by Jonny Glynn
I got off the bus and there I was at the Thackray. Can you imagine, Janice?–with a headline like today’s, my history and your feet. My blood ran cold, Janice–I can’t describe it…He kept imagining you, Janice–on the operating table, tied to a gurney, screaming. All those tools, those instruments–his imagination was running wild, he was salivating, actually salivating–and licking my lips, which are now starting to chap, and I hate chapped lips. And I have to say, Janice, also, that the security at the Thackray Museum is absolutely appalling. It is an utter disgrace–in these terror-filled times one should not be able to steal, with ease, three scalpels of varying size, a small but very vicious-looking saw and a long thin Victorian knife, thought to be the type used by Jack the Ripper, ideal for fast amputation. And to steal them with such ease–that’s what’s so outrageous, that he could steal them with such ease. Nobody was there, nobody was watching–there wasn’t even CCTV. Just me and him and you and my imagination–can you imagine, Janice?–all those tools, all those instruments, you wouldn’t believe it.
He picked them up, Janice, and considered them. He held them in his hands–between his fingers–pretended to use them–and then quite casually wrapped them in his handkerchief and tucked them into my pocket. I was dumbstruck–the casual gall! And he could have taken a lot more, he could have filled a suitcase, Janice. Clamps, saws, drills–my God, Janice, you can’t imagine the hardware available to these medicine men nowadays. They’ve got it all–the places they can go–and the tools they use to get there–my God, Janice, some things quicken when the devil drives–and the complexity of his mischief is beyond imagining, I can’t tell you. These are the tools of the trade, he said, quite gleefully–these are the tools that man must have used…That guilty man, Janice, that guilty man that God forgot…I felt a long and terrible cold run through me when he said that, Janice. I felt a terrible evil inside me, turning, and I feared for you, Janice. I feared for you.
Do you remember when I came back just after lunch and you were finishing your shift? It was fate, you see. If I’d arrived a minute later I’d have missed you–you’d have gone and that would have been that. But there you were, putting your coat on and saying goodbye to your colleague Ray. You saw me and asked me how my morning had been–and when I told you, you seemed genuinely interested. Your eyes were open round and your head was angled, heedfully attending–I felt like a little boy telling his mummy how his first day at school had been, and I liked that feeling, Janice. But then you did something I didn’t like. You turned and looked at Ray–you thought I couldn’t see you, but I could see you, reflected in the mirror–I saw you lift your eyebrows and raise your eyes to Heaven, and I know what that look means, Janice, and I don’t like it. It made me feel silly–and laughed at–the butt of some private joke, and I didn’t like it, Janice, I didn’t like it at all. I understand why you pulled such an expression–Ray is obviously a homosexual, I believe a lot of them work in the hospitality trade–and I know how they like to gossip and mock, Janice, they’re a poisonous breed–‘marginales’, as they say in France–and not to be trusted…But I digress…
I loitered, Janice, unobserved, and watched you leave, and then I followed you. He loves following people, Janice, he’s known for it, and very good at it–he’s at it all the time, and he followed you all over, Janice, watching you, window-licking your way through town and then stopping for a coffee…I watched you for some time, Janice, but you didn’t see me. I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to look up and say, ‘Oh hello again.’
But you didn’t. If only you had, everything would have been different. I’d’ve joined you for a coffee, and we could have chatted and got to know each other and become friends. And then everything would have been different. But you didn’t see me–you steadfastly refused to see me–kept your eyes to yourself and wilfully looked the other way. I was sitting only feet away from you, Janice. I could smell you. But you didn’t want to see me, did you? You knew I was there, didn’t you, Janice? But you didn’t want to say hello, you didn’t want to engage me in conversation–you didn’t want anything to do with me–I thought you were a kind one, but you’re not, and I see that now, Janice. And to think–there I was–imagining you and I, together, Janice, in a field, high on a hill, somewhere in the Chilterns, having a picnic. A picnic, no less–I should tell you, Janice, that I have never had a picnic with anyone, ever, so you can imagine the specialness of the occasion. You and I together, lying on a blanket, drinking champagne, me dressed in a bright white suit, feeding you ripe cherries. You with your naked toes, painted red, wiggling their way out of an old pair of mules, and your bottom pressed tight into a white cotton skirt. A beautiful view spread out on a beautiful day. On a silent day full of sunshine–yellow and red and blue and white, lilac and pink and still…the birds whistling in the distance, chirruping kisses. And you and I at ease beneath the boughs of an old oak, the gentle riffle of the wind through leaves…
Oh, what a lovely day that would be, Janice…We would talk, Janice, slowly, and openly, and honestly to one another. You would tell me all about yourself, all about your life–your marriage failing, your father’s death, your feelings of regret, isolation and loneliness–and I would listen to you, Janice, and let you in–I would feel your unhappiness, and share with you some simple understanding, and want to ease your pain. I would tell you all about Valerie and Emma–and you would listen, and let me in–we would hold a silent look and not say anything–and then, perhaps, you might kiss me. What a lovely day that would be, Janice…A special day…I would hold your hand and look into your eyes, and you might, for a moment, all of a sudden, quite taken by surprise, think that I was about to propose to you, and a nervous excited feeling would tickle in your tummy and a breathless enquiring would burst in your eyes, and then I would tell you…I would tell you the rest of it, all the other things…All the awful things…And then your eyes would turn away and weep. And we would both weep…And then you would stop holding my hand, and you would look at me with an expression I wouldn’t understand…And a fat ripe cherry would get squashed beneath your thigh and its red juices would bleed into your white cotton skirt…
But I digress…You finished your coffee and stubbed out your fag, got up and moseyed on…I watched you, I watched you until you had almost disappeared, for a moment I thought you were going to get away–but then I got up and followed you…And I followed you all the way home, Janice. All the way back to 129, Warwick Way…And when I rang your doorbell, and you answered the door, you looked ever so surprised. It just hadn’t occurred to you, had it? But the moment you saw me, standing there, smiling at you, at half past four in the afternoon–that cream-faced loon–south by south-west…Well, you knew then, didn’t you, Janice? You knew…Your first instinct was to close the door and call the police, wasn’t it, Janice? But those damned false manners of yours got in the way, just like Adrian–and you had to say hello, didn’t you, Janice, those damned red lips of yours had to smile and those damned northern tones include…And that was all it took, Janice.
‘Hello,’ I said, rather too eagerly, I admit.
‘What are you doing here?’ you said.
‘I’m here to see you,’ I said
‘What do you mean?’ you said.
‘Can I come in?’ I said.
‘No–’ you said. But you’re not big and strong, Janice, and I am. And all it takes is will, and a hand on the door, and a push hard enough to hit you and knock you backwards onto the floor, and then I can enter your house with ease, Janice, and calmly close the front door behind me. And now I’m in your home, and you’re on the floor in front of me, Janice, and you’re afraid–do you remember? You were panicking, Janice–in fear for your life. You’ve seen those programmes, you’ve read the papers–the worst-case scenario was chasing you through the house, screaming–but you see, I’ve seen it all before, Janice, I’ve heard these pleas–please, please–before, Janice. Remember Beth? She played a clever game…Silent to the end. She even ate t
he scone…But I digress…
I’m sorry that I had to hit you, Janice. I am aware that the brutality and ferocity of my attack upon you was ridiculously disproportionate to your attack upon me when you tried to escape–but one must be unequivocal in these matters and ruthlessly decisive. If I broke your arm, Janice, it was only to ensure that I wouldn’t have to break your legs. I don’t blame you for trying to escape, Janice–I commend you for it–you had some fight in you, Janice, most don’t. But you must understand, from my point of view, I needed to subdue you–and I know from my own experience that a little bit of a fisting and a soft-soled shoeing never really hurt anyone–and as it was my intention from the outset to kill you–to dismember you–to put the bits and pieces of you into a bin liner and then throw you out with the rubbish–well…Who cares, Janice? In time your wounds will heal, in time the bruises fade–in time you won’t wake in the night screaming, in time the horror and the terror, this evil and tonight, will all be gone. That’s what they’ll tell you–but it isn’t true, Janice, it won’t end, it doesn’t ever end. The headline tomorrow will be the same as today’s–and the same as the day after that–all will be repeated and endlessly regurgitated, round and round it rolls, Janice, in the swill it rolls, ever on, and on, and on…Once bitten, going to be bitten again…Your end was met, Janice, and what an awful end it was. This is what he did to you, Janice–this is what he did to you, and did to her, Janice, and did to me–that guilty man that God forgot. This is what he did–he beat her, Janice, just as I beat you, with his fists he beat her–and let me assure you there was nothing nice about it, Janice–it hurt–it was wild and vicious and messy and uncontrolled and savage and brutal and nasty. But it subdued her, Janice–just as it subdued you–and then he broke her arm, Janice. Just as I broke your arm. He broke her arm at its elbow, Janice, he stamped on it and snapped it, just as I…And just as I, he made sure not to kill, Janice. He had plenty more in store–that guilty man. It wasn’t meant to be forgotten, Janice–he wanted the world to know. He stripped her naked, Janice…She was five years old…You, you were much older, much heavier, much harder to drag upstairs, much harder to dump in the bath. Imagine, Janice–if you can imagine–imagine him tying a cord tight around your ankles and then hoisting your legs high into the air. Picture yourself, Janice–your body naked, broken, black and beaten, your feet tied and bound to the shower fitting, your body slumped awkwardly and shamefully, an abused carcass, dangling upside down into the bath–all your blood rushing to your head–you were purple. Imagine that if you can, Janice…And now imagine, if you can, Janice, a five-year-old girl in the same predicament…Ponder that thought, Janice, hold that picture…For that is what he did, Janice–that is what he did to her–as I have done to you–and God forgot, Janice. God forgot…But I don’t forget–I remember–I’m very good at memory. I remember how he slit her throat, Janice, and drained her. I watched with mine own eyes, Janice, as he pulled that scalpel from my pocket and drew its blade across your throat. I saw with mine own eyes, Janice, your blood spill, and your life conclude…That is what he did, Janice–that guilty man that God forgot, he did it to her–and now I have done it to you…God is in his Heaven, on the right side and the left–the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, blithely unaware. But I remember, Janice–I will not forget–I remember…As I remember her…five years old, severed and drained like a halal chicken.
I left you to hang for an hour or two, Janice, came downstairs and unpacked the shopping, put everything away and then put that chicken-and-leek pie in the oven. It was delicious. I boiled some peas and made some gravy, sat at the kitchen table and ate it in reverent silence. And then I retired to the living room and watched the news and smoked a cigarette. I hope you don’t mind, Janice, but I used that ornamental plate from Alicante as an ashtray.
The news, both national and local, was packed full with horror, but none of it mine. The lead story was about the woman found in a in bag. There’ll be more of that story tomorrow, Janice, when they find you…And then that story was followed by another equally horrifying story involving the abduction and murder of a little boy in Norwich. I can’t remember his name but he was taken from his back garden by a ten-year-old girl who walked him into the woods, where her eleven-, twelve-and thirteen-year-old lynch mob were waiting. They tied a noose around the little boy’s neck and then hanged him. And then that story was followed by a story about a little African girl, I can’t remember her name either. She’d been sent to live with her aunt in England. Sadly her aunt believed that the little girl was possessed by devils–so the aunt took the little girl to a priest, who beat her and kicked her and whipped her, and rubbed chillies into her eyes, and stubbed cigarettes out on her skin, and broke her ribs, and cut her flesh with a knife heated to red-hot temperatures. And he did it all in the name of God with the full consent of the little girl’s aunt…And then that story was followed by a story about two schoolgirls, one aged fifteen and one aged sixteen, again I can’t remember their names but they were taken by five men, I think from Eastern Europe, to a flat, where they were held for two days, drugged and repeatedly gang raped. The five men then shot the two girls and dumped their bodies, in the dead of night, in a thicket of trees by the side of the road. And then that story was followed by another story about another pretty Asian girl–just like the one I knew, but not the one I knew, another one, a different one, last seen buying a jumper at TK Maxx. She suffered a terrible end. And then that story was followed by a rather amusing story about an elephant that had escaped from a zoo in China and gone on the rampage–the whole hilarious episode had been caught on camera and put to music. I have to admit it was very funny, and did make me laugh…And then came news of the weather–what today’s weather had been, cold and grey and wet–and what tomorrow’s weather would be, cold and grey and wet–but they presented it brightly and very cheerfully…I smoked a jazz cigarette and drew a picture. Then I sat in silence for a time and listened to the shuffling noises behind the wall and watched a fly buzzing and crashing into the window. Then I went back upstairs and stripped myself naked. I hope you don’t mind, Janice, but I didn’t want to get my clothes dirty, so I removed them, piece by piece, and folded them neatly into a tidy pile. It made me think of the badger…I entered the bathroom, the three scalpels, the knife and the saw that he’d stolen from the Thackray in one hand, and a roll of bin bags in the other. I closed the door behind me and set about my work. First I removed your head Janice, it was a textbook dissection. I held it aloft in front of me, gripping you by your hair, and I thought of Robespierre and Jacques Chirac–I heard myself saying, ‘Il faux que la France dise–Non!’ It made me chuckle and the vibrations in my arm made your head rotate and you sort of jiggled round and looked at me. It was eerie. You looked like John the Baptist in that ridiculous painting by Caravaggio. Quite gruesome. I bagged you quickly and then set to work removing your right arm–the broken arm–and then your left arm. Taking your arms off was the most fearful part of the whole operation. The way they kept lolloping around me and grabbing at me as I hacked away at your shoulder, viciously paring the flesh back to the bone. Your fingers kept catching in my hair–I couldn’t bear it–I became exasperated and angry and virtually ripped your left arm off, ripped it off at the shoulder like a married man rips the wing off a Sunday roast chicken. I dropped the saw, grabbed your arm by the wrist with both hands, put my foot on your torso and yanked–violently. I was panicking, Janice. There was a fear in me–important to note it. And I have to say that I don’t like arms, they’re a troublesome, dangerous limb–best kept out of reach…Anyway, once I’d got them off, I bagged them quickly–straight in with your head. And then I remember I held the bag open and just stared into it. It was a ghastly, horrifying sight–your severed head, that tortured rent expression, and your arms, twisted and reaching. I couldn’t tie the bag up quickly enough–fumbling as I did so–your arms poking and elbowing the sides–your fingers catching in the knot–it was like you were trying to claw your way
back out–and the weight of your head…and that look–it was awful…And then the sight of your remains left hanging–your torso and legs, draining. One should never have to see such a sight…I cut you down and laid you out in the bath and then set about removing your legs. It took forever. Slicing deep into your thigh from your crotch up to your hip–it’s no good being prudish, you have to get stuck in–get your hands dirty, get your fingers in–you have to hold the flesh apart and grapple with it and wrestle it. It takes effort and strength–you sweat, and as you sweat you know you’re never going to forget it–it’s exhausting and sapping and the blood is indelible, the stink of it permanent, the feel unerasable and the fact of it unalterable and horrible, horrible, and horrible…But I got it done…and got them off. And then chopped them up into three manageable pieces–off at the knees and the ankle…I have to say legs are an utterly ridiculous limb–they looked bigger off you than on you. They were absurdly long and cumbersome–they just looked daft. It made me think of Max Wall and Groucho Marx and John Cleese and funny walks…I put your calves and thighs in one bag and then was going to put your feet into another, but decided to leave them, sat on top of the toilet in third position–as a sort of sick joke. I couldn’t help imagining Charlie Chaplin sticking two forks into them and then improvising a comic dance with them. It was beautiful and most memorable, but very sad and quite macabre…But I digress…I bagged the rest of you and then sat on the edge of the bath, exhausted and shaken. I was covered in blood. Everything was covered in blood, and there were little pieces of you everywhere–the off-cuts–it was disgusting…I stared at the three bin bags–your head and arms in one, your thighs and calves in another and your torso in a third, and I thought…What was the point of that?