‘I thought I’d crawl.’
Him and her: ‘You can’t do that!’
Me: ‘It’s not far.’
Them: ‘We’ll–’ They look at each other.
Him: ‘We’ll help you.’
‘I don’t think I can stand.’
‘Then we’ll call you a taxi and get you in it. If you need us to, we can see you to your door.’
My head is swimming, I feel like weeping. I can’t look at them. At the second attempt: ‘I’m a stranger.’
Her: ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Kind. Really kind.’
Her: ‘I’m sure you’d do the same, given the opportunity.’
I can’t tell her I just met a stranger in the park. I can’t tell her I just stoved his head in with a hammer, and stabbed him and stabbed him and stabbed him just because he was a stranger. They shouldn’t help me, but I need to get off the streets. I want to go home, but home isn’t home any more. I just say, ‘Thank you,’ and bury my weeping face in the crook of my arm. They ask me where I live.
Behind my eyes is not somewhere I want to see. I can see what I did as if I’m doing it now.
He’s talking into his phone. She listens, her arm hooked through his. She looks down at me and smiles. I can see the face of the man I killed, all the time, like a watermark on my vision. I mustn’t think about who he was, I mustn’t wonder where he was going or who was waiting for him. I mustn’t wonder whether somebody’s started to miss him already, or whether he’s already got presents under his tree or whether his children love him or whether his wife would be lost without him. He might be a complete bastard. I might have done the world a favour. It might be a better place now, not a worse one. For all I know he’s a paedophile, a rapist, someone who makes people suffer. That’s worse than what I am, it’s got to be. I’m just a murderer.
Yes, old boy, I break the speed limit from time to time. And yes, I have driven while over the limit, and committed a few parking offences. And I, admittedly, do own some pirate DVDs, but I bought them in Thailand. And I’ve ripped other people’s music onto my computer. And come to think of it, some games, too. But they’re so expensive, it’s criminal. I have taken cocaine, that’s true, but only the once. I won’t try that again; I felt like the desiccated rind of a scooped-out melon the next day. Is adultery against the law? Bloody well should be. So I suppose that counts. Oh, and I’ve lifted the odd freebie from work, but only stuff no-one’s going to miss. I’ve lied to get a job, but that was only part-time and it was years ago. And I lied to the insurance company and got my wife to lie, too. And to the police. And I’ve lied lots of other times, but for some reason that’s legal. Do I get away with that? Are we talking moral law, here, or the law of the land? Who’s the arbiter, in the end? Who weighs this all up? In the grander view, who gives a shit? Oh yeah, and I killed someone tonight. Yeah, stone dead. Self defence? Nooo …
Oh, I see. Now you take exception. Now you complain.
Brilliant.
Where’s my fucking taxi?
She leans down and reaches out a hand, then wrinkles her nose. She’s too polite to tell me I smell of puke. Her fingers touch my shoulder.
‘It’s here. Your taxi’s here … what’s your name?’
‘Simon.’
‘Simon, I’m Leah. Your taxi’s here. We’re going to have to help you up.’
Him: ‘I think this might hurt a bit. I’ll see if the driver will help.’
I see his eyes widen, the sight of real fear. The shock goes down the handle of the hammer and into my arm. The skull lets go. Eggshell. I thought it would be stronger.
‘Where do you live, mate?’
‘Wat Close. Number ten.’
‘I’ll take it slow.’
A dead weight as he crumples to the floor. A dead weight. In one blow what was a human being is just meat, bone, blood and matter.
My wallet’s in my coat, which is in my bag. I hand the man a tenner.
‘Keep the change.’
‘Come on, we’ll get you home.’
‘It’s all right, I can get to the door. Really.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Give me your keys and we’ll at least get you inside.’
‘Thank you. Thanks, but–’
‘No more argument. Come on.’
What is he? Forty? Fifty? He’s well dressed. Expensive suit under three-quarter length wool coat. Shirt and tie. Shiny shoes. His hair neat, brushed back, thinning. He has healthy skin, good teeth. He smells clean. Load of good it does him.
The cabbie and the young man lower me onto the front step and I prop myself up on straight arms. Leah places my bag beside me and tells me my keys are inside. I can’t let them come in; they’d wonder why there was rubbish all over the kitchen floor. I thank the young couple and they deflect my thanks. It was nothing.
It wasn’t nothing. They don’t let me pay for them to take the taxi home. It’s just round the corner. The cab rumbles off into the fog, thickening it with diesel fumes. Young love vanishes into the mist, hand in hand. Leah looks over her shoulder as the fog closes in behind her. Lucky man, I think.
The knife is jabbing through human flesh. Sometimes thudding into bone, sometimes scraping, sometimes slipping right in. And oh my god the eyeball …
I’m alone again. Alone with my thoughts and a ghost: I can’t shake the watermark from my vision. When I shut my eyes it’s like he’s in front of me, in a broken, jumping newsreel going round and round. Look what I did. Look. But I did it.
Getting here took time and effort. Crawling around the house dragging my bag, pushing myself up, grabbing onto surfaces, finding what I need. Both hands on the toilet bowl to have a pee. Knocking bottles and packets out of the bathroom cupboard while groping for ibuprofen. Crisps and wine – screw-top – from the kitchen. Television on. With one hand on the floor and one on its leg, I drag the coffee table to within reach of the sofa. My book and the cordless phone are on it, with a pile of junk mail, remote controls and a dirty mug. I had a cigar for this somewhere. I want my cigar. This is so much effort, my cut and grazed hands sting so much. My knees hurt. The cigar isn’t far, in a drawer on the other side of the room, but I need matches from the kitchen and a bowl for ash. I can do it. I have to mark this occasion now, because tomorrow I have to forget all about it.
At last, after heaving and groaning and swearing, at last I lie back on my sofa, help my legs up with my hands as best I can, and relax my battered body. The pressure’s off the ligament and the pain becomes a low buzz, no longer drowning everything out. Suddenly, elation collects me like six-foot breaker at my back, smashing over me, lifting me, tumbling me forward. I did it, I really did it, no one saw me, no-one can catch me, thank you God for the beautiful fog I only fucking did it! I try to laugh, but instead I get a sob. It jolts down my body and stabs me in the spine. I sob again.
‘But I did it! I fucking did it.’ I throw my arms around my head and sob and sob and wait for it to go away.
I was crying over Julia, I’m sure. Is that all the whisky left? Maybe she’s called. There’s no chance, but still, can’t hurt to check. Nothing on my mobile. I can just reach the landline, there on the table. Just spin it with the tips of my fingers and … there. Got it. Dial 1571. One new message. New message! Is this her? Press 1 after the tone. Listen.
A shaky voice. An angry voice. A man’s voice.
‘Simon Cheese, this is Robert Milston. Quite aside from the fact that you appear to have had designs on my wife, I wish to talk to you about your … your relations with my daughter. My teenage daughter! This is not a matter for the workplace; I shall be paying you a visit at home. That is all. Goodbye.’
‘Cunt!’ The phone flies across the room and clatters off the wall. And damn the phone book. No wonder Julia was so upset. She didn’t talk to him on the phone, and she didn’t pick up that message; he showed up, here, at my house. Gave her his side of the story, and she took it straight away, without even waiting to see me.
And now, no Julia. Not even any Emily. I killed the wrong man.
The cigar stings my mouth after only a few drags; the unfamiliar nicotine provokes a rush of nausea, and it becomes hard to see. I’ve had too much to drink to be smoking cigars. I let it go out in the bowl.
No more whisky. TV terrible, but at least it’s noise to drown out the roar, and something visual to fend off the ghost. If only I could sleep.
The dreams. Knives in my dreams.
Spreading dampness on my belly drags me from a restless sleep. I find myself fumbling to right the bottle I’ve let fall over. I smell wine and vomit. My head hurts, my back throbs. I’m parched, but I’m not getting up. I realise where I am. A woman is talking about frost on the television. It’s dark outside. Nothing to do. Nothing to do but get more sleep. Get more sleep and wait for the news.
Chapter nineteen
‘And now it’s time for the news in your area.’
Maybe this time? Or more stories about that grocer in fucking Whitchurch who’s raising money for charity by cycling the same route Hannibal took with his elephants?
It’s my old friend, the boy with the lofty haircut, next to a blonde. There’s always a blonde. This has got to be it. He takes a breath after introducing himself. He’s got his bad-news face on. Portentous music.
‘The headlines this morning: Man found murdered in Whitbury Park.’ Bingo. A quick shot of the scene. My scene, from the gate. Incident tape and figures in white overalls.
The woman pipes up. ‘Kent shopkeepers up in arms at new rent increases.’
Lofty comes back with, ‘Families say Christmas more expensive than ever.’ Touché.
But then: ‘And we’ll have more on Frank Baker, and his heroic efforts to raise funds for the local cancer trust.’ Game, set and match. ‘But first …’
Then Lofty. Slick changeover. ‘A man was found murdered in St Peter’s Park in Whitbury this morning. Police have cordoned off the area and are appealing for anyone who may have been in the park and seen anything suspicious yesterday evening to come forward. This is the second killing in the park in the space of two months. The name of the man has not yet been released by police, but BBC news understands that he is in his early fifties. Laurence Samuels has more:’
‘Thank you David …’
In fact, Laurence Samuels doesn’t have more. He’s got all the same stuff from a different location, closer to where it happened. Except for telling us the victim was discovered by a young cyclist who alerted the authorities. I hope that doesn’t give him a complex. I don’t want that on my conscience.
Confidence and fear swap places in my guts, each battling the other for supremacy. I’m used to the horror now. It may never leave me, but perhaps I can cope with it. There’s some wine in the bottom of the bottle, so I drink it.
The telephone’s ringing. Or is it a dream? I’ve been asleep again.
I shake my head and stare. It’s coming from the other side of the room. Maybe I’m still asleep. I can’t figure out where the noise is coming from. Christ, I’m thirsty. How did the phone get over there?
I know who it is. The grim certainly of who it is transfixes me, and dread creeps up my body. I remember where I am and what I’ve done. And they’re on to me. Those figures on the news, picking and poking over every stray hair and drop of saliva, my pool of puke, the hammer, the knives. I left too much, I should have known, they can catch anyone now, anyone. They probably fingerprint your passport application, and take your DNA from the glue on the envelope. They’ll do anything now just to have you on record. The ringing won’t stop. Go away. No normal person would ring for this long; it’s them. Go to messages, please. I wouldn’t dare answer it, even if I could reach it. Just stop ringing!
It stops. Mid-ring. I should go and check, see who it was. But what if they call again and it’s engaged? They’ll know I’m here. What do I do? And what’s that noise?
Beneath me, something vibrating. Jesus, my mobile! I dare not check the display, I dare not. But curiosity beats fear.
Work. It’s work. I almost laugh. Don’t be ridiculous, Simon, they can’t catch you, they’ve no way of finding you. It was only work. Ruth wondering where I am.
Bollocks, I’m late for work! I should have called. It will look weird that I haven’t called. I answer the mobile.
‘Hello, Ruth?’
‘Simon, where are you?’
‘Jesus, Ruth I’m really sorry.’
‘There’s a first.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Where are you?’
‘I’m at home. I’ve hurt my back. I’ve really hurt my back. I can barely move.’
‘Why didn’t you pick up your other phone?’
‘I can’t reach it. No idea why it’s over there. I’ve really hurt myself. I haven’t slept much, I’ve been lying here just staring, and I forgot to call you I know but I’ve hurt myself, and the bin’s all over the kitchen, and I’ve been sick and it hurts and Julia’s gone, Julia’s left me as well and I’m just lying here and I can’t do anything. Just got drunk. TV’s rubbish. I could use some water.’
‘What? Simon, are you– ’
‘Phone Mick. Or Hotshot. For extra staff.’
‘Who?’
‘Mark.’
‘Oh. Hotshot?’
‘Whatever. And get Nicki in.’
‘Ok. Simon?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you all right? Is anyone there?’
‘No. No-one’s here. Just me. I’ll be up and about soon enough, and out and about. Get that shop shaped like a ship and I’ll be back in time for Christmas. No problem. Few days, that’s all. I’ll be up in a few days. But I trust you. You’ll be fine.’
‘Right.’
‘Let me know how it’s going.’
‘Ok.’
‘Bye.’
I hang up before she can reply and grip the phone in my fist. It reminds me of the knife, which reminds me of the eye.
Went right in.
News music. More urgent, look-out-he’s-behind-you, heart-pounding rhythms. I’ll have to sit through the national stuff: Brexit fall-out and the Middle East, immigrants, guns and bombs. Bombs all over, like it was fashionable. And lots of news that isn’t actually news, but people pretending they know what’s going to happen and calling it news. “In the news today, house prices may fall.” That’s not news! What I did is news.
Holy shit. What I did is news! There’s the park, first headline, there’s the park. What the hell?
‘In the news today, hereditary peer brutally slain in Whitbury.’
Oh no. It can’t be. It can’t be him. It’s a coincidence. More headlines. Rubbish, rubbish. Fuck. They’ll never release that journalist. His head will fly off on the internet. Get on with it!
‘Lord Robert Milston …’
‘No! No! It can’t be! How can it be! Fuck!’ Frantic now. How can this be? I’m dreaming, it’s some sick, twisted dream.
‘… cause of death understood to be …’
What was he doing there? He’d been to my house already. But he didn’t see me, he saw Julia, and he hadn’t wanted to talk to Julia. He’d wanted to talk to me.
‘… body appears to have been mutilated after the death blow was struck …’
He’d wanted to talk to me, so he’d come to Whitbury. He’d gone to his flat and walked to my house. He’d talked to my wife, and she’d found out why he’d come, and no doubt he was sorry he’d upset her. But she’d wanted him to find me now, so she’d told him … my own wife had told him what time I was expected back from work, give or take, and probably added an hour so she’d have the time to leave me. So he’d gone away, maybe had some food or a drink, given himself some leeway, and was coming back. Coming back by the quickest route from St Cuthbert’s to my house, through the fucking park. Just before ten.
‘… leaves behind a wife and three children.’
I’m sunk.
Chapter twenty
The notebook! I’v
e got to get rid of my notebook and the A-to-Z with the markers in it. My hands are trembling. I reach into my bag and grab the book, scanning the table for matches. It’s got to be burnt. I’ve got to get rid of it.
But no, I realise, as the weight of what I’ve done thickens my blood, it doesn’t have to be burnt. There’s no way out of this.
I was the person he was coming to see, so I’m the one the police will come and talk to. In their eyes, I’ve got a motive; he destroyed my marriage and I knew he was coming so I waited for him in the park with a hammer. I hacked up his body because I hated him so much. I knackered my back and crawled to the road, but had to lose the murder weapons in the bushes and be helped to the door by some friendly passers-by, who will place me near the scene at the appropriate time. And that’s without forensics. It’s all gone wrong, my murder’s gone wrong. How did it all go wrong?
Defeated, in a spirit of warped nostalgia and seeking clues to my failure, I open my notebook on the first page.
My rules. My plan:
Don’t have a criminal record.
Don’t have a motive.
Don’t be seen.
Don’t let anyone connect you with the murder weapon.
Under no circumstances kill someone you know, or who knows you.
Don’t be poor, depressed, recently bereaved, out of work or going through a divorce. Or black or Muslim, because the police are racist pigs.
Don’t be stupid. And whatever you do, don’t feel bad about it afterwards.
I’m disgusted with myself when I read the list. Rules 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7 all broken.
Real.
Fucking.
Clever.
I can’t even run. “Police have engaged in a low-speed pursuit as their chief suspect in the Milston murder case attempts to crawl away from custody.” It’s very nearly funny.
Back Trouble Page 20