare. He flinches.
"Our little girl. Our darling Marie," I say.
His head slants down. The thick tufts of hair bring focus to his bald crown, reminds me of a monk.
"But why now? Why after all these years? I don't get it..."
"Someone brought it all back the other week..."
"I don't buy that," he spits. "I know you. You think of her every day. We both do. Why do you want to talk about her now?"
"Don't I have the right to talk about my little girl anytime I choose, Mick? Forget why I choose now. I want to talk about her, that's all you need to know. I want to talk to you about her..."
He holds up his hands. "Okay, okay. Keep your hair on, woman."
"You always were a charmer," I say.
He shrugs his shoulders. They used to be so much wider.
"Has anyone visited you recently?" I ask. "A young, slim blonde woman, very attractive..."
"I fucking wish."
I ignore that. We're only married in name. We never bothered to get divorced.
"Does the name Sheena mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Anything seem strange recently?"
"Apart from you sat over there drinking coffee with me, then life has delivered the same old shit, day after day."
"Sure?"
"What is this?"
Inhaling deeply, I blow out the air I just sucked in. Clearly, he knows nothing. My husband is an experienced liar, but he isn't an actor. This line of enquiry isn't worth pursuing. There are other things I want to say to him though, things that have simmered for years and only just risen to the surface; because of her.
"Marie should have been home with us," I say. "She should have been home with Mum and Dad. We should have been a family. She should never have moved out. She was too young to live on her own. She couldn't look after herself. Not really."
"That was her choice. We didn't throw her out. There was always a bed in our house waiting for her..."
"She was still a kid. What kind of parents were we...?"
"They were different times, Rose. She was over eighteen. What's to stay she wouldn't have gone out that night even if she was still living with us?"
"I don't know that she would have."
Mick shuffles forward in his chair. His hands are icy cold, like the blood stops at his wrists. "I know you, Rose. You've always looked for reasons to blame yourself. It is natural for a mother to do that, it is her instinct, but it doesn't make it right..."
I pull my hands away. "I don't blame me," I say. "I blame you. You killed her!"
Mick folds his arms across his chest. "Charming. Fantastic. So tell me Rose, why do you blame me?"
His back straightens. I really want to hear this. "You treated her like shit. What sort of a man calls his own daughter fat? You belittled her. She wouldn't have moved out if it wasn't for you."
"Here we go again. It doesn't really matter that she moved out, does it?"
I shake my head. His watery eyes brighten. "Maybe not. I'll give you that. You want to know the real reason I blame you, Mick...?"
His upper lip quivers. He says nothing. "You made her feel so worthless that she would have gone with any man. And she did. She went with a killer."
His whole body trembles now. His white fists ball. I can't help myself. "You killed her, Mick..."
Standing over me with his feet apart and legs bent at the knee, he is suddenly my tall, strong husband from thirty years ago. Spit bubbles from his mouth. I pull my arms to my face as he lunges forward. My teeth gnaw as his knuckles crack. I long to drown out the screaming. I dare to peek through a gap in my arms.
"What did you do that for?"
Plaster crumbles from the dent in the wall. My husband holds his fist in his hand. His outstretched arms reach for my neck. He has aged, and grown weaker, but so have I. I am still no match for Mick. He could squeeze my windpipe and suck the life from my body. His bony fingers dig into the nape of my neck. He pulls me towards him.
My husband never embraced me so tightly in all our years of marriage. His shaking body is like a train passing through a station. His face dampens my cheek. Guilt cloaks my body like a dark shadow. What sort of a woman am I to make somebody feel this bad? His blubbering mouth pushes against my ear.
"Don't you think I have the same thought every day of my life?" he asks.
"I'm sorry," I say.
He pulls away. His hands cup my cheeks. "You're sorry? I'm so, so sorry," he says.
As my husband sobs, in my arms, my fingers graze the cool sharpness of the blade in my pocket.
Sheena
So many days have passed since he last saw me, I feared that maybe the spark had disappeared, that maybe - just maybe - he no longer loved me.
It wouldn't be the first time he'd broken my heart, of course.
I had his name, and I had his (basic) credentials, but that was it. If you were so inclined, you could call it a blind date. I didn't even know what he looked like. Waiting for him, my tangled fingers whitening, I questioned what the fuck I was doing. Did it even make sense? Negative thoughts had welled in my mind, had grown and blossomed, and I just hoped if I met a stranger then I could maybe tell them about it without them judging me. And so what if they did judge me? I'd never see them again.
"Shall I see you again?" he asked, that first time we met.
The lure was too strong. I was helpless to resist.
"Yes," I said. Thinking back, I spoke too quickly, too urgently. He wo
uld say I wasn't in control of my emotions. "Are you available next week?" I asked.
We met the following week, and then the week after. Instantly, the rest of my life paled into insignificance. Before long, he totally consumed me.
"I think I'm addicted," I said. "It is totally out of control. On the one hand it shames me, on the other I've never felt such excitement."
He didn't flinch. As a rule, his face remained placid. "A degree of shame can be positive," he said. "Sometimes it means you are challenging your underlying beliefs. And life is generally monotonous and predictable, Sheena. Excitement is like water to a flower. Emotionally, humans need excitement, otherwise they wither and die..."
"Oh God yes."
"So what is your addiction?" he asked.
"You," I said.
He only needs to look at me now, from across the other side of the table, and I know nothing has changed. I have been a fool to doubt him.
"I've missed you so much," I say.
His eyes penetrate my soul and undress me down to my panties, both at the same time. My leg crosses over the other. "I miss you with every fibre of my being," he says. His teeth are still so white, still so straight, even though he is no longer young. Time has been kind to him. "My biggest struggle is learning to live life without you. For now."
I look away. I can't face that reality. Not yet.
"Is the town as beautiful as I described it?"
Black and white stubble coats his normally clean-shaven chin, giving him a masculine, grizzled edge. He has a cut on his right cheek. I'd hate to see what the other guy looks like right now. Just how sharp is that stubble? Would it tickle my inner thighs? I'd love to find out. If only. Why have they kept us apart like this?
"It is paradise," I say.
His mouth slants upwards. "And what about the slower pace of life? I remember when I first moved to London it felt like the rest of the world moved whilst I stood still. You've always been a Londoner. Are you experiencing the world in reverse?"
"I've cherished it. Today is the first day in months I've been anywhere near a bus or a train. I always envisaged the countryside to be dull. But it's not. It's beautiful. It's mesmerizing. Sure, I struggled to sleep for the first week or so. But that was because I was excited. I lay awake with a burning sensation between my legs-"
I AM HERE TO KILL YOU Page 9