The Seven Days of Peter Crumb

by Jonny Glynn

  I gave the bath a good clean and mopped up as much of the mess as I could, flushed some bits down the toilet, and then had a shower. I gave myself a good lathering and then got into your bathrobe, it was a bit small but quite comfy. I went into your bedroom and lay on your bed–everything was so white and fluffy, it calmed me and I reflected for a moment, and thought about what I had done, not only to you, Janice, but to Valerie, and Beth, and Adrian, and that girl, and her mum, and Milka, and Paul and Dan and Dave and Dieter. I thought about them all…and Emma, and the guilty man, and him and me…the grubby struggle of life, the lies and delusion, the vanity and futility of it all, and the gratuitous evil of it all…I felt deeply ashamed, and deeply revolted…And then I was sick–quite violently–I felt it coming on, the nausea, and was going to dash back into the bathroom, but I just couldn’t face it, so I opened the top drawer of your dresser and spewed into that–all over your bras and knickers–the cheesy undigested remains of that chicken-and-leek pie, chundered up all over your smalls. It was revolting. I was sweating and shaking like a dog, shivering and retching. I think it’s fair to say that I was having some sort of turn. A fit. I didn’t know what was happening, so I lay on the floor…lay perfectly still, and tried not to breathe…After a time, I can’t say how long, I remember I heard, somewhere in the distance–I heard an elephant scream–trumpeting rage…It was a magical sound that spurred me on…I got up, pulled myself together, gathered my clothes, got dressed and gave the house a nervous going-over. I collected the bags from the bathroom and put each bag inside another bag, and then brought them all downstairs and lined them up by the front door. I wrapped the scalpels, knife and saw inside your bathrobe and then put them in the freezer compartment of the fridge. I then found your purse and stole sixty-five pounds, found your mobile and turned it off, and then I gave the house a second nervous going-over–checked I hadn’t left anything, turned all the lights off, opened the front door and peered out into the street. The night air was so cold. My breath shimmered. All was quiet. I put the bags out for the bin men, quietly closed the front door behind me, pulled my mac tight, and was gone.

  I am now back in the car, the time past south by north-north-east.

  I have had enough, and am going home. Home to face the music, and dance.

  SATURDAY

  It was a long drive south, up all night listening to him chattering nonsense about the police, babbling about being caught–leaving clues and fingerprints. I want them to catch me, I want to be caught–he kept repeating it, like a mantra, accusing me. He can be such a nervous sweaty little fellow, so pathetically anxious and afraid, he really does disappoint. I’m surprised that these timid considerations of penalty and repentance still bother him. He actually said that I should turn myself in. He said I should go to the police station the moment I get back and come clean and confess all. He’s panicking. The end is drawing in, dragging itself out, and he’s panicking. It’s pathetic.

  ‘If the police are waiting for me,’ he said, mumbling to himself, ‘I want to go quietly. I don’t want any fuss.’

  I ignored him. It’s funny how the night can frighten.

  I arrived back in London just as dawn was breaking. The time straight north and south. I abandoned the car on the Old Ford Road and walked the rest of the way home through Victoria Park. It was a beautiful morning, a thin mist hung suspended, giving the day a mysterious sated foreboding that filled me with an excited trepidation. I sat on a bench and rolled a jazz cigarette, and then slowly took my time smoking it. I was so happy to be back. I stretched my legs out in front of me, smelt the languid morning air and felt wonderfully bodiless and intangible; it was nice. I was so relieved to be back, in spite of being wanted, and in spite of my Cinderella transformation waning. I just couldn’t care–let my carriage turn back into a pumpkin, my footman back into a rat, my clothes to rags, and me into that scabrous oaf of old–that handsome but melancholy fellow–wanted in the region–he’s back in town, folks, rolling home with a bad man’s swagger and bloodstained cuffs!

  Puff puff puff on my banger to its end–a big fat trumpet spitting blims and burning holes, all of yesterday’s woes worn thin–like a dandy Yankee sitting pretty with the neighbour-hood bully on his knee. My mind was rambling. The foul incoherence of existence was pressing too hard, the point of my pencil broke, and I felt him displace. There it is again, I thought–that shifty click into the abyss. It’s hellish odd, and I can’t explain it, but the details of doing remain…

  He started scratching and rubbing the skin on my right palm, rather like Lady Macbeth. And then casting furtive paranoid glances sideways, left and right, in front and behind. And the constant call from somewhere deep within urging me to act normal…It’s all so odd, but very human, the feeling of abnormality–I sometimes wonder we aren’t all mutants. I suppose it might have been the jazz, but nevertheless–it unsettled. There was something shifty about the joggers, they were watching me, making me nervous and raising suspicions. I couldn’t at first think why, but then I remembered that American girl with short hair and elfin looks. She went for a jog, and then she met her end. The story reported a white man sitting on a bench–sitting on this bench–a man just like me–that’s why he was sweating, that’s why they were looking…He stabbed her–repeatedly–at exactly this time, both arms south–and he stabbed her to death. The papers were full of it, and the television, but he was never caught. There was an appeal, and a reconstruction, posters slapped on every lamp post–they went to great lengths, local dignitaries met her parents–but nothing ever came of it, and no-one was ever caught…I sat and pondered…O pity God this miserable age.

  And then I slowly began to feel a terrible creeping anxiety, a sort of horrified backward after-boding. Again it could have been the jazz but I’m not so sure–it was something other, like a weird, dread-filled post-sentiment…And then the penny dropped and like a silly parrot I realized what he was up to. He’s intent on getting me caught. That’s why he brought me here–that’s why he sat me down and got me stoned, worked me up into a quinsy–he’s out to get me captured, wants me in the bag with the sand and stones, the gutless swine. I reached for a pair of scissors to stab him, but there weren’t any–so I just punched him hard on the chest, right above his heart. He felt it all right. And the bruise can prove it.

  ‘Give yourself up,’ he said, all earnest and ginger. ‘Turn yourself in, man. The game’s up, pal.’ I hate it when he calls me pal. ‘They’re onto you–you can’t go on like this–you can stop this–find a policeman and…’

  I ignored him, got up and ambled on at a pace. The swine had tricked me–I told you you can’t trust him–he’s always up to something, up to no good–getting up to mischief, as Mother used to say. He walked me into that park on purpose, sat me down on that bench so that all would see–that’s his game, the spineless nut, the coward frog–like a burping toad, waiting to be stabbed. That American was nothing to do with me. She’s somebody else’s criminal pastime, not mine…My shoulders were up, hands in pockets–legs extending, one step after another, chasing the pavement home all the way up Mare Street, Turks emerging, off at Clarence, onto Powell–only a hundred yards to go, a hundred yards from home, then fifty, twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen…

  And then I saw the blue-and-white ticker-tape strung out across the road and a policeman, standing, waiting…That gouged uncertain dread stopped in my throat…The policeman turned and looked at me. That penitent, grim, most human feeling was there again inside, churning in the gulch between right and wrong…Don’t panic–stay calm–act natural–be normal. The game was up, I knew it. The swine had won. They’d found Beth and Adrian. It was all over. I could feel the guilt trickling through me, like urine down a child’s leg. I walked slowly towards the policeman. He smiled.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ He was holding a clipboard, and spoke with the mannered assurance of someone newly trained.

  ‘Good morning,’ I replied, my voice trailing an
d thin.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident, sir. Is there an alternative route you can take?’

  ‘Oh…’ What did he mean by ‘incident’? I said nothing. The policeman’s walkie-talkie bleeped on his shoulder and made noises. He leant into it and pressed a button, but said nothing, and then returned to look at me. I spoke like a man confessing. I said: ‘My name is Peter Crumb. I live at number sixty-one.’

  His walkie-talkie bleeped and made a noise again. He leant into it, pressed a button on its side, and then turned away from me and said something into it, something I couldn’t hear. I wiped a bead of sweat from my right eyebrow. He turned and looked at me. ‘Sorry about that, sir–what did you say your name was?’

  I said again: ‘My name is Peter Crumb. I live at number sixty-one.’

  I noticed that my finger was directionlessly pointing and ever so slightly trembling. He wrote the time down, and then my name.

  ‘Peter Crumb, did you say? Is that with a B?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and then babbled on guiltily–‘I’ve been away–in Leeds. I’ve just got back. I live at number sixty-one. In the basement…’

  He wrote it all down, and then tucked his pen into the neck of his bulldog clip and looked at me. He was about to speak. I felt I had to interrupt him.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I enquired weakly.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a shooting, sir.’

  A shooting? What did he mean, a shooting? I used a knife–I didn’t have a gun. My forehead grizzled into wrinkled confusion.

  ‘A stabbing?’ I blurted.

  ‘No, sir, a shooting.’

  ‘A shooting?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ And then he lifted the stripy ticker-tape and ushered me under. ‘You can come through, sir,’ he said, gesturing down the street. ‘But could you try and stay on the far side of the road.’

  I followed his instructions to the letter; he had, after all, been very polite. Behind me in the opposite direction, about fifty yards up the road, was a tent, I presumed covering the body. Policemen were milling and everything was cordoned off and surrounded. I couldn’t believe my luck. They hadn’t found Beth and Adrian–this was nothing to do with me–and the policeman hadn’t recognized me–the Sudder Street scandal is obviously all but forgotten. And this was nothing to do with me, this was just some black-on-black nonsense–Operation Trident, black boy shoots black boy for mobile phone and bag of weed–case closed–done, dusted and forgotten by teatime. Jah se so.

  A thin smile broke at the edges of my mouth. The police I thought–honestly, they’re a fucking joke. Rudderless, clueless and utterly incompetent–is it any wonder so many law-abiding people feel nothing but utter contempt for them? Crimes go undetected, investigations get bungled–honestly, the British police are amongst the worst in the world. Rest assured, gentle reader, crime is a very low-risk activity for the criminal nowadays–the odds on getting caught are very slim, the only risk you really run is tripping a speed camera whilst making your getaway. And as for violent crime–my own particular area of expertise–well, violent crime is so rampant it’s hard to comprehend–it’s not a fad, it’s a craze! A gathering storm, a rolling epidemic of disorder, impossible to overcome–there’s just too much of it. It’s curious–we consider murder and bloodshed in the twenty-first century an abomination, but we’re at it more than ever. Look around you, folks–blood flows as merrily as beer on tap–that’s your twenty-first century. Britain is a crime-afflicted disintegrating society, rotten to the core, wretched with scabs and festering ills and there isn’t an unguent in all parliament that can bring any relief. Quite fucked, I’d say…But I digress…Yes–I do digress and may digress again. This tedious recanting of action is intolerable–this happened, that happened, he said this, I said that–to hell with it, it really is too much, what does it matter what happened? I got home, put the heating on and then made a cup of tea–there, does that make any more sense? The doing of it all, the wretched doing of it all and then thinking of it all again afterwards and writing it down, it’s destroying me. Who am I writing this for? Why am I writing this–this confession?!…Because he said so, for no better reason than that. Write it down, he said–every dirty word, he said–the truth of it–the awful evil truth of it–remember? I do remember–all my grubby urges given in to. My name is Peter Crumb, soon I will be dead. That’s that. Round and round it goes, ever on and on, endlessly repeated, from this day to the next–told and told again…One more day and then tomorrow…and then tomorrow.

  The time is now south by south-west–morning has definitely broken. I’m locked inside my own four walls, safe and sound, sipping tea and smoking jazz. Curtains drawn…going to sleep.

  The Second Dream of Hell

  I woke up. It was dark. I was lying in bed. My mother was sitting at the foot of my bed. Her back was arched and her head bent forward–staring. She was weeping pitifully, her hands held, trembling, at her mouth–the tips of her fingers resting, wet and dribbly, on her lower incisors. A catastrophe of grief, mucus, sputum and fear, smouldering into an awful twisted sorrow as she turned and looked at me, spittle trailing between her fingers and chin. I knew the truth of why–and felt afraid. It took her some time to speak, to calm herself and pronounce that awful judgement–‘I thought you were a good man, Peter…but you have made me very sad…’ And then she was standing and removed, at a distance–a door behind her opened. As it did so an urgent panic broke inside me. There was only time for one last look and nine more words–‘I should not like to be in your place…’ And then she was gone but her snivelling lingered…I could hear voices in the corridor, there were other people, they were about to enter, a light came on. I looked at the scab on my ankle–the flaking white skin and festering peeling scales–and I felt ashamed, a penetrating portentous shame. In a minute they’ll all see it, I thought–and then I woke up…It was the feeling in the dream that made it so disturbing. It was a slow wet feeling, of permanent disgrace, about to be found out.

  I am now sitting in the kitchen. I have successfully passed my toilet–Grade 5, ‘soft blobs with well-defined margins’. The long arm points east, the short arm north-north-west.

  All the policemen have gone and the street has reopened. The traffic flows. There are two community support officers standing at the side of the road where the tent used to be, chatting idly and joking with two traffic wardens. They are all four of them chuckling and making gestures–there’s something slightly sinister about them…Probably just my paranoia…Anyway, everything is back to normal and moving slowly…He’s sitting by the window, looking up into the street, like a dog waiting for a walk. I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow.

  Both arms up. Don’s Café. Eggs over easy. Back into my routine. I have been reading an interview–a Q&A–with an actress in a magazine. A French actress. Her answers were all very ordinary and heard before–she was one of those actresses who tries to sound clever and witty. She failed. Here is my Q&A:

  When and where were you happiest?

  The winter of ’96. Buddhist-baiting in Scotland.

  What is your greatest fear?

  Walking on granules of white sugar in bare feet.

  With which historical figure do you most identify?

  I’m tempted to say Job. The actress answered Joan of Arc–how utterly preposterous!

  Which living person do you most admire?

  I find this a very difficult question to answer. Milka comes to mind–but I don’t know why.

  What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

  Narcissistic delusions of importance.

  What is the trait you most deplore in others?

  Men are greedy fearful selfish ignorant ungrateful and cruel, women are the same.

  What makes you depressed?

  I make me depressed.

  Where would you like to live?

  Rome.

  What is your greatest extravagance?

  Murder.

  What objects d
o you always carry with you?

  Various keys, lighters, cards, coins, notes, pens, pencils, a rubber, some paper clips, a piece of string, a penknife, three pebbles, one stone and a black rock. Does a handkerchief count as an object?

  What do you most dislike about your appearance?

  I don’t dislike my appearance at all. I’m a very handsome man, it’s often commented upon. I’m a head-turner. But if I had to say something, then I’d say the hairs on my thighs.

  What is your most unappealing habit?

  Remembering.

  What is your favourite smell?

  Plasticine.

  What is your favourite book?

  Where the Wild Things Are.

  For what cause would you die?

  Cunning–the question they’re really asking is, of course ‘For what cause would you kill?’ My position is clear.

  Do you believe in monogamy?

  I used to, but not any more–it goes against the grain.

  What do you consider the most over-rated virtue?

  Forgiveness.

  How did you vote in the last election?

  Foolishly.

  How will you vote at the next election?

  Foolishly.

  What would your motto be?

  Keep out of reach of children.

  What lesson has life taught you?

  Never to exceed the stated dose.

  How would you like to die?

  Dramatically, with great effect.

  Do you have any regrets?