Back Trouble

by Matt Kinnaird

  The guy in the wood supplier’s had the biggest hands I’ve ever seen and stubble, so I wasn’t about to argue with him, and he spoke with such a thick Kent whine that I could barely comprehend anything he said and just ended up nodding. They should sort places like this out with some educated middle-management. After all, not everyone who needs wood is a knuckle-dragging Cro-Magnon. I got what I came for, but I can’t scrape off the lingering impression, like a smell on my clothes, that I’ve been had.

  Finally, on the way home, I stop at Asda to buy a dozen melons. If there’s one place on the face of the planet that’s likely to make you want to wipe out the whole human race and let the insects have a go, it’s Asda, and if there’s one Asda that does it better than the rest it’s the one in Whitbury. There’s screeching, swearing and parents calling their children cunts; tinny music blaring from smartphones, big headphones and Sports-Direct chic; stupid hair, grubby men with booze-sweat and tattoos on their faces, children pushing prams and worst of all the wine list’s rubbish. I load up with melons and get to the counter. The assistant looks at me like I’m mad but I don’t offer an explanation, because what could I say? Instead I fire him a ‘mind your own bollocks’ look and pay in cash. I bet the acne-faced little sod’s stuck behind that counter in fifteen years and still living with his mum.

  Back at home it takes me ages to unload the car, and it starts raining while I’m doing it. It’s not my day. But I manage without rupturing any ligaments or slipping a disc, and by the time I’m finished it all seems worth it.

  It’s time to build a victim.

  Chapter five

  I was right: I’m no good at this.

  But I don’t care, because despite my incompetence I’ve finished my first creation. Not only that, I’m still feeling giddy about the Wednesday night I spent with Christine. And Sunday, tomorrow, now looks very promising.

  But my creation first. Truth be told, I wanted a tailor’s dummy. It would be perfect for my needs, but I haven’t found one. I know I’ve got all the time in the world, but over the last day or two I’ve been feeling impatient. Seems like if you decide you want to kill someone, you want to do it as quickly as possible. I hope it’s not addictive.

  I call my creation Frankie. I made him in the shed.

  My first job was to make a base for him, out of two planks and a block from one of the off-cuts. I cut the planks into three pieces each and laid half of them side by side. I laid the other three across them and nailed the lot together with my new hammer, forming a square, which I then nailed to a large wooden wine box to give my boy a little height. The block was placed dead centre, fastened to the box, and I drilled a hole in the middle, big enough to slot in a broomstick. I didn’t have a drill bit big enough, but it didn’t stop me; once I’d made the hole I chiselled out the rest. Then I chopped the second broomstick down to three feet and (I’m proud of this bit) made a crosspiece with it, near the top of the vertical one. That took time, chiselling out the gaps to fit the two sticks perfectly together, but I measured them carefully and took more time over it than I thought I would, overcoming my usual impatience.

  The final touch with the broomsticks was to sharpen the top of the upright one, then jam a melon on the spike: Frankie’s replaceable head.

  The torso took thought, but I found a solution: overalls, sawdust and a plastic bin. The bin was small, a little over a foot tall, flat-sided and trapezoid, tapering towards the base. That was Frankie’s ribcage. I cut a strip down each narrow side and a hole in the bottom, then lowered it upside-down over his arms, with his neck poking out of the top. With Frankie’s spine removed from its base I put the overalls on him, one leg cut short around the bottom of his broomstick and taped tight around it, the other hanging free to the ground. The arms slipped over the crosspiece and I tied up the cuffs and the bottom of the free leg. Finally, I filled him to the waist with sawdust, nice and plump. The final job was to give him some organs. My first thought was to use balloons filled with paint, but they’d be too much effort to replace. What I needed was something I could hit again and again, but that would show up the damage without collapsing. I decided again that fruit was the only solution.

  In the end, then, Frankie’s stomach and liver are represented by a single water melon. I laid it on his sawdust-stuffed midriff, zipped up the overalls a little, then added more sawdust to keep it there. Getting the marrows in place for his lungs, and the orange for his heart, took a bit of doing; holding in place with one hand, sawdust-stuffing in the other. I had to get them under the bin, you see, and protected, just like our ribcage guards the real thing. It took time, pouring the sawdust through his neck-hole, and a little dexterity, but I got there in the end. All plans to simulate the kidneys dematerialised, but surely you can’t go wrong with liver, stomach, lungs and heart? You’ve got to find a fatal blow amongst that lot. And there’s still his juicy bonce.

  That’s where I’ve got to. I’m sitting in my shed on a plastic garden chair, warmed by my portable radiators and illuminated by my halogen lights. My blinds are down, and nobody can see indoors. When I told Julia I don’t want her to see what I’m making in here she just rolled her eyes and said, ‘Men,’ and anyway, she’s not the curious type. In fact, I think she trusts me more than is healthy. I don’t even think trust is what it’s about. I think it’s more like she doesn’t believe I’ve got it in me to do anything, well … dangerous. And she’s happy to see me around other women. I teased her the other day with the notion that Christine had flirted with me, and that she’d better watch out. You guessed it: ha bloody ha. I don’t understand, I really don’t. She has sex with me, and enjoys it, so why does she regard the idea that anyone else could find me attractive as utterly risible? I’m a good-looking bloke. With clothes on. Ish. It would serve her right if something did happen.

  And it might, you know.

  I drove into Brougham early on Wednesday evening. It was dark already so I didn’t get a view of the Manor until I was close, but it’s a familiar landmark. Just off the old Whitbury-to-Dover road, to the south, is a series of low valleys, between flat Kent hills peppered with deciduous forests and hedgerows. Brougham lies within one such valley, the entire village visible from above in its verdant amphitheatre. The Manor dominates the eastern slope, attended by its garages, lodges, gatehouse and stables.

  The village looked sleepy, the lights from the houses twinkling with warmth, each house an island of complacent security in an idyllic English hamlet – worlds away from drug dealers, factories, hookers, graffiti, apartment blocks, poverty, crummy schools, racial tension and violence, yet only a few miles by road. As I finally approached the Manor house its shape began to emerge from its cradle of darkness, and it towered over me, massive yet elegant, graceful yet imposing, and the sight of it released in me an uncomfortable sensation of self-awareness. That’s the kind of thing I like to ignore when I don’t like what it’s telling me, but for some reason this one snuck through. My realisation was this: I know fuck-all about anything.

  The building provoked it because it’s so magnificent. I found myself gazing at it as I coasted up the drive, and feeling it attract my interest. With interest comes curiosity, and I started to wonder about its architecture. When was it built? Who by? What style is this? Has it been added to over the years? Yet a minute or two’s speculation allowed me merely to date it as ‘old’, and evaluate its aesthetic impact as ‘big’. That’s when the self-awareness kicked in. Architecture is all around us, everywhere, and I hardly ever noticed before. I know the Cathedral is Gothic, and the Western Gate is Norman, but I only know that information because I’ve lived here so long, and somehow absorbed it, not because the style of those things means anything to me. And it’s not just architecture; I know nothing about art, nothing about history (English or otherwise), philosophy, politics, theatre, science. I know about books, because I’ve always read, but I don’t know that much about them because I was never allowed to study them. I always thought I complained about
Julia watching University Challenge because of Paxman, but I now think it’s just that I can’t answer the questions and those smug bastard students can.

  And it’s too late by a mile. Knowledge like that requires a lifestyle choice. I work long hours, I’m tired when I get home and I need to spend time with my wife, so there’s no time to learn. I may well spend the rest of my life not knowing about anything but wine and undemanding fiction. My only other hobby is planning a murder, after all, and I’m only going to do it once, so I don’t think I’ll be able to claim an expert’s view. I’ve seen thousands of trains, but that doesn’t make me a train-spotter.

  I followed the Manor’s driveway, which hugged the undulating grounds for at least half a mile, admiring the blackness of the lake behind the house – so dark that the surrounding lawns seemed in contrast to glow – until I reached the broad, semicircular stretch of gravel in front of the house and slowed to a halt. I switched off the ignition and the lights, yanked up the handbrake, smoothed my hair with my fingers, picked up the notes I’d made for Christine and got out of the car. I decided to leave it unlocked and it gave me a thrill, as if I’d stolen a toy from school. I never leave my car unlocked; my hands were going through the motions and it required my active attention to stop the procedure. But I was now within the sphere of those whose lives were cocooned from the threats of the world, and that would protect my car as a matter of course. Even the air was cleaner here, cool and fresh in my nostrils, the stars were clearer, and the unnerving noises of the city at night seemed a distant memory. The only sounds came from the motorway which ran from Dover to London – at least two miles away – but these were faint, and they rose and fell on the breeze. For an instant in the darkness I felt lonely, but I collected myself, climbed the steps and rang the bell.

  One of the wooden double-doors groaned open. A tall, expressionless man appeared in the doorway. This must be Lennox, I decided. He looked older than the house. Or stiffer, maybe. And he was sporting a wig.

  He’s a drinker, Lennox. Whisky, probably. There’s a rosy swelling to his nose and his cheeks are porridge-pale, so his liver’s on its last legs, and he’s still slim, which rules out beer. And whisky drunks often exude the same overbearing quality that I’d got from him on the telephone and sensed again from him then, albeit without his physical composure. This guy was proper, and measured, and economical. But all he was to me, standing on that doorstep and requesting my name, was butler. Christine says he’s never anything else. He wears it like a skin which has thickened over the years so much that he can’t take it off. And it wasn’t just butler, but an overplayed version of butler in the same way some transsexuals overplay the role of woman. But I’d like to know why his ‘butler’ has to incorporate ‘wanker’.

  ‘Ah yes, Mister Cheese.’ – I didn’t like the sneering emphasis he placed on my surname, and it needled me – ‘You are expected. If you would like to follow me, the lady is in the drawing room.’ Not a flicker of human warmth in the man. He began to turn back into the hall.

  ‘Thanks, Norman.’

  He paused, bristled, gave himself a deft nod, then turned back to me. He tugged at the hem of his jacket once, with both hands. ‘If sir would be so kind, in my professional capacity, could sir please refer to me as Lennox, or Mister Lennox.’

  His eyes were hard like black beads and I didn’t like his tone one bit. So I think I may have come across a little sarcastic: ‘Sorry, Mister Lennox. What if I meet you outside your professional capacity?’

  ‘I don’t think you’d like to do that, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re–’

  He held up a hand. ‘I don’t think you’d like that at all. Sir. Now if you would follow me.’

  I thought then, am I being paranoid, or was I just threatened by a butler?

  The house didn’t look comfortable. I couldn’t place why at first, but then I realised: no carpets. The odd rug, sure, but I don’t trust rugs, not with my back. You think you’re on it safely then it giggles, scoots out from under you, and you’re on your arse. The rest was tiles, thick, flush, expensive stone (or marble?) flags you could probably ice-skate on, but which would dash your brains out if you fell on them. I followed Norman through the hall, counting the clichés. Animal head mounted on wall? Check. Antiquated British Empire map? Check. Portrait of previous owner? Check. Massive gold carriage?

  I didn’t see that coming. I’ll read the plaque later.

  ‘I just don’t know, Christine. How do you live in this place?’

  I’d only just sat down. That was my ice-breaker; I’d planned it since, ooh, the hallway, and was trying to reel it back in even as it was coming out of my mouth. Chump.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s wonderful?’

  ‘It’s extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary, but–’

  ‘But?’

  I was safe now: she asked, so I wasn’t intruding. ‘It’s not exactly homely.’

  ‘Not for you. I live here, you know.’

  I stuck with it. ‘How do you relax? Everything’s so expensive. What if you spill something?’

  ‘Tiles wipe clean. Besides, it’s not all like this.’ She wafts her arms airily. ‘And we’ve got our flat in the city, which is far more down to earth.’

  ‘You have a flat in London?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, but I meant the one in Whitbury.’

  ‘In Whitbury? Whereabouts?’

  ‘South Street, opposite the Western Gate.’

  ‘That’s right by my shop. How come I’ve never seen you?’

  ‘I’ve been in before. You must have missed me. It was years ago, come to think of it. The truth is, I only really shop for clothes, and I only do that in London, Paris or New York. I sort of miss it.’ I tried to hide how impressed I was, but I think my eyes widened a smidge. I shop in Whitbury. I’ve never been to Paris or New York.

  ‘You never answered whether you found this place homely.’

  She crossed her legs and cast a gaze across the room. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. Maybe I’d peeled back a layer. ‘The bigger the house you live in, the bigger the grounds, the more distance you’re putting between yourself and everyone else. It’s a lot of space for a few to fill. We have servants, can you believe it? Nobody has servants any more. But I’m not here alone that often. If I were it’d bother me more. And I adore the horses. Just adore them.’

  ‘Do you work?’

  Again, she took time to reflect before she spoke, and I wondered why she spoke so frankly to me; we hardly knew each other. She was a massive flirt, yes, but flirting is the ultimate evasion of intimacy, something else to hide behind. It might be she’s a very open person. There are people like that, I’ve heard, even if most of them live in America. Or it might be it was something about me which drew this out of her. Maybe I projected a mysterious, trustworthy quality; maybe I reminded her of something in her past; maybe I became an outlet for issues that she’d been struggling internally with and felt unable to divulge to anyone in her world; maybe I was the right guy at the right time. That’s fine by me.

  It turned out I was right about her. She’d married young, before university, and fallen pregnant inside two years. There was no question of her working, as her husband held an old-fashioned view of the role of the mother, but she competed, and still competes, in equestrian events all over Europe – at one point being on the fringes of the GB Olympic squad. That would explain the fine shape her legs are in. She had two daughters, and a son in between. She was depressed about turning forty.

  ‘How about you?’ Christine said. ‘How about your family?’

  I felt obliged then to be as open as possible about my marriage, leaving out the bad bits of course, but I failed her when it came to brothers and sisters. I could only manage, ‘My brother had an accident. He’s dead,’ before she squeezed my arm, gave me the big eyes and steered the subject elsewhere. That’s when she told me about Norman. It’s clear she has a soft spot for the caprine old fool. I decided to
be more tolerant the next time we spoke.

  After Norman, our conversation ran out of steam. She was perceptive and amusing on that subject, and our mutual humour had swelled, culminating in the end of an anecdote (Norman’s embarrassed stutterings upon finding Christine topless in the garden) and a shared laugh. But with the laugh came that momentary feeling of emptiness when you both realise a topic has been exhausted, and then silence. I was prepared for this. I got out my notes, to effect as natural a transition as possible from pleasure to business, hoping to hide the fact I’d run out of things to say.

  ‘So, your tasting notes …’ I pulled the folded paper from my jacket pocket and presented it to her with what I later realised was an unnecessary flourish; I’d meant to appear nonchalant and wasn’t going to seek any approval. She didn’t seem to mind and took it from my hand, opening the pages and scanning the contents.

  ‘Thank you! You don’t know how helpful these will be.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ I said. I was going to say, ‘All part of the service,’ or something similar, but I decided to maintain the impression that I went out of my way for her, not for the sale. Christine perched on the edge of her chair, reading the notes like a schoolgirl, her lips moving as she did so. She began to mutter:

  ‘Biscuity … appley … creamy … delicate mousse … lingering finish … sixty percent Pinot Noir … Good grief, Simon, I don’t really understand these. Do you think I can get away with it?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ I said, concealing my hurt at her lack of appreciation.