by Miles Gibson
“But his wife must know…” I said.
“You’ll be surprised,” said the fat one.
“I expect he’ll kill himself before we manage to get our hands on him. They often do that,” added his companion sadly.
“You mean he’ll commit suicide?” I asked.
“Yes. The crazy ones usually end up destroying themselves.”
“But how will you know if he’s dead?”
“Simple. We’ll know he’s dead when the killings stop.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I said.
“Thank you,” they said.
I strolled into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. It was impossible to imagine how they had reached the conclusion that the killer was a black man with a wife and family to support and I was hardly in a position to argue with them. But I was quite shaken by the news. I made the coffee, fresh, in a stone jug, and arranged a few biscuits on a plate. My favourite biscuits – Godfrey’s Fingers. I arranged everything on a tray and, when I felt strong enough to face them again, carried the tray to my guests.
We sat and sipped the coffee and discussed the alarming increase in violent crimes.
“It’s frightening,” I said, “We could all be murdered in our beds.”
The fat one sympathised with me, “We’re too soft on villains,” he said, “I’m old fashioned. I believe in giving them a good thrashing.”
The one with the lumpy yellow face picked up one of Godfrey’s Fingers and sniffed it suspiciously. Tiny flakes of sugar clung to the tip of his nose. He dipped the biscuit into his coffee and sucked it smoothly into his mouth.
“A proper flogging under medical supervision,” dreamed the fat one.
“It wouldn’t stop these killings,” argued his companion, “It wouldn’t stop the loonies.”
“That’s true,” said the owl mournfully.
“But who could have made such a terrible phone call?” I said, anxious to remain the centre of conversation. “Who could hate me enough to accuse me of those horrible murders.”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. We get dozens of hoax phone calls. Whoever it was probably picked your name from the telephone directory. It happens.”
“We get crazy kids wandering into the station actually claiming to be the killer.”
“That’s horrible,” I murmured, shaking my head.
The fat one looked pleased. He poked a Godfrey’s Finger into his mouth and snapped it between his teeth. “There’s a killer in everyone,” he declared philosophically.
“And a victim,” added the one with the lumpy yellow face, gently wiping his fingers around his chin, “But I’ll never understand them.”
At last they stood up and moved towards the door. Then they turned, apologised for disturbing me, and said goodbye.
It was an exorcism. In the past few weeks I had begun to haunt myself and now the ghost had been driven out. I had sweated in my bed at night, startled awake by dreams of surrender, delivering myself into the hands of the executioner, only to discover my own face staring back at me. I had walked to the very heart of that dark forest where the hunters are taken to stalk themselves. And now I had been returned to the daylight I had given the police my name and address, invited them to arrest me for my crimes. And they had come tiptapping at my door, cap in hand, and declared me to be an innocent man.
I mixed myself a stiff drink and went and sprawled on the sofa. It was an exorcism. I had sneezed the Sandman from my body. He had exploded into a million particles and was free to settle wherever he desired. He was an unknown black man working at a factory bench. He was a crazy man with a head full of whisky who pleads with the police to bully and beat him. He was the secret fantasy of a thousand young men who dream of power over women. It was an exorcism and a ritual cleansing. I was free of my sorrow. I was free to be another man and conduct some other kind of life.
Before I went to bed I brought out my scrapbook and reviewed my work. I curled up in a nest of cushions, sipped a scalding mug of milk and studied each precious Polaroid. Here was Patsy, grinning from ear to ear, sitting on Jumbo’s hairy knees and Jumbo himself, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes like a demented Buddha. They might have been father and daughter or an old ventriloquist and his overgrown doll. It was only the peculiar sight of the Buddha’s knees wrapped together in a towel that suggested he was staring death between the eyes.
Here were Hammersmith housewives still in their kitchens with their mouths open and their eyes closed. And Marlene from New South Wales sitting on the floor in her party frock, her blood spread across the frock like a shadow, her breast hanging from the shadow like a paper lantern.
I peered again at the Hornet Sisters as they made their farewell public appearance. They looked a lot less like corpses in death than they had in life. The frail and wrinkled faces had begun to unravel and relax. They looked quite happy to be gone. In the darkness beyond the old ladies a cat stared out at the camera with cadmium yellow eyes.
Here was the social worker blushing brightly pink from her recent blood bath. And finally Tulip, the magnificent Tulip, wilted but still beautiful as she sat in her chair and displayed her legs. I laid out the Polaroids on the table, kissed them each in their turn and went to bed.
It is finished. And yet, writing these words, I know that death is my life and death will be the end of me. I have, several times, thought of throwing this diary in the river. But I cannot bring myself to destroy it. I have followed death as he knocked on doors and introduced himself. I have helped him in his most difficult labours. We have become intimate friends. I cannot leave him now, after everything we’ve shared, shake his hand and walk away. Death follows me everywhere. Death tiptoes from my wardrobe in the darkest moments of the night, crawls on his belly through cracks in the woodwork, spirals down chimneys and wriggles through keyholes. Death places a knife in my hand while I dream and wakes me from sleep with the warm, elusive smell of blood.
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2013
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© Miles Gibson, 1984
The right of Miles Gibson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–29981–2