Cuffed

by Marc Horn

  ‘What date are you looking at?’

  ‘This Friday?’

  ‘Whoa, that’s soon, I’ll have to check with Ni.’

  ‘Let me talk to her, Pole. It’s been a while.’

  ‘Oh, okay then... Will you be bringing your friend? Cassandra?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Have you two split up?’

  ‘We’ve always been split up. You could say that now we’re a little further apart.’

  He sniggers. ‘I’ll put you on.’

  I hear nothing for a few seconds, no communication between Pole and his wife. He’d tell her that I wanted to speak to her before handing her the phone, wouldn’t he?

  ‘Alright, Razors?’

  Silent. He put the phone on silent while he spoke to her... ‘Hi, how you doing?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m alright cheers. Ow’s it going?’

  ‘I’m okay. Did Pole tell you about meeting up?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a wicked idea. He said you wanna do it Friday. Are Vicky and Baz sound wi’ that?’

  ‘I’m waiting to hear back from Baz.’

  ‘Well it’s about time we ’ad a knees-up. It’ll be wicked to hear about that kiddie murderer you sorted out.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure we’ve all got stuff to talk about.’

  I hear their home phone ring in the background. ‘That’ll be Vicky,’ I say. ‘I’ve gotta go.’

  *****

  From my lounge window, I watch a plane sail towards a fluffy white cloud that resembles a cauliflower. Behind me, the builders are drilling. There are two of them now. The original builder had said that most of the job would require another pair of hands. I rub my temples and groan as the plane cuts through the cloud. Because that’s exactly what it does – cut the cloud in half, leaving a line of blue sky in its wake. Now we can all forget about umbrellas and hoods – planes can erase clouds. Erasing clouds – that’s what planes can do. Is this insanity? I wonder. Is it not the case that this is my world, my universe, and that really I’m just turning completely mad?

  ‘Excuse me, mate. We’re done for today.’

  I turn. This is the new bloke. He’s fat too, tanned, with tattoos on his arms. He looks more like a mechanic. ‘Okay,’ I say. The original builder is tidying up his tools. ‘When did you say this would be finished?’

  ‘We’re still looking at two weeks.’

  Fuck knows where I’ll be in two weeks, but I have a feeling I won’t be in my new bath. ‘Can we speed this up? If I pay more?’

  The original builder stops what he’s doing and looks up at me. ‘Razors, we’re going as fast as we can, I promise you that. We could work longer hours, but you’d have to pay us overtime for that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s fine. I’ve got money. I need this done asap. I need to take a fucking bath.’

  ‘Okay, well we can’t tonight, cos we’ve already got plans, but we’ll look at putting in extra hours from tomorrow.’

  The builders leave. Though I’m still on full police pay, I’m not earning any overtime. A lot of my income comes from overtime and a lot comes from stealing, too. When I’m on scene at certain commercial burglaries, I’ll take some gear myself. But I’ll only do this if two conditions apply – first, I have to nick the burglar, and second, the business has to be part of a wealthy chain. It works like this – A jewellers will get done, I’ll nick the burglar and then visit the scene. I’ll grab a piece of jewellery for myself and later the owner will make a list of everything that’s been nicked, all of which will obviously come down to the burglar. A burglar won’t hang around when he’s in the place. Two to three minutes at most. Break in, grab some stuff and go. He won’t know exactly what he’s got, just that it’s worth a lot. When I nick him, it’s always after a foot chase. If he’s still got all the gear on him, it’s assumed that he either ditched my piece or passed it on to someone else. He’ll deny doing this, but no one will believe him. Once we’ve searched his gaff, and all the gaffs he’s associated with, we’ll often recover thousands of pounds worth of hot goods and money, all of which we’ll seize under the Proceeds of Crime act. The losers will get their stuff back and their losses reimbursed from the slag’s proceeds. Everyone’s a winner, including me. Sometimes I’ll make a few grand from my piece. One time I made ten.

  Obviously, I’m smart about it. I won’t do it often; never enough to arouse any suspicion. And I’ll never put the money in a bank. It’s stored somewhere much safer.

  That earning potential is now cut off to me too. I mean, I’ve got a lot of money, but my income is now greatly reduced. And when they dismiss me from the job, I’ll be earning nothing.

  26

  I smile at Naomi as she welcomes me into Pole and hers. It’s a wry smile, because she’s not Naomi – she’s Vicky, Foreskin’s wife. She’s got Vicky’s long blonde hair and blue eyes. This is big, I know that. I’ve put a lot of work into this. On the phone, it might just have been their voices that I’d switched.

  The other three are here, too. I do the meeting and greeting bit, and then sit with them at the table. I’m asked a lot of stuff about work, about The Poet and my suspension specifically, and I answer the questions as best I can, all the while freaked out a little by Vicky who is now Naomi. She has Naomi’s brown hair and eyes. Naomi, who is now Vicky, is in the kitchen dishing up the meal. When she returns and we all begin to eat the crab salad, I find I have no appetite. And I can’t stop looking at the two birds. I know what response I’ll get, but I have to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry girls,’ I say, boldly.

  Everyone stops talking and eating. All eyes are on me.

  ‘Sorry, Razors?’ Pole says. He’s a tall, lean bloke with untidy hair.

  ‘Naomi and Vicky, I just want to apologise. I know we all know what’s happened and that it’s my fault.’

  Pole’s new missus cranes her neck towards me. ‘What you on about?’

  I smirk and nod. ‘I know, guys. You’ve all tried to throw me off the trail, but I know now. And I want to apologise–’

  ‘Apologise for what, exactly?’ Foreskin’s new wife asks.

  ‘For swapping you girls round. I’m sorry, Naomi, that you now speak like an Essex bird and that you’re in Vicky’s body; and Vicky, I’m sorry that you now have to speak posh and look like Naomi.’

  Silence, for several seconds, until Pole speaks. ‘You’re not making any sense, Razors.’

  There are concerned looks on their faces. ‘You all might as well give it all up. You know that I know. I’m not going to be told otherwise. It’s over. I know who’s responsible–’

  ‘Who’s that then?’ Foreskin asks, his short, broad body tensed, his tanned face set.

  ‘Me,’ I announce with forced nonchalance.

  ‘And... what have you done, exactly?’ Foreskin’s new missus asks.

  ‘I switched you two.’ I point at each girl and then point at their new bodies. ‘Vicky’s now Naomi and vice versa. I’m just apologising. There’s too much in my head to keep everything organised. I’m sorry you had to move in to a different house and sleep with a different man.’

  ‘Razors,’ Pole says, ‘Naomi has always been my wife–’

  ‘But she didn’t look like that when you met her, did she?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I shake my head. ‘No she didn’t. She didn’t look or sound like that. We all used to take the piss out of her voice – the fact that she took elocution lessons. Remember that?’ I look around the table. Incredulous expressions.

  ‘Razors, mate, that’s Vicky, my wife,’ Foreskin explains, his blue eyes a perfect replica of Noah’s. ‘... She took the elocution lessons.’

  I laugh. ‘You guys are determined. You obviously think you can save yourselves–’

  ‘Save ourselves? From what?’ Foreskin’s missus asks.

  I stare at her. ‘Death.’

  Pole gets to his feet. ‘Razors, we’re friends. We’ve known each other for many years. You would not harm any of us.’


  The rest of them have turned as white as a sheet. Foreskin is watching my steak knife like a rabbit in headlights. ‘What am I supposed to do, guys?’ I ask. ‘This is all me, isn’t it? You’ve all lived well because of me, but I need answers.’

  ‘Let me get this right,’ Pole’s new missus says. ‘You’re saying I look and talk like Vicky does?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. You used to be a brunette with brown eyes and a posh voice.’

  ‘You’re talking about Vicky, mate,’ she says. ‘... You’ve lost it.’

  Foreskin tries to grab my steak knife, but I grab it first. The girls scream. ‘Calm down,’ I say, holding the knife as unthreateningly as I can, by my side. ‘I’m not going to use this. I just don’t want Foreskin to use it on me.’

  ‘I’m not a murderer, mate,’ Foreskin whines.

  ‘Razors,’ Pole begins, still on his feet. ‘You’re mistaken. You’ve got an idea in your head which is wrong. Both Baz and I have the right wives. They have always looked and sounded like they do now.’

  ‘You got photos?’ I ask. ‘Show me your wedding snaps.’

  ‘Naomi,’ Pole says, ‘go and get the wedding pictures.’

  I was at both their weddings. Both girls looked and sounded like the other one, like they’re supposed to. ‘Naomi’ hurriedly leaves the lounge. I keep a firm grip on the knife, with it concealed under the table. I feel threatened. My Hell Bell has not activated, but I still feel threatened. They will do anything to save themselves. It’s human instinct. Our friendship would count for nothing. I don’t know what they could do to help their cause. Killing me is surely not an option? But whatever they decide to do, I’m sure I won’t approve.

  Naomi hands the wedding album to Pole. He opens the book, flicks through a couple of pages and then places it down in front of me. I frown. Both women look like they do now!

  ‘See, Razors? Nothing has changed. You must be unwell.’

  This is unbelievable. These women did not look like this. I was there! This has been doctored. Doctored to fool me. ‘You’ll never relent, will you?’ I say. ‘You’ll fight till the very end.’

  Foreskin reaches for his knife. He tries to keep it subtle. ‘Foreskin, relax,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to knife any of you. You’re all gonna die, but not from injuries. There’s nothing any of you can do to distract me from the truth. You’re all gonna disappear.’

  ‘Razors,’ Pole says, ‘I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘Leave this imaginary house?’ I laugh.

  ‘Whatever you think of us and this house, you’re no longer welcome. I think you have issues you need to deal with.’

  I stand up, place the knife on the table. Eight eyes are fixed on it. ‘You’re damn right. And believe me, I’m dealing with them. That’s why I came here.’

  ‘We can’t help you,’ he says.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ I say, walking towards the front door, ‘but I know who can...’

  *****

  After the meal, I didn’t sleep well. I was fired up, and having to wait for my destination to open was unbearable.

  Now I’m forcing porridge down fast. I’m on to it now, I have direction. My answer is close, so close, and I can’t wait to reach this place of clarity. It’s gonna seem unreal, I know that, but any truth is better than living with all this confusion. People, my people, are ostracising me, forcing me towards a bleak and convenient periphery. Somewhere I can simply exist and nothing more, somewhere where insight and its dangers are improbable.

  So much porridge is in my mouth waiting to be swallowed that I cough it up all over the table. I choke for a couple of seconds and then recover my breathing. ‘Fuck!’ Porridge, especially made thickly as I prefer, is hard to clean up. I grab a cloth and sweep some of it off the table and into my hand. I throw this stodgy substance into the bin and then clear up the rest of it. I’ve come so far – I can’t let maddening impulses impede me. I need to be thinking clearly, in control, ready; I know that.

  Five minutes later, I’m clean, fresh and dressed in my grey tracksuit. I feel strong and determined. And switched on, very switched on. Switched on enough to know that I will encounter distractions along this journey. I’m getting there, man. Course they’re gonna try to stop me.

  The tail’s an amateur. Commits the most basic error – initiating the follow from the subject’s abode. A little disappointing, I have to admit – thinking they can trail me from my flat. Actually, it’s foolish to think I can be trailed at any point. I’m a hunter. When I hunt I’m invisible. And I sure as hell know when I’m being hunted.

  I wait for the lights to change at Hammersmith Roundabout. I could lose this tail in a second. But I don’t want to. I board a tube, arrive at my station and don’t turn to face the tail until I reach my destination. It’s not to see who it is – I know it’s Cassandra – it’s to talk to her.

  I sit on a bench in front of a big, repulsive, multi-coloured building. She sits beside me and stares at the mess in front of us.

  ‘So this is where all the answers lie?’ she asks me.

  27

  ‘How’s it feel to have slag blood pumping through your veins?’

  ‘Charmingly put. There is so much you need to know, Razors.’

  For a second or two my whole essence burns, but I close my eyes tight, grit my teeth and let the murdering urges pass.

  ‘You seem very calm, considering what I know about you.’

  ‘That’s because of two things. First, I am not the source of your trauma, and second, your father’s murder was set up.’

  I look at her. She faces forward, ignoring me. I laugh. I knew there’d be a distraction. The one thing that would make me listen would be that, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Why’d you wait until now to tell me? You wanna sprinkle yourself on me one more time? Fizzle out these unruly flames?’

  ‘The world’s a magical place, full of possibilities, when you’re six years old.’

  The clouds cast a gloomy shadow over the bright colours in front of us. The building’s décor is undeniably unique in Earl’s Court. It’s set back from the main hub, on it’s own piece of land. She’s wearing a dark grey suit. But I can’t entertain any sexual urges. Not now. ‘But you still believed you could heal me,’ I say, a little sarcastically. ‘That’s the reason you found me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to help you.’

  ‘Think you have?’

  ‘No. You’re a stone wall.’

  ‘Ha! You stole that off Golf Ball Face. So what the fuck you doing here, then?’

  ‘I have things I need to tell you.’

  I nod towards the building in front of us. ‘Anything to stop me going in there, huh?’

  She turns to look at me. Those blue eyes grip mine. ‘I don’t know what you expect to achieve here. But I think it’s going to finish you.’ She says this sharply.

  ‘So you still speak to my old school mates? Or did someone else tell you what I was doing?’

  ‘I speak to Vicky occasionally. She called me last night and told me what happened.’

  ‘Vicky with the posh accent. The brunette with the brown eyes, right?’

  ‘Since birth.’

  I shake my head. ‘Oh, fuck off... you know what? It’s a fucking insult, what you’re doing. Thinking you can outsmart me. I’m too strong for all you piss flaps. I can outwear any of you fuckers.’

  She shuts her eyes. ‘You’re turning insane. Voluntarily. People are trying to help you, but you’re convincing yourself that they’re part of a conspiracy. You’ve blinded yourself to logic and truth. There’s probably nothing I can do.’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘Because I’ve read your journal. And because I’ve spoken to your friends. I’ve tried my best to save you.’

  She’s such a bitch. She’s so fucking clever, has this knack of grasping my attention. ‘You gonna tell me about this danger we’re in?’

  She pulls out a compact
and starts to touch up her face. People do stuff like this – smoking and chewing gum also – when they’re nervous.

  ‘My father was paid half a million pounds to kill your father.’

  I don’t even realise till after I’ve done it that I’ve grabbed her compact and smashed it into pieces on the ground. Suddenly, I’m pressing her against the back of the bench by her jacket collars. She’s gasping for breath. ‘It’s… it was all about corruption!’ she cries. My eyes are terrifying. I know they are. They feel like balls of fire. ‘Let me go, Razors! I-I need time to talk!’

  I release her, remaining inches from her face. ‘Speak, bitch!’

  She’s breathing hard. ‘I found out that the murder was a set-up. My father was into large scale fraud. He was not a burglar. They, the police, had evidence to send him to prison for many years. What- what did the officers… did they ask you about your father in your interview?’

  ‘What the fuck has that got do with this bollocks?’

  She turns to me again. ‘They’re involved, Razors.’

  I stare back, dumbfounded. What the fuck is this bitch getting at? I’m trying to remember that it’s all a distraction, and it’s a fucking big one, but it’s engrossing. I feel that I have to hear it. ‘How the fuck are they involved?’

  ‘There were many of them... officers involved. They offered my father the money and a shorter sentence for killing your father.’

  ‘A shorter fucking sentence? For murder?’

  ‘They told him what he needed to do... to make it look like self-defence. He… he would receive a shorter sentence for burglary than he would have done for the fraud.’

  ‘And why my dad?’

  ‘Because of you.’

  ‘Me? What the fuck are you on about? You piss flap!’

  ‘It was an experiment. They wanted to create a supercop.’

  I bury my face in my hands. I don’t believe this crap, I don’t, no way. I always felt there was more to the murder. It had always seemed deeper than it appeared to be, but it can’t be this, no way...

  ‘Your father was a renowned private investigator, wasn’t he? He could locate anyone, he was extremely talented and adept. They felt that you would inherit those qualities. They thought that the injustices of the judicial system would inspire you to fight crime.’