by Marc Horn
The envelope’s white with the name Razors on the front and the address of the psychiatric ward. Inside, is a photo of me on a train.
‘Do you now understand how serious this has become?’ the super asks.
I’m sitting there with my right hand by my hip, opened as if I’m holding the hand of the person to my right. But there’s no person next to me. My head is turned and I’m talking to this invisible person. This was when Cassandra and I were on the train. That ginger kid took this with his phone. I remember him holding his phone in front of him. The kid had said no one was there.
‘Your mind has taken over, Razors. You need to return to the ward. They can help you.’
‘This is bullshit. Cassandra was there. This happened before you caught me.’
‘No she wasn’t. The proof is there. Are you saying the photo’s been doctored?’
‘No − he couldn’t see her. The kid that took this. He couldn’t see her.’
The super leans in. ‘Neither can his phone, Razors.’
I nod. ‘You’re misinterpreting this,’ I say. ‘This is supposed to convince me that I’ve lost it. But it’s just more evidence that I’m right. I’m unable to accurately influence other people’s vision, hearing − their senses.’
‘Oh lord!’
‘And this kid never knew my name or where to find me. How the hell d’you think he found that out?’
‘I think you told him.’
I laugh. ‘No, I’m telling you, he didn’t know. Someone told him where I was. One of these linked fuckers.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’ My eyes harden. ‘Tell me what you know about the supercop plot.’
The super’s still cupping his balls with a grimacing expression. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
I smile. ‘You just need a little prompting, that’s all.’ I get up, walk behind the sofa and then select a tool from the pile I transferred earlier from his kitchen. ‘You need to realise,’ I say, as I slide my hand along the wood, ‘that I’m not about empty threats.’ When I stand up and turn to him, he’s facing me. As I lift the rolling pin he covers his face with his hands, leaves his ribs wide open. The pin breaks the right set and the super falls onto the floor. ‘Nice bit of kit,’ I say, tapping the end of it in my hand. I move around the sofa and loom menacingly above him. His body’s hunched into a ball. ‘You ready for the next tool?’ I ask. All I hear is cries of pain. I crouch down, and strike his exposed ankle with the pin. That breaks too. ‘Are you fucking listening to me?’ I shout. ‘Am I gonna have to get another tool?’
The super’s screaming too loud. I grab a cushion from the sofa and shove it in his face. ‘Bite down on that, or I’m gonna smash your voice box in.’
He’s got wise and does as I command. I reach under his arms and lift him back onto the sofa. The cushion still in between his teeth, his muffled moans amplify. Then I return to my seat, opposite him, the rolling pin still in my hand.
‘This is the last time I’ll repeat myself. Supercop.’
The super lets the cushion drop from his mouth and breathes hard and fast, one hand nursing his ribs and the other making a half-arsed attempt to nurse his ankle, reaching only as far down as his knee. Seems he’s forgotten about his aching gonads... ‘I-I-I’m-it-arghh... hurts to talk. Can I... answer questions?’
I enjoy his suffering. I’ve been wanting to see him like this ever since he first interviewed me. ‘Who tasks you?’
‘Burton... Assistant Commissioner Burton...’
Assistant Commissioner! So he flew up the ranks for murdering my father, the piece of shit. ‘He’s still in the force?’
‘Yes.’ His teeth are gritted. ‘Did you not know who your leaders were?’
I shake my head. ‘They were irrelevant to me. Who does he answer to?’
‘No one. He’s in charge.’
‘But my father was killed twenty-eight years ago. You telling me Burton organised all this as a PC?’
‘Yes. He wanted to be close to you.’ Every couple of seconds the super emits a squeal of pain. ‘He-he wanted to monitor you. You had to join the police. That’s why he was a home beat for so long.’
‘And then, when I joined, he got promoted?’
‘You- you were excellent evidence for him.’ A long wheeze. ‘He- he mentored you through school, stopped you being mute, dealt with your aggression practically, and actively supported your application to join the service. He took credit for your successes as an officer.’
I study the super. I’m sure Burton did exaggerate his impact on me. The bloke’s a fucking parasite, entirely self-absorbed − a killer. But the super is undoubtedly being tactical here. He wants to offload all the blame onto Burton, absolve himself a little, channel my rage towards his boss.
The super continues. ‘He… he made the point that he sacrificed his own career progression for so long so that he could counsel you. Home beats were always PCs back then. He stressed that without his help you would have turned into someone very dangerous. Not only did he stop that threat, he supplied the Met with a superb police officer.’
So he used both my dad and me to advance his own career too. ‘How long’s he got in?’
Rasping, panicky breaths. ‘He’d been in five years when it happened.’
‘But as a PC he would have had fuck all to do with The Poet. What fucking business was it of his?’
The super shakes his head. ‘He worked with the Murder Squad for a time. He was attached to them. He worked on that case. He knew Kilbride was the Holy Grail. It was his idea to approach your father for help.’
I feel my blood boil. Burton’s gonna pay hard for this. I’m gonna enjoy torturing him. ‘Where do I find him?’
‘He works at Paddington.’
‘Where does he live?’ I hiss.
‘Maida Vale. The address is in my personal organiser, in my bedroom.’
‘And when did you get involved in this murderous plot, Superintendent?’
‘I- I have known about it for many years. Wesley Burton is a friend.’ Another wheeze. ‘God, man, I’m going to need a painkiller! I’m going to pass out!’
‘You won’t pass out,’ I assure him.
He takes a few seconds to suck up the pain. ‘My- my active involvement began ten years ago. Wesley asked me to take a position in Complaints. My job was to keep you employed. Until you found Kilbride...’
‘So you squared up my complaints?’
He grits his teeth hard. I hear them grind. ‘Arghh... A- a- a great deal of them.’
‘And what did you get out of it?’
‘Money... and... satisfaction.’
‘Explain that last perk.’
‘I… I was involved. I was part of the experiment. Every criminal you put away was partly thanks to me.’
I laugh. Shake my head. ‘All you fucking losers. All leeches, every one of you. None of you know how to police, so you latch onto me, convince yourselves that you’re pulling my strings.’ I glare at him. ‘You’re all misguided and insecure. Only I can take credit for what I’ve done. I made my own fucking decisions—’
‘Razors, I helped your career. I kept the complaints at a local level. Your borough inspectors wanted to take them further, but I dissuaded them.’
‘You expect thanks? You did it for yourself, not me!’
‘I did it for the public. I did it to keep the best crime fighter we’ve ever had on the streets.’
I smirk. ‘Only till I killed The Poet, piss flap.’
‘That- arghh- that was our ultimate objective. But- but afterwards, once we found out who Kilbride was, we realised that Goater had opened his mouth. Kilbride had worked with Goater and knew of the plot. That meant you could know too, because of your relationship with Goater’s daughter. That put us in danger.’
I nod at his wounds. ‘Yep.’
‘We- we were told to compile evidence to have you sectioned.’
I nod. ‘So n
o one would believe me, and so I was locked up and couldn’t harm you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Still a risk though, wasn’t it? I bet you wanted to kill me.’ He says nothing, looking down at his injuries. ‘You can tell me. I know you suggested to Burton that I be topped, didn’t you?’
‘Y- yes...’
‘But he wouldn’t have any of it, would he?’
‘No.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Wesley is not the kind of man you question. You trust his judgement.’
‘But it would have been easier, wouldn’t it? Me out the way – no more problems.’
‘Yes.’
I laugh. ‘Burton knew killing me would end the problems. Cos it would end the world! Burton was linked, my friend. He kept you all in the dark.’ The super says nothing. To him, the My World theory is all bullshit. ‘So you reckon The Poet waited for me?’
‘Yes, we know he did. Once he learned of the plot all those years ago, he saw it as a challenge. He waited for you to come to fruition before he restarted his campaign. Once you had acquired your reputation, he took you on.’
‘So it seems he enjoyed outwitting the police more than he enjoyed the actual killings?’
‘Yes- yes, that’s correct. It was the same back in the eighties. It infuriated Wesley. Kilbride waited for you to peak. He wanted the police’s ultimate weapon to fail.’
I rub my chin. ‘So what was his background? Typical loner? Never loved?’
The super’s lifted his t-shirt and is wincing at his broken ribs. ‘The- the police put him in a home when he was nine. His parents were sexually abusing him. We’ve concluded that he resented the fact that the police broke up his family.’
‘You mean the sick fuck liked being interfered with?’
‘Possibly. He certainly didn’t resent his parents for it, quite the opposite.’
‘Jesus. Some people are never satisfied.’ I expand my chest and then let the air out. ‘Goater’s big gob actually made things work out, didn’t it? It lured The Poet to me.’
‘Wesley knew he’d kill again eventually. If he’d struck elsewhere, you would have been specially assigned to find him. We believed that you would have succeeded.’
I tut. ‘Had to, didn’t you? It had to work out, cos you killed my dad. It was a fucking big gamble.’ No response. I’m about to ask him about Cliff, but decide not to. I doubt the super had much involvement with him, other than asking me questions about his death. Burton would have tasked Cliff himself. Clearly Burton has gone to lengths to keep the My World theory to himself. None of his mob know about it. ‘Any leads on Hilda’s death?’
‘We don’t know the identity. It’s a woman, a white woman, but all her identifiable features are concealed by clothing, and in any case she’s camera aware.’
‘No one at the ward mention to you that I know who the killer is?’
‘No.’
I sigh. ‘How was she killed? She was behind a fucking bullet proof screen.’
‘The killer used a poisonous vapour. She dispersed it through the mouth piece.’
I nod. Sly. Impressive. ‘Any idea why she was killed?’
‘No.’
‘It’s cos she believed the same things I do. She was a threat to all of you. Unlike me, she was expendable.’
The super once again ignores me. I get up and walk behind the sofa again. ‘You know the funny thing? The Poet did beat you useless sons of bitches. Cos he turned you all into him. You had to kill an innocent man to catch him.’
No coherent response, because I’ve slit his throat.
42
There’s a graveyard. It’s enormous. I sweep over the top of it, as if I’m a bird in flight. I pass hills, rivers, woodland, but after each obstruction the graveyard continues. It seems to be endless.
I swoop low, and my vision focuses on a cluster of headstones on top of a grassy mound. I stop dead. In front of me is inscribed ‘Razors’. Next to it is your resting place, my friend − you are there, too. As is everyone you thought you knew.
*****
I wake at seven. The sun illuminates the super’s orange curtains. I sit up on the edge of his bed. Assuming the super goes in to work at nine, I’ve got a couple of hours before his absence will be noticed. I feel tense and stretch my muscles. It’s nice to be off the Haldol. That concoction was seriously weakening me, making me groggy. But the depressing fact is that there’s no easy way out of this. I’m not going to retreat to an island and live happily ever after. I create these ideals. They aren’t real. Nothing here is real. The only truth is what I actually, truly am, and I don’t know what that is. Despite the fact that I built and maintain this world, I’m no longer a part of it. They’ve removed me from it. I’ve been allocated a permanent place where no one wants to be. All I have left is my unfinished business.
I memorise Burton’s address, take the hundred quid in notes and a credit card from the super’s wallet, and then enter the bathroom. Unsurprisingly, the super uses the same toothpaste and soap as Cassandra and me. After taking a shower, I put on some of his fresh clothes – grey jogging bottoms and a white t-shirt, both of which are too tight – and then I use his phone to call Big Log.
After this, I leave the house via the back, and take public transport to Kennington. I wear the dirty cream cap that I found at Asda. My Hell Bell activated as soon as I contacted Big Log. I suppose that’s because I’m hunting for Burton now. Big Log is a vital part of my plans.
So how many people have I killed? I think it’s important to know that, really. Once you start losing count of that, you really need to rethink your life. There’s Kent, The Poet and the super. But I don’t even remember killing Kent. Cassandra’s actually one ahead of me. She’s killed three coppers and Hilda. She’s gonna pay for killing my friend. Hilda was the only person who made sense to me.
*****
‘Hey, bro, you’re AWOL.’
‘How you doing, Big Log?’
‘I’m cool. You hit rough times?’
‘Oh yeah. It’s all a conspiracy.’
We walk along the street and turn down a side road, away from the cameras. ‘You got my stuff?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’
‘You know I can’t pay you for this. You’ll have to take a cut in profit for that Glock you sold me.’
‘No problem, bro.’ He hands me a black rucksack. ‘Hey, you be safe.’
We shake hands and then he’s gone.
*****
I wait for Noah on the grassy area outside the Imperial War Museum. He meets me at midday. The cunning bastard’s disguised himself too. He wears jeans, a long sleeve, white top, a cap and shades. As instructed, Big Log had placed some shades in the bag, and I wear them now.
Noah says nothing as he sits down beside me. He reaches in his rucksack and pulls out some sandwiches.
‘These are for both of us,’ he says. ‘We’re having a picnic.’
‘How gay.’
‘No one can know I met up with you, Razors. It would destroy me.’
‘I know.’ I look at his hands as he opens his cellophane bag. His fingers are steady − he’s toughened up. ‘Great news about Jumont, eh? Going down for killing Ethan Kent?’
You arrested Jumont for rape, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. And he would have served just ten years for fucking up that girl’s life. Now his life is fucked up, too. That’s justice.’
‘He denied it,’ Noah explains, ‘even with all those fingerprints they found.’
‘He denied raping that girl, too. He’s a fucking liar.’
Noah sniffs. ‘You don’t need to lie to me, Razors. You know I can keep a secret. I’m keeping two involving you, well, three if you include concealing your whereabouts now. I know you killed Kent.’
He looks at me. I don’t flinch. ‘How d’you find out?’
‘I was on an attachment to the CID when Jumont was produced from prison and arrested for the murder of Ethan Kent. DS Roach and I dealt
with him. Jumont vehemently denied killing Kent both on the journey back to Hammersmith police station and also in interview.’ He takes a bite of his sandwich. It looks like it’s ham, lettuce and tomato. ‘I was suspicious. We had a fingerprint match and nothing else. And the prints taken from Ethan’s corpse and the murder weapon matched the prints taken from Jumont after you arrested him for rape. You had taken those prints.’
I lean in, interested. I open a bag and bite into a sandwich. It’s juicy. Best food I’ve had for a while.
‘My first thought was that you had somehow pretended the actual murderer’s fingerprints were Jumont’s. Then I remembered how much you hated Ethan, so I entertained the possibility that the fingerprints were your own.’
I smile as I take another bite. He’s good, old Noah, bloody good. So am I. It seems this was another thing I blocked out of my memory.
‘I checked the custody CCTV tape,’ he continues. ‘I watched you take Jumont’s fingerprints on the Livescan machine.’ He faces me. ‘You rolled your own fingers, Razors, every single one of them. Jumont had no clue what you were doing, but each of his fingers was actually on top of yours when you rolled them on the glass. He saw the images appear on the screen after each print was taken, but they were images of your ridges, not his. And then he signed for them, confirmed that they were his fingerprints.’
‘Very fucking clever of me,’ I say.
He continues eating. ‘Remember the day after my wife was assaulted? I came to see you and I took your fingerprints.’
My mouth drops. ‘You cheeky fuck! You said they were elimination prints for The Poet job!’
He shakes his head. ‘I owed you that. You saved my wife, you’ve saved me... I saved your reputation.’
I look around. There are many people on the grass. And guess what? They’re all eating homemade sandwiches. No pizzas, pot noodles or fast food. Everyone has made their own fucking sandwich! ‘Carry on then, lad.’
‘I took your fingerprints back to the station—’
‘What about Livescan? You would’ve had to have taken Jumont’s prints on that.’
‘I had to pretend it wasn’t working in order to save you. As you know, we have to take fingerprints for every recordable offence, so I had to take Jumont’s for murder. I told the DS I’d take them myself, and then I rushed over to yours. After taking your prints, I took Jumont’s on paper too, but then I discarded his and had him sign for yours. I submitted them to the lab, and once again the prints matched those found in Ethan’s body bag.’ He looks up at me, his expression serious. ‘I had to complete an exhibiting statement to verify that the fingerprints I produced belonged to Jumont.’