by Morton Bain
This is the reality of war. One man surviving and another dying, with nothing but dumb luck separating one from the other. The mortar is fired, and because it was angled just so, and because the wind struck the projectile just so, and because of the slight manufacturing imperfection that weighted it to veer in just such a direction, Bob got killed instead of Bill. And Bill and Bob had swapped positions a second before the missile landed.
It occurs to me that if I’d fought in a war, perhaps that would have suppressed my homicidal urges. Perhaps if I’d killed a dozen men, and seen a dozen of my fellows-in-arms slaughtered, I wouldn’t be so intent on murdering. There’s an interesting statistic – I’m not sure how true it is – that in most armed conflicts only a minority of soldiers actually shoot at the enemy. Two-thirds of troops will shoot high or low, left or right, anything to avoid actually killing or injuring the other side. What does that say about the third that shoot to hit? Are they, like me, psychopaths? Are they more patriotic than the others? More obedient to orders? Fuck knows. All I know is that I would have shot to kill, and I doubt I’d have come back from war minus my bloodlust. If anything I think it would have made me worse.
When I was in my early twenties I had been eager to see combat. I couldn’t be bothered to go through a formal military training, then wait around for a war that might never happen – one in which I’d have to worry about rules of engagement and all that jazz. No, I wanted a couple of days learning to use my weapon, then the opportunity to get stuck in. No binding contracts or enlistment formalities, so I could cut and run if I didn’t like being shot at. I considered most of the world’s trouble spots – Afghanistan, Iraq, Lebanon, Sierra Leone. My idea was to just show up and offer my services to whoever was most eager to use them. Cause wasn’t really something I was worried about. A week fighting with whichever bunch I chose and I figured I’d be able to see some validity in their call-to-arms. I think I would have gone with this urge, coming down with glandular fever just about the time I was preparing to book a flight in the end scuppering my plans. Maybe I should put this plan into action now. I feel like I’m straining against a leash I can’t see. I’d get to kill people without risk of being arrested.
As quickly as I have this idea, I give up on it. It’s just too much trouble to start shopping for trouble spots. I’m in my forties now; I want to be able to kill without getting vaccines. My victims will have to live in this country.
My reverie is interrupted by a call from Joey. ‘You busy this afternoon?’ he wants to know. ‘Someone you have to meet is back in town.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A special guy. Someone everyone could do with knowing.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Don’t argue,’ Joey butts in. ‘Just come over. I’ll see you in an hour.’
I open my mouth to protest, but the phone goes dead. I get up and tell Lucy I’m going on a house call.
‘On a Sunday?’
‘The Lord’s work doesn’t run according to human calendars,’ I say, before walking out.
‘Come in, come in,’ Joey booms after answering the door to me fifteen minutes later. ‘Come and meet Courtney.’
I follow Joey into the living room. As soon as I walk in an incredibly fat black man with dreadlocks stands up. His huge grin reveals sparkling white teeth, with a prominent gap between the front teeth. Courtney starts chuckling as soon as we make eye contact, as if the very act of breathing is humourous to him.
‘Adam – Courtney. Courtney – Adam.’ Joey never uses twenty words when he can get by with four.
The next few hours whizz past in a crazy blur. Drinks come out, then coke, then weed. Music is played, eventually so loudly that my teeth start to vibrate. At one point I look up to see Joey and Courtney ballroom dancing to some Rare Grooves tune. Then suddenly I’m dancing to a similar track. After a while it’s impossible to tell which particular substance is having the bigger effect on me. You’d think it would be the coke, but the weed seems pretty mind-blowingly strong. I go to the toilet at one point, and when I return I’m confronted with the sight of Courtney waving a handgun around. For a second I think he’s gone crazy and is about to shoot Joey, but a huge smile reveals he’s just having fun. I join the other two in dancing around the room. Suddenly something black flies in my direction. Only after catching it do I realise it’s Courtney’s gun. I appreciate its weight for a moment, before holding it aloft in one hand. I’m totally fucked, but not so fucked I don’t forget to keep my finger away from the trigger. After a few minutes I hand the gun back to Courtney. He takes it with a grin, strokes the barrel with one hand, then aims and fires it at the television. I look at Joey to see what his reaction will be, but he just smiles and gives a thumbs-up sign. My ears ring from the loudness of the report for several minutes. I can see that the bullet fired went straight through the television, lodging in the wall behind.
The craziness carries on until eventually I go into a state of blackout. The next thing I know, I’m coming to my senses on the carpet of Joey’s living room. A weak light indicates it’s either very early the next morning or almost nightfall on the following day. I lift my head from the floor and immediately see Courtney lying a couple of feet from me, on his back. He even grins when he’s asleep, I discover. I can’t see Joey. I get up and head for the kitchen. I need to drink something cold and non-alcoholic. Joey collides with me in the kitchen doorway. ‘Whoa,’ he says. ‘Back from the dead?’
‘I’m not sure about that. I need water.’
‘We can do better than that,’ Joey replies, waving a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of my face.
‘You must be joking.’
‘I’m deadly serious. Come on. A big shot of this and a line of coke and you’ll be fine.’
Joey’s recipe for revival works in my case, but Courtney needs about half a bottle of bourbon and three lines before he’s fully awake. ‘Jesus motherfucking Christ,’ he says after his third line. He sniffs and rubs his nose vigorously. ‘That’s fixed me up just fine. I remember who I am now.’
‘Back on planet earth, eh?’ Joey asks. ‘That’s good. We’ve had our party. Now it’s time to talk.’
‘Talk?’ I say. ‘I need to talk to my wife. She’s probably called the police by now.’
‘Forget your wife. If she hasn’t figured out you’re a cunt by now, it’s time she did. Courtney’s back from Jamaica, and he’s got a very interesting business proposal for us. Courtney?’
Courtney rubs his face with both hands, then says, ‘Well, yeah. I think there’s some business we can do together that could make us all a lot of money. Get you back in the mob’s good books.’ He looks at Joey. ‘Get you with some serious cash in your pocket.’ He looks at me.
Why are they including me in all this? I ask myself. I’m an aspiring killer, not gangster. Sharing other men in your criminal plans seems to be a form of male bonding, like going to a strip-joint together.
‘What’s the plan?’ I ask, without much enthusiasm.
‘This is the great bit,’ Joey says giggling. ‘Being in the Church is about to pay off in a big way.’
Courtney smiles and takes another sip of Jack Daniels. ‘Well . . . I grew up in Jamaica, but my family are originally from Haiti. I still have some family living there, including a cousin who works for a charity.’
‘She must be busy,’ I observe.
‘Very busy. There was plenty to do before the earthquake, but now it’s just crazy. She works with orphans for a charity that is basically managed by the Catholic Church. Since the earthquake they have been sending ten orphans over to the UK every month. The idea is get them away from the chaos of Haiti for a while. Get them eating proper and away from all the death and disaster.’
‘Very noble,’ I say. ‘But what’s the angle here?’
‘Be patient,’ Joey tells me. ‘He’s just getting to that.’
‘Well, the orphans are coming over to stay with Catholic families. Any church can put forward
people to take in a kid. So, now we get to the good bit. I’ve got some great coke contacts, and they can dump as much of the stuff as they want in Haiti without any fear of getting caught. What’s left of the police force just couldn’t give a fuck about dope smuggling, and even if they did you could bribe them with a couple of loaves of bread.’
‘Where did you say the coke would come from?’ Joey asks.
‘Venezuela. Originally Peru, but it would be shipped from Venezuela.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ I say.
‘Come on man,’ Courtney says, lightly punching me on the upper arm. ‘We’ve got an easy supply of coke to Haiti, and ten kids a month coming from there to the UK. Do I have to spell it out?’
‘So the kids are going to carry the coke?’
‘Correct,’ Courtney says.
‘They swallow it or something?’
‘No, no, no. They’ll each have a little suitcase. And each suitcase will be carrying more than clothes and a teddy bear.’
‘And your cousin. Is she involved in this as well?’
‘You bet. She’ll get her cut, and she hasn’t got a problem using drugs money to help fund the charity.’
‘So where do we come in?’ I ask. ‘I haven’t got time to go traipsing off to Haiti.’
‘Nothing as demanding as that,’ Joey says.
‘Course not,’ Courtney confirms. ‘We’d just need you to enrol your church in the scheme. Get some church people to take a few kids in.’
‘And the coke? I don’t have to handle it?’
‘Not at all,’ Courtney replies. ‘You just need to be around when the kids arrive. Before dropping them off with their families we switch their cases or just get the stuff out of them.’
‘And listen to how much you’ll get for every kid you handle,’ Joey says, chuckling.
‘Well, that depends on how much we get for the coke,’ Courtney says. ‘What you reckon Joey? Not sure if your guys or mine will pay better money. Adam’s end’s gotta be at least five per kid.’
‘Five only?’ Joey says. ‘Each case is going to have a kilo of the white stuff. I reckon more like ten.’
‘It’ll depend on how much we get for it.’
‘Five it too low.’
‘Okay, okay. Figure on seven then. Something like that.’
Joey looks at me. ‘Tempted?’
A big wad of cash might pay for a good defence lawyer if I get caught for murder, I think to myself. ‘I could be,’ I concede. ‘When would this all start?’
‘A month or so’s time,’ Courtney says. ‘You could start sounding out a few people in your church straightaway.’
Joey slaps me on the back. ‘We’ll make a proper gangster out of you yet. Next thing you know you’ll be packing heat.’
Courtney laughs. ‘Sure. I can get you a piece, man. No problem.’
‘What, to coerce churchgoers with?’ I say.
‘A gun is like a cell phone,’ Joey says. ‘Once you’ve have had one for a while you wonder how you ever lived without it.’
‘Did you ever do hits when you were in the Mafia?’ I ask.
Joey and Courtney laugh loudly. Courtney’s laugh sounds a bit like a chicken being strangled. ‘You don’t join the Mafia without doing a hit,’ Joey informs me. ‘Ever since that guy Donnie Brasco infiltrated the New York Mafia they won’t make you unless you’ve done an execution. No Federal agent would go that far, so it’s a fool-proof way of making sure they never get taken seriously by the mob.’
‘Makes sense,’ I observe. ‘Then again, if the Feds know this, couldn’t they legitimately arrest every member of the Mafia on the basis that they must all have committed a murder?’
‘A bit more complicated than that.’ Joey pauses before continuing, ‘If you want to know about killing, then Courtney here’s your man. Popped a lot more people than me . . .’
I look at Courtney, trying to figure out how this laughing teddy bear could have killed several people. Maybe he hugged them to death.
‘Yeah, man,’ Courtney says. ‘Your first killing mashes you up some. It’s on your mind for a couple of weeks after you done it. You know, what’s the guy’s soul doing right now? Is he looking down at me from the sky? But after a while you forget about him. You know, we all have to go. I just brought that time forward for him. I lost count now how many people I killed. Gotta be more than ten.’
‘Shit,’ is the best I can manage. I look at Courtney through slightly different eyes from this point onwards.
‘So you’re in?’ Joey asks. ‘You wanna play the game?’
‘Count me in,’ I reply emphatically.
Chapter Five
The big day arrives. I’m sitting in the coffee shop, watching the cashpoint machine. The café has just opened, and I’m the second customer of the day. As previously decided, the fourth person to use the hole-in-the-wall will be my target. So far two people have withdrawn money, so I shouldn’t have long to wait. I’m wearing a bunch of clothes that I took from outside a charity shop – clothes I’ve never worn before and which cannot be traced to me except through my theft of them. I have my bayonet, which I’m carrying in a Monsoon bag. An unfortunate incident a couple of years back involving a bottle of whiskey, a car and a breathalyser means I have a criminal record, and as a result there’s a database somewhere which holds a sample of my DNA. I’m thus paranoid about leaving any genetic evidence behind at a crime scene. The clothes I am wearing are long-sleeved. I exfoliated and shaved my hands and face before leaving this morning, and I have with me a builder’s facemask, which I’ll don just before killing, along with surgical gloves. Apparently tiny particles of saliva and phlegm can be exhaled during the normal breathing process, and I don’t want these ending up on my victim’s body. Shoes seem to be a common way of getting caught – footprints, traces of blood left on footwear, etc. – so I’m wearing a pair of shoes that my brother left at our house a couple of years ago. I’ve burnt the soles to corrupt any print that might enable identification of the make by frying the base of the shoes lightly for ten minutes at a medium heat with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil.
The third person to use the cashpoint approaches the machine. He looks like a stupid hoodie, and I’m actually sad that he won’t be my target. You don’t know how lucky you are, you little shit. My body tenses up. I could be just minutes from committing my first killing. I’ve promised myself that I’ll only slice and dice if the circumstances favour me. I’ll have to be able to follow my target to a spot that will enable me to kill without being caught. If this can’t be done I’ll try and follow him or her to a place of work or home. I’ll then stalk them for as long as it takes for the right moment to arise.
I’ve got my nose in a cup of cappuccino when the fourth person to use the cashpoint rocks up. It’s a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair. I’m somewhat surprised, even though it’s obvious that young, blonde women use cashpoints just like everyone else. I put the rubber gloves on and stuff the mask in my packet. I wait until she’s finished taking cash out before leaving the coffee shop.
The girl walks away from the cashpoint, down the High Street. I follow, keeping as big a distance as I dare without risking losing her. After she’s walked for a couple of hundred yards she takes a right onto a side road. I pick up my pace, almost tripping over a cardboard box that has been dropped on the pavement. When I turn onto the side road I’m alarmed to see that the woman has disappeared. I break into a jog, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Having waited this long to kill I can’t accept the loss of my quarry. I walk back down the street towards the High Street. Just before I reach it I see the girl – she’s coming out of the front door of one of the first houses on the road. This time she’s carrying a bag. I put the mask on.
I glance around quickly to see if anyone’s within sight, and when I’m satisfied that there isn’t I rush the girl, pushing her back into the house and onto her back. She screams, and kneeling on her chest I put a hand to h
er mouth. ‘Scream again, and I’ll kill you,’ I say, waving my bayonet in her face. Her eyes widen in terror. ‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ I ask. The girl shakes her head. I pause for a moment to listen, but can hear no sounds. If anyone else had been in the dwelling the commotion would surely have summoned them.
Now or never, I think to myself. Raising the knife as high as I can, I bring it down on the woman’s chest. I must have glanced a bone, as the blade doesn’t sink into her flesh as smoothly as I had expected. The woman continues to struggle, but she’s light, and by pressing more firmly on her mouth, my knees on either side of her torso, I manage to keep her in place. I strike downwards again with the knife. The girl moves just at the last moment, and instead of hitting her heart area the knife sinks into her neck. Though accidental, this blow proves very effective. I figure I must have hit a major artery, as blood gushes upwards like a geyser. I don’t think she needs another stab, but I give her a couple anyway, focusing on the heart area. Soon her body becomes still, her only movement a rhythmic opening and closing of her mouth, like a fish out of water.
I stand up and survey the scene. One very dead woman in a large pool of blood; me, covered in blood as well, particularly my hands and chest. Though I don’t want to tarry longer than I need to, I’ve watched enough TV and read enough books to know that there’s a certain protocol that needs to be followed as a serial killer. My killings have to have a signature, and I need to keep some sort of souvenir. I’m not particularly bothered by either custom, but feel I should enter into the spirit of things. By way of signature I place a red snooker ball in my victim’s mouth. This is a nod to the game of Girl Snooker that Jake and I used to play, and I feel guaranteed to get detectives scratching their heads and keeping local pool halls under surveillance. As for the souvenir, I decide to go for a post-modern approach to the whole tradition. Instead of chopping of an ear or stealing jewellery, I’m going to take a toothbrush. Much less incriminating than a bloody ear, and an ironic comment on the whole keepsake phenomenon.