by Marc Horn
I reckon they’re struggling to build a case against me. Taping an officer’s conversation with occupational health is a desperate measure. It suggests to me that they have to break the rules to kick me out of the force. Still, I don’t know exactly where I stand, which is annoying. The last week has been extremely tedious. I pretty much stayed in my flat, resisting the burning urge to go out and thump some slags. They had too much shit on me, I knew that. I had to keep my head down for a bit.
Hearing that the search for poor, missing Ethan Kent had come to an end was the highlight of that week. After watching that news report, I treated myself to a bottle of bubbly. Fittingly, the thieving, little piss flap had been murdered. They’d found his beaten body sealed in a body bag, floating along the Thames in Surrey.
When I get home, I place the framed kid’s story in front of me and read the gibberish again...
There was a litte boy cold Fire and a litte gril cold Rien. Fire and Rien lived a log wey upart. Fire and rien loved there dadeys. riens Dady did a bad thing. Fires Dady trad to stop Riens Dady. Riens Dady got scerd and hret Fires Dady. Ples toke Riens Dady away Rien was sad. Fire was agre with Riens Dady. Fires flemes got biger and biger and brind evrething. But then Rien Riened on Fire and stoped all the flems.
I rub my eyes. Why is that so important to her? Why the fuck did it trigger my Hell Bell? There has to be something here. I dismantle it, remove it from the frame. On the back of the torn piece of paper is a message written lightly in pencil:
‘Razors, we are in danger’.
21
I’m running. I’ve been sprinting for several minutes. Flat out, as fast as I can for more than a mile. The terrain is hilly and my legs have little left, but I have to keep moving. When I am at my fittest, I stride effortlessly forwards, like a deer bounding through the woods. Now, I’m tired and each foot slams into the mud like a mallet. My lungs are coated with sandpaper and my breaths come as if I’m sucking them through a straw.
But the tornado is getting closer. They only last so long before they vanish in the sky. I just have to keep moving. I fall onto my hands and knees, digging my fingers into the slippery earth like pick axes. By the time I’m hauling myself up the final hill, my useless legs slide along beneath me. At the peak, I let gravity take me to the bottom. No point using my tiny energy reserves just to keep me balanced as I descend. The rain helps me slide to the bottom and when I get there I crash onto the soles of my feet and my knees crunch. My howl of pain is lost in the wailing wind. I try to stand, but my knees buckle. They may be broken, fractured, twisted; I don’t know and I don’t care. There’s no time for pain or self-pity. I’ve come this far and gone through this much to finish this.
Out in the sticks, the tornado churns out only dust and dirt. Now, we are on the same level. Now the dirt flies into my eyes and blinds me, whipping against my face like a belt. I splay my fingers in front of my eyes, which feel alight. It is metres away, mere metres. I cannot do this weak and beaten. I roar as I force myself to my feet. Scream as I drive each leg on. I relax my arms, take what It can throw at me. My teeth grit, my throat growling low and steady, I fight to advance, my body hunched and unstoppable.
Hot and cold air, we are told, forms these acts of God. Despite everything science purports to know, it cannot accurately tell us when or where a tornado is going to form. It doesn’t know how to stop or start them. Like I am trying to pass through a stone wall, I continue, the flying dirt more savage with each step. I look up, observe the swirling, gunmetal grey funnel right in front of me. I know how to stop these fuckers. This is no act of God. It is an act of me...
Using all the strength left in me, I dive into the twister.
And then I’m on fire. The furious, unforgiving flames deny me my screams, dancing into my mouth. I clench my fists and seal my lips tight. I roll around on the ground to stamp out the flames, but the earth is no longer wet. I’m in the same place, but it’s a sunny day. I’m going to die. The flames are relentless, as if I’ve been smothered in petrol. I never give up, but it seems this is meant to be. To go out fighting, I ram my fist into the hard earth. I hit away with both my fists. I’m a fighter. I was always a fighter. And then, my brain tells me I’m about to throw the final punch. That’s it, my son, I’m about to shut down all non-essential systems, kind of thing. I look at my right fist and kiss it. Definitely the most useful, reliable thing I ever owned. Did more good work than people could ever know. I throw my final punch, but as I connect with the earth, it cracks like glass. Not a little crack, but like an earthquake ripping up roads. And I feel relief, pain ebbing away. Heavy rain soothes my skin. I hear the delicious noise of heat fizzling away.
‘Fire and rain!’ I shout as I sit up in my bed. Anger dawns almost as quick as my understanding. I want to kill her. I will kill her. I promise myself that I’ll kill her. I’ve fucked her. I’ve let his whore of a daughter into my life! I shove a mouthful of bed sheets into my mouth and bite down. Sweat drips onto the bed. Sick fucking bitch! It’s in her blood. She’s got his blood. She is Goater’s kid.
I release my jaw. She’s twisted, fucked up. She gets off on it. She looked for me and found me. She thought she could heal me, ‘rain on my flames’, like the pathetic story’s a prophecy. So she reckons she’s a heroine, does she? She’s the saint in all this, is she? Fucking psycho!
But she wanted me to know. She left the message behind the ‘Fire and Rain’ story. I don’t understand this. If she’s doing a runner from me, then why warn me that we’re in danger?
I have to find her. Trying to work this out in my head is proving useless. It’s a skull fuck. It’s getting me nowhere. I’ll find her and she’ll tell me the truth. Once I know that, I’ll know what to do with her.
*****
I turn the radio on while I wait for the microwave to heat my porridge. That John Newman song about wanting to get in some girl’s knickers is on, so I switch stations. I snort when I find Magic fm. They’re playing the same shit. I roll the knob further. Heart too plays it. I shake my head and smirk. This shouldn’t be a surprise. And if I roll all the way to Capital, I think, as I turn the control, they’ll have it on too. Indeed I’m right… Four major stations, all playing the same song at the same time. It’s beyond naivety to consider these occurrences a coincidence. I’m running out of lyrics, tunes and artists. But why did I create a song about guilt and need? Disturbing. I smile. I sure as hell know that Classic fm won’t be playing it. Just to prove my point I find that station and then let the violins and pianos play on.
When the microwave beeps, I remove the bowl and sit in the lounge. The ‘Body in the Thames’ story is on the news. Recordings of interviews with Ethan Kent’s family are being shown. The slag’s mother, teary eyed, explaining how her son, Ethan, was a good, loving boy who had never laid a hand on anyone. He’d got in with the wrong crowd and done things he shouldn’t have, she blubbed, but he was a decent, conscientious boy who realised he’d sinned and dissociated himself from the bad influences. He was studying hard to get himself an education. He wanted to be a teacher. A few more sniffles, a couple of handkerchief dabs to the face. ‘We have lost a kind, happy boy,’ she continues.
How ironic that violins from my kitchen complement this sad tale. What a crock of shit! Indeed he was a kind boy... to her and the rest of her dog shit family. Everything he stole was recovered in her house. And he committed all his burglaries alone. There was no peer pressure. I swallow the last few mouthfuls of porridge. Make up a bull shit story like that and the sympathy will come flooding in. Sympathy means donations, doesn’t it? Nice of her to touch on his ‘sins’. She makes them sound so trivial and forgivable. I’d like to see his victims say a word or two. Some of them wouldn’t, because, thanks to this little saint, they don’t feel safe in their own homes, let alone out in public. And as for rehabilitation, it didn’t stop him breaking into my fucking flat!
I take deep breaths to relax myself and focus on the revelation. I turn the TV off. Goate
r’s daughter. His blood runs through her veins. She gets off on it. I’m his victim. His victim is her victim. Close contact with me thrills her, satisfies some depraved need in her. Intimacy; fucking me, like he fucked me... fucking piss flap! All these games, these mind fucks, they’re all part of it, part of her plan. I’ll stop it. She will suffer! I extend my arm in a flash and the bowl smashes into pieces against the wall. Fuck! Fuck... Even this, this progress, adds minimal clarity. It explains her involvement in my life, which had seemed strange taking into account my treatment towards her. But it does not expand the bigger picture, the meaning of my existence. I lean forward on my seat and rub my stubble. Or does it? I drop to my knees and collect the pieces of china on the floor. ‘It’s a distraction,’ I whisper, and then look around to check that no one heard. Could it be a distraction? All this − Fire and Rain, the note warning me of danger, basically the connection between her and Goater? Just to distract me from the realisation that this is my universe. But she must want me to find her. That’s why she warned me of danger. She expects me to find her. She’s going to trap me. It has to be a trap. The answers I’m uncovering point towards her being a pivotal player in everything. If I find her, I’ll force the truth out of her. She knows that and they know that. So either, as I previously said, they’re going to kill her − or have killed her − or she’s going to do something that convinces them that she needn’t be killed. Again, I said it before – perhaps it will be depositing me somewhere safe, where I can’t harm anyone; where the world, their lives, can happily continue to unfold.
*****
A couple of hours later I’m in Guildford, sniffing around for her scent. I remember her telling me that this was where she went to university. She has contacts here and often talks about the place. It’s another hot day. I’m wearing a white cap, shades so dark you can’t see my eyes, khaki shorts and a tan t-shirt.
Though intending to amble along the high street, I find myself heading off in a different direction. Because I’ve got a hunch about this bloke in front of me. He’s black, early twenties, short afro, six-two, large, well-muscled build. He’s wearing a white mesh vest and baggy jeans. I saw him pass by me a few minutes earlier. He had an empty, cold look about him... Hell, I can’t justify why he stood out to me. I just have a hunch. My hunches are always right; that’s why I turned around and followed him. Now I’m in a side street. It’s narrow and quiet, with old buildings keeping it in shade. A few cars are parked on one side. The bloke’s thirty metres in front. He’s walking slow, his chin in his chest. Every few seconds he looks around and I have to soundlessly sink into the shadows to avoid his glare. A woman leaves a building in front of him. She walks past him. He looks at her. She looks back at him, catches his eye and looks forward again, walks faster. He clearly made her feel uneasy. It wasn’t an attraction thing. She’s a brunette, business looking, with a suit on. She’s quite fit, about thirty. She gets her keys out of her handbag, points them at a blue Ford Focus. Its lights flash. The bloke’s turned round. He’s gonna rob her, or worse. My Hell Bell activates. She can hear him approaching. She reaches for the door handle, looks over her shoulder. But she’s too late and he’s grabbed her, slammed his hand against her mouth and pulled her tight against his body. I sprint forwards. He opens the rear door, forces her onto the back seat with him on top of her. She’s trying to scream but he’s sealing her mouth with his palm. He closes the door. When I open it, her legs are either side of his. His hands are in his crotch. Her eyes are terrified. His are livid when they meet mine. Mine are focused.
He spins onto his back and kicks out, connects with my left thigh and deadens it. I stagger back onto the road and he gets to his feet. He comes at me with a knife. It’s a flick knife with a serrated edge. He brings it down in an overhead motion, a powerful lunge. I step out of his arc. His fury has left him open. Fuck, I’m gonna enjoy this. I whip my right around and hook him in the ribs − break the fuckers. He screams, but he’s so incensed, so insane, that he ignores the pain and keeps coming at me.
‘Ever been fucked with your own dick?’ I threaten him, my dead leg impeding me slightly.
He tries to back me against a wall. I step back to the car, push the door closed with my arse and then wait. The knife held back in his right hand, he tries to pin me against the car with his left. As soon as he overreaches I act, kicking his outstretched left leg away from under him. He tries to slash me with the knife as he falls, but I’m too fast. As his left knee hovers a few inches above the ground, I stamp down hard on it, hear it crunch. Again he winces, but the knife’s still in his hand.
I laugh, a little insanely I admit, but I get carried away in such situations. Is that wrong? Course it fucking isn’t. I can’t do anything to this fucker that isn’t warranted. ‘You better get up rapist, cos when I get hold of that knife I’m gonna show you how it’s used.’
He’s up, hobbling towards me, his face alight with rage. The woman in the car is trying to dial on her phone. I recognise her face. Who the fuck is she? I’ve seen her before– He runs at me, the knife descending in a good old stabbing motion. I step aside but he guesses right and grabs my t-shirt with his left hand. His forward momentum and strength swings me around, and he uses all his might to launch the knife towards my chest. I push the thrusting arm away and throw a right cross in his face. It breaks his nose, but he’s still on his feet. His eyes stream with tears as I hook him in the temple and knock him out. The knife clashes on the ground. I take hold of it, and open the car door.
‘You okay, love?’
Her trousers have been ripped with the knife. She holds the two flaps together, covering herself. Her lips quiver and her whole body trembles. Her wet eyes meet mine and attempt to show respect. ‘Is he-is he-be careful-he’s-he’s strong...’
‘All I ask, love, is that you call the police and wait here for them. He won’t attack you again, I’ll make sure of that.’
‘The-the-the... bastard. The bastard!’ Her eyes glaze over with anger. ‘He touched me. He-he-the bastard tried to rape me!’
I nod. ‘I know, love, I know. It could have been much worse–’
‘Who are you? I mean thanks, thanks so much. I could’ve been raped. Oh my God, I could’ve been raped!’
She’s becoming hysterical. ‘Just close the door, love, call the police and wait for them. They’ll need to seize your clothes for evidence. His fibres will be on them–’
‘I know-I know about that. My husband is a police officer.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, cottoning on then that she is Noah’s wife. I’ve seen the photo of her he keeps in his warrant card. ‘Give him a call after you’ve called 999.’
The rapist is rousing. I shut the car door, run up and kick him in the temple, returning him to an unconscious state. I pull down his jeans, take hold of his dick and then sink the blade into it. It requires little effort to dismember him. Blood pours in between his legs. I roll him over. ‘You never answered me,’ I hiss, as I part his buttocks, ‘but I reckon before now it would have been a no.’
I leave him there, a small pool of blood seeping out from his crotch. I head off, wiping my prints off the knife and then throwing it against the wall ten metres away. He’ll not retrieve it. He’ll not leave that spot until LAS get there. As long as she stays in the car, everything will be okay. His fibres are on her clothes. Her story will be believed.
You get ten years for attempted rape. He’ll serve considerably less. But it doesn’t matter too much, cos if he’s not rehabilitated by the penal system, we’ve got a back up...
*****
My hands are bloody. Amazingly, my clothes are unstained, but I need to change them. Hands in pockets, I walk to a public toilet. I wash my hands and then buy jogging bottoms, a long-sleeve top and a cap from a charity shop. I change in a side street behind a parked car and then toss my old clothes into a bin. Aborting my original mission, I make my way home, acknowledging then the incoming sirens. I feel very satisfied. He went out looking for p
enetration and he got it.
*****
The first thing I see on my telly is two police officers standing on a cordon. They’re denying people entry to the crime scene in Guildford. The alley’s taped off.
‘–What is in essence a mutilation,’ the journalist says. ‘Details are scarce at this point, but what we do know is that an attempted rape occurred and that a member of the public intervened. We can confirm that police are looking for this member of the public and the description is as follows – a white Male, late twenties, large build, about six feet tall. He was wearing a white cap, possibly with the ‘Nike’ logo on it, sunglasses, and a light coloured t-shirt. If you have any information about this Male, you may have seen him somewhere or know of him, please call this number urgently...
‘What we do know is that the person suspected of the attempted rape was found on the ground lying in a pool of blood, next to the scene of the crime,’ the journalist continues. ‘I can confirm that he is alive and is currently under armed guard in hospital.’
22
The next evening, my doorbell rings. Cautiously, I lift the receiver. ‘Yeah?’
‘Razors, it’s Noah.’
‘What d’you want, lad?’
‘Just a chat.’
I press the buzzer. He sounds serious. He always sounds serious, but more so now. Is he going to tell me about the attempted rape? He doesn’t know I was the one who intervened, nor that I know his wife was the victim. So is he confiding in me, as if I’m a friend? I’ve helped him out a few times and he thinks we’re buddies? Fitting that he comes to me for advice, after publicly voicing his disapproval of the way I work.