Before she closed the door he shouted after her. She couldn’t make out the words; the wind seemed to snatch them away and she pictured them rolling down the street like dead leaves. Inside, standing with her back to the door, she felt sick and panicky. The last time she’d felt like this was when Des had told her their relationship was over. He’d fallen for a colleague. They’d decided to settle down and have kids. She’d vowed never to let a man get to her like that again, but here she was, in her own flat, wanting to throw up all over the carpet.
She stood there for a long time. The phone rang. It couldn’t be Anthony. She was ex-directory and had never been silly enough to give him her number. She waited for a message to be left on the answering machine but the caller hung up. At last she moved, walked through to the kitchen, looked out of the window. The street was empty. She lifted the phone to ring her friends, but replaced it. She couldn’t bear their I told you so sympathy. They’d thought all the time that she was stupid, that she’d be lost without Des, that it was ridiculous to teach losers to read.
Later she felt an emptiness which could have been hunger and she hacked herself a slice from a crusty loaf. The knife was short and squat, very sharp. After the bread was cut, she wiped crumbs from the knife’s blade and put it into her handbag. That evening, as she stared mindlessly at a television drama, her thoughts returned occasionally to its steely sharpness, bringing her comfort, the nearest she’d been to calm for days.
It was the last class before the October half term and the students were in a cheerful mood. Maddy realised that they’d become friends. Sophie had lost her haunted look and was chatting about the care home where she worked. Anthony hadn’t arrived and Maddy started the class without him. Perhaps she was free of him, he’d drifted off or been arrested again. But he walked in late as he had for the first session, with the same edginess and pleading eyes. She forced herself to be polite, took courage from thought of the knife, sharpened that morning, which lay in the bottom of her handbag.
Towards the end of the lesson though, her nerve failed her and she finished the class early. Her students gathered around her desk.
‘We’re going to the pub, Maddy. Will you come too?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not feeling too brilliant actually. I think I’ll go straight home.’ There was no point now, conjuring up the imaginary boyfriend. Anthony had been following her and knew he didn’t exist.
She was going by the side of the park when she heard the footsteps following, light and quick. She walked more firmly, with her right hand she opened the bag which was slung over her shoulder, gripped the steel handle.
His touch shocked her. He’d never touched her before, not even to shake her hand. This was tentative, a stroke on her shoulder. Maddy felt her throat constrict as if she was already being strangled, turned and struck, with the knife in her clenched fist.
There was a gasp, a whisper and Sophie fell. Lying on the pavement she seemed even smaller and more delicate than she had in class. Her skirt had ridden above her knees and her legs were thin and white. In one hand she still held the purse Maddy had left on her desk before hurrying out of class.
Cath Staincliffe
* * *
Laptop
* * *
I’d been boosting laptops for a couple of years but never with such bloody disastrous consequences. Up until then it’d been easy money. Two or three a week kept body and soul together and was a damn sight more conducive to the good life than temping in some god-awful office with all the crap about diets and botox and endless squabbles over the state of the kitchen. Shorter working week, too. Eight, maybe ten hours, the rest of the time my own.
I always dressed well for work – part of the scam, isn’t it? People are much less guarded if I’m in a designer suit: something smart, fully lined, along with good shoes, hair and make-up. Helps me mingle. Looking like an executive, some high-flying businesswoman, gives me access to the most fertile picking grounds: conference centres, business parks, commuter trains, the best restaurants and coffee bars. And, after all, if someone nicks your laptop who’s going to spring to mind? Me with my crisp clothes, my detached air, snag-free tights or some lad in a beanie hat and dirty fingernails?
So, that fateful day, as I came to think of it, I was working at Manchester Airport. I do it four or five times a year; the train service is handy and with all the business flights I’ve plenty of targets to choose from.
As with any type of thieving, opportunity is all. The aim being to get the goods and get away with it. When I started working for Danny, he came out with me, but I was quick on the uptake and after a few runs he left me to it. I’m one of his best operators but he reckons I’m lazy. You could make more, he tells me near enough every time I swap the merchandise for cash, a bit of ambition you could be clearing fifty a year, higher tax bracket. The last bit’s a joke. No one in the business pays any tax. But I’m not greedy. I enjoy the time I have. Gives me chance to indulge my passion. I paint watercolours. Surprised? So was I when I first drifted into it. Then it became the centre of my life. It was what got me out of bed and kept me up late.
That day when I spotted the mark I dubbed him The Wolf. He had a large head, the coarse brown hair brushed straight back from his face, a long, sharp nose and lips that didn’t quite meet; too many teeth for his mouth. Like a kid with those vampire fangs stuffed in their gob. I assumed he was meeting someone as he made no move to check in and we were near the arrivals hall. He had the laptop on the floor, to his right, at the side of his feet. He was in prime position at the end of a row of seats, in the lounge where people have coffee while they wait for the information boards to change or for a disembodied voice to make hard-to-hear announcements.
After walking about a bit, checking my exit routes and getting a feel for the atmosphere that day and the people hanging around (no nutters, drunks or a surfeit of security guards) I settled myself on the end seat of the row adjoining his. He and I were back to back. I put my large bag down beside me at my left. My bag and his laptop were maybe five inches apart. On the seat next to me I put my own laptop and handbag. When I turned to my left I could see us both reflected in the plain glass of the offices that ran along the edge of the concourse. There were coloured screens behind the glass to mask the work areas so no danger of my being seen from in there.
Timing is crucial. I watched his reflection as he glanced down to check his laptop and I moved a few seconds after, just as a large family with raucous kids and two trolley-loads of bags hoved into view, squabbling about where to wait. Keeping my upper body straight, I reached my left arm back and grasped the handle of his laptop, pulled it forward and lifted it up and into my big bag. I grabbed the handles of that, hitched it onto my shoulder, collected my other things, stood and walked steadily away. Belly clamped, mouth dry, senses singing.
Twice I’ve been rumbled at that very moment, before I’m out of range. Both in the early days. Turning, I look confused. ‘Sorry?’
‘My laptop!’ They are incandescent with outrage, ready to thump me. Except I don’t run or resist. I gawp at them, look completely befuddled, furrowed brow. Mouth the word ‘laptop?’ My hand flies to my mouth, I stare in my bag. ‘Oh, my god.’ Both hands to my mouth. I blush furiously. Wrestle the shopper from my shoulder. ‘God, I am so sorry.’ Withdraw the offending article, hand it back, talking all the time, on the brink of tears. ‘It’s exactly like mine.’ I hold up my own laptop (case only: I’m not lugging around something that heavy all day – besides someone might nick it). ‘I was miles away, oh, god, I feel awful. You must think, oh, please I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’ Deliberately making a scene, drawing attention, flustered woman in a state. Their expressions morph: rage, distrust, exasperation, embarrassment and eventually relief tinged with discomfort. They just want me to shut up and disappear. Which I do.
With The Wolf, though, all goes smooth as silk.
Until I get the bastard thing home and open it.
So I got home, changed into something more comfortable, had lunch on my little balcony. On a clear day to the east I can see the hills beyond the City of Manchester stadium and the velodrome and to the west the city centre: a jumble of Victorian gothic punctuated by modern glass and steel, wood and funny angles, strong colours. It’s a vista I love to paint. But that day was damp, hazy, shrouding the skyline. I polished off a smoked salmon salad, some green tea, then got down to business.
Danny’s code didn’t work. And I could have left it at that. I should have. But there was a memory stick there: small, black, inoffensive looking. I picked it up and slotted it into the USB port on my own machine. There wasn’t much on it, that’s what I thought at the time, just one file, called Accounts. I opened it expecting credits and debits, loss carried forward or whatever. Perhaps bank details that Danny could milk. Overseas accounts, savings.
Not those sort of accounts.
June 12th 2010
She was very drunk when she left the club. Falling into a taxi, falling out at her place. I let her get inside and waited for a while before I went in the back. She was stumbling about for long enough. When I judged she was asleep I crept upstairs. I had everything ready. She woke. But I’d done it by then. The colour flooded her face and she tried to get up, jerking, but couldn’t, then the flush drained away and her eyes glazed over. I closed her eyes. She looked more peaceful that way. It was wonderful. Better than I’d imagined. A pure rush. Cleaner, brighter than drugs or religion or sex. On a different plane. I wish I’d stayed there longer now. I didn’t want to leave her but I was being cautious. Everything meticulously done. Precise, tidy. I’ve waited all my life for this. I wasn’t going to ruin it by being clumsy and leaving anything they could trace back to me.
June 18th 2010
Lady Luck must be smiling down on me. No one suspects a thing.
The Wolf obviously fancied himself as a scribe. Some sort of crime thriller. I wondered if he’d got this backed up anywhere else or if he’d just lost his life’s work. I read on. I mainly read biographies but it was intriguing. The next entry was a couple of months later.
Aug 23rd 2010
I’m getting restless again. Low after the high? Things are difficult. I can’t remember her face anymore. I should have taken a photograph.
Sept 4th 2010
I’ve found the next one. Not sure how to get in but the good weather might make things easier. An open window, patio doors? She has a beautiful face; very simple, strong mouth, wide eyes. I want to see those eyes change.
A tinge of unease made me pause. I scrolled down the document – it was only four pages long. I scanned it all again. The dates spanned a nine-month period. The latest entry was from February 2011, only two weeks earlier. Four pages, hardly a novel. A short story maybe?
Or real?
The thought made my stomach lurch and my throat close. I switched the machine off, my hand trembling a little. Stupid. Just some sad bloke’s sick fantasy. But like sand in an oyster shell the notion stuck. It grated on me while I tried to paint, making it impossible to concentrate.
I haven’t picked up a brush since.
That evening I sat in front of the television flicking through the channels. Nothing held my attention. The memory stick crouched at the edge of my vision, a shiny black carapace, like a malevolent beetle or a cockroach. I decided then there was one way to stop the flights of fancy. I just needed to prove to myself that the accounts were fictional.
Sept 24th 2010
She never locks up when she goes next door for the morning paper. I hid in the spare room all day. The excitement was unbearable, delicious. And then I waited while she cooked herself a meal and bathed and watched television. It was after midnight before she turned out the lights. She’d been drinking whisky, I could smell it on her breath and from the glass beside her. I thought it would make her drowsy but she flinched when I touched her and struggled and almost ruined everything. She made me angry. I had to punish her. After all, it could have been perfect. She had robbed me of that. She soon learnt her lesson and then I did it and the spasms started; the life bucking from her. I felt her go cold.
Then we were even. I still laid her out nicely, enjoyed her till the sun rose. Not long enough. With her spoiling it like that I had to cover my tracks. Everyone has candles around these days and some people forget to replace the smoke alarm batteries. Whisky’s an accelerant. I want the next one to be perfect even if it takes me longer to find her.
I re-read the entries and made a note of the dates. There were no names or addresses, not even locations but I reckoned I could check those dates – for deaths. I looked online first, found the Office of National Statistics site. But their records only went up to the year 2009 and there were practically half a million deaths a year. That’s getting on for ten thousand a week. Without more details there was no way to find out about a specific death on a particular date.
Oct 5th 2010
Every day, going about my business, knowing that what I am sets me apart. I have gone beyond the boundaries and reaped the rewards. If anyone could bottle this and sell it they’d make a killing (hah!).
I tried the local Record Office next. They had registered deaths for 2010 on microfiche. It took me several trips, booking the viewers for a couple of hours at a time. I started by eliminating all the men and then anyone under fifteen and over forty. Arbitrary I know, but I had to narrow it down somehow. And I focused on Manchester. After all, he’d been to the airport and he mentions the Metrolink when he talks about the third victim.
Dec 11th 2010
She got on at Cornbrook. It was like recognising someone. I followed her home. I can’t wait – though I will. The anticipation makes it hard to think straight.
Even then I still had lists with dozens of deaths for each of the two dates in 2010. It was hopeless.
Danny rang the following week. Had I retired? Or was I just being even more lazy than usual? A virus, I told him, couldn’t shake it off. So I hadn’t got anything for him.
It became harder to sleep. The Wolf stalked my dreams. I thought about pills but that frightened me more. If he did come and I was comatose, I might never wake up. I tried to imagine what he’d done to the women. He was never explicit in what he wrote.
I spent a fortune on increased security. I could have gone to the police then, I had rehearsed a cover story about finding the laptop, but I feared the police would dig deeper. Want to know how I’d paid for my flat when I hadn’t had any employment for over two years. They’d only have to check my bank records to see I handled a lot of cash. They were bound to be suspicious. I could end up in court for no good reason. In prison. So I delayed – hoping to find out it was all invented.
Jan 7th 2011
Tomorrow I’ll be with her. This has been a long time coming, tricky with her going away so often. But now she’s back. She’ll soon be mine.
More than once I considered destroying the memory stick but what if it was all true and The Wolf was a killer, then this was proof. In one dream the memory stick was missing, I searched the flat in a frantic panic and woke up, drenched in sweat. The fear forced me from my bed to check that I still had it. I copied it to my own machine for back-up.
I stopped going to bed. The doctor suggested sleeping pills but I lied and said that side of things was fine, I just needed something for my anxiety during the daytime. He prescribed Prozac. It didn’t help. But they say it takes a while to have any effect. As it turned out, I didn’t have that long.
Jan 8th 2011
I was all ready but she brought a man home and he stayed with her. I’d been looking forward to it so very much. Everything focused, concentrated. I won’t let her ruin it. I will not get angry
. I won’t give up either. She’s the next one. No matter how long it takes.
Then I thought about trying the newspapers. Central Library was closed for refurbishment and they’d moved the archive to the Record Office so I went back there and trawled the newspapers they had on microfiche for the dates of the first two entries. June 12th 2010 had been a Saturday. Tucked away inside the following Monday’s Evening News there was a paragraph headed UNTIMELY DEATH. My pulse raced and my stomach contracted as though I’d been thumped.
The story identified her as Janet Carr, 37, an administrator who was discovered by friends when she failed to turn up for a social engagement and didn’t answer her phone. Miss Carr was a chronic asthmatic. There were no suspicious circumstances. The only reason her death was in the paper was the fact that Miss Carr was administrator of a charity involved in raising money for asthma research. It made good copy. Human interest.
I sat there in front of the microfiche reader, staring at the screen, feeling nauseous and the horror of it creeping across my skin like a rash. There was no mention of foul play. I’d imagined The Wolf strangling them but whatever he’d done, he’d done it in a way that avoided detection. Poisoning? Gassing? How else could he have killed and left it looking natural? Something to aggravate Janet Carr’s asthma? Had he known she was asthmatic? Were the others? What else could he have used? I’d no idea.
Best Eaten Cold and Other Stories Page 11