Psychopath!

by Morton Bain

  I have to fight the urge to burst into the house right away and have it out with the pair of them. After resisting this idea I have to the control the desire to wait until Courtney emerges and say something to him. Neither idea is good. I know something they don’t know I know, even if I don’t know what, if anything, is being planned. I have to hang tight, think hard and bide my time. I pull my hat off and start the car.

  The house is empty when I get home. While munching on a sandwich in the kitchen I notice a two-day-old copy of the local paper. Flicking idly through it, I spot an article covering the on-going investigation into the death of Kim Catcheside. The media have really caught on to the snooker ball thing, and the connection with my other murders has been made. It’s with a glow of pride I see that I’m being described as ‘The Snooker Ball Killer’. I’ve arrived as a serial killer. I have been awarded eternal life in the form of a steady stream of TV specials and trashy paperbacks devoted to my legend. It occurs to me that I only have the colour ‘Black’ to go. What happens after my next killing? Do I start from red again? The article informs me that a man is in custody, being detained for questioning. Unlucky fucker! It comforts me that the police are so devoid of proper leads that they’re hauling old boyfriends or local wackos in. Saying that, if one tenth of the population feel a tenth as hostile towards her class of individual as I do, there has to be a huge list of potential suspects.

  Thinking of a past killing makes me think of an intended one. I’ve promised myself the murder of my wife, and I don’t like to renege on promises. My original thought had been to smother Lucy, and then stage her ‘disappearance’. On further reflection, I decide that this would be inadvisable on account of the need to dispose of a body. I decide, therefore, that a ‘suicide’ will need to be staged. In the absence of witnesses, I don’t see how a murder could ever be pinned on me. There might be suspicions, but suspicions alone wouldn’t be enough to convict me. With my position at the church slightly precarious after Jake’s intervention, I can expect the wave of sympathy I might receive from the loss of my wife to divert attention from the whole massage parlour saga.

  I decide that Beachy Head is the best place to stage Lucy’s ‘suicide’. To that end I suggest an afternoon out there the following Saturday. I come up with some guff about wanting to spend some more quality time with Lucy – she laps that up – and tell her that Beachy Head has always been a special place for me – that it was on a visit there when I was in my early twenties that I first felt drawn to a life of ministry in the Church.

  Lucy’s parents are booked to come over to look after the kids on the appointed day. To add credence to what I’m going to say after Lucy tries her hand at flying, I engineer an argument on the morning of our date. I want her parents to see her upset. About half an hour before her parents turn up I ‘confess’ to her that I’m sexually attracted to Yvonne Williams, a member of my congregation. ‘I just feel I have to be honest with you about this,’ I explain. ‘I have no intention of doing anything about this feeling, but I feel honesty is what’s needed here.’

  ‘Yvonne?’ Lucy responds angrily. ‘She’s fat! How can you fancy her?’

  ‘That’s not a very Christian attitude, Lucy,’ I reprimand her. ‘As I said, I’m only telling you this as part of an effort on my part to be more honest with you. Do you prefer me telling you these sort of things, or keeping these desires hidden?’

  ‘Hidden, actually. Who else have you got the hots for?’

  I pause deliberately, then shake my head and say, ‘No-one. No-one, Lucy.’

  ‘You tell me this after all that stuff with the massage parlours? I can’t believe you.’ Lucy slams her hands down on the table we’re sitting at. ‘Look, forget today. I’ll ring my parents. I don’t think I want a day out with you.’

  I put my hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s not cancel today. It’ll be a good opportunity to talk about some of the things in our relationship that could be improved . . .’

  Lucy removes my hand from my shoulder. ‘I’ll go, but only because it will get my parents talking if we cancel at such short notice.’ She gets up and walks off with angry footsteps.

  When the parents-in-law turn up soon after this exchange, Lucy lets them in. One of those telepathic mother-and-daughter moments occurs on the doorstep, and without Lucy having to say anything her mother is left in no doubt that I’ve been beastly to her firstborn. The father, Arthur, is blissfully unaware of any of this, and greets me warmly when I walk into the living room. The mother, Gloria, glares at me evilly. The kids quickly burst in, running between legs and making lots of noise. ‘Let’s go,’ I say to Lucy.

  ‘We’re off,’ she says to her parents. ‘Should be back by about four. There’s pizza in the fridge for lunch.’ Turning to Ben and Chloe she says,’ Are you going to be good for your grandparents? Remember granddad’s got a bad back, and can’t carry you . . .’ Her last words to her kids.

  An hour and a half later we’re nearing Beachy Head. The evil thing that seems to inhabit me has spurred me to make plenty of references to gravity during the drive. I’ve asked Lucy whether she’s had any significant falls in her life, whether she knows about Isaac Newton’s eureka moment involving a falling apple, and whether she thinks a tonne of bricks or a tonne of feathers would fall faster. If she finds my obsession with falls and falling strange she doesn’t let on.

  We park in a car park about three hundred yards from the chalk cliffs. I’m pleased to see just one other car in the lot – I’m relying on no-one else being around to see my wife’s maiden flight. Getting out of the car the first thing I notice is a strong breeze. I grab a shoulder bag from the back seat that contains sandwiches and drinks – a Last Supper for Lucy – and we set off for the cliff. I take Lucy’s hand as we walk. Her hand is warm and so evidently part of a living body. I find it strange to think that in twenty minutes or so this same hand will be cold and lifeless.

  We reach the drop-off and spend a few moments admiring the view. The rocks below look far, far away. I can see a couple of large tankers out on the horizon; nearer to shore there’s a much smaller boat, presumably belonging to a fisherman. I try to gauge whether the owner of this craft could see me giving Lucy a push, and decide that without binoculars this wouldn’t be possible. It’s a risk I’ll have to take.

  We spread a rug and eat a sandwich each. I don’t have much of an appetite, but Lucy gobbles her food hungrily. ‘Unlike you to suggest something like this,’ Lucy comments with a full mouth. ‘You’re not about to tell me you’re gay and planning to leave me for your boyfriend?’

  ‘No. No confessions pending.’

  ‘Do you love me?’

  It’s a simple question, but as I don’t really get love one that I can’t answer truthfully. ‘Of course I do, honey.’ I say. ‘Why would you ask me a question like that?’

  Lucy moves a strand of hair from her forehead to behind an ear. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes you don’t seem to really be . . . present. It’s as if you’re here in body but your mind or soul are elsewhere.’

  ‘Oh, I’m here alright,’ I reply. ‘Maybe sometimes I’m a little distracted with work.’

  ‘You’ve always been like this. Even before you were ordained.’

  ‘I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m just the way I am. Not away with the fairies most of the time as far as I can tell.’

  ‘Why did you marry me?’

  ‘Well, why do most people marry each other? Because I wanted to spend my life with you. Why did you marry me?’

  ‘Because I loved you.’

  ‘Loved past tense?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  This is all becoming a bit too uncomfortable for me. I decide it’s time for Lucy to fly. ‘Stand up,’ I say, rising myself. Lucy looks at me with suspicion, but complies. We stand facing each other, with her looking inland. Lucy’s about three yards from the cliff edge. I put one hand on her waist and grab the other hand, as if we’re going to dance. The hand on
Lucy’s waist moves to my pocket and I take a handkerchief that is white with black spots and place it in the back pocket of Lucy’s jeans. It’s as near to honouring my murder signature as I deem safe. She doesn’t notice me do this. The hand returns to Lucy’s waist and I edge my wife back. I look over both shoulders to check there’s no-one in sight, then utter the last words Lucy will ever hear: ‘I’ve always despised you. It’s always been a struggle to look at you without retching. It’s time we parted company.’ Lucy’s eyes widen as she hears these words. I sense she’s about to bolt, but before she can I rush her forward and over the cliff. There’s a muted cry as she tumbles, then silence. I don’t hear her hit the rocks below. A minute after her fall I crawl to the edge of the cliff and peer over. I can’t see a body, but can only assume she’s perished in the tumble.

  I find I’m trembling slightly as I move back from the drop-off. This is the first time I’ve killed someone I’ve had a relationship with, and it definitely feels different to the stranger killings. I pull my mobile out of my pocket and dial 999.

  Half an hour later a police car turns up and two officers disembark. It’s time to go into acting mode as the cops walk towards me. I make my lower lip tremble and pretend to stifle sobs.

  ‘Mr Cuthbert?’ the taller of the two officers says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You reported your wife jumping from the cliff?’

  ‘That’s right. From just over there.’ I point towards where we had our picnic. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘Was there anything to suggest your wife was feeling suicidal?’ the other officer asks as we walk.

  ‘We had an argument this morning, but otherwise no.’

  The radio on the lapel of the taller officer crackles. The cop leans his head towards it and says, ‘Yeah, come in Mark.’

  A tinny voice says: ‘Coastguard on the way. Are you at the normal jumper spot?’

  ‘Roger. Normal spot. I’m with the husband at the moment. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Coastguard?’ I say.

  ‘There’s a chance your wife will still be alive,’ tall officer says. ‘If she is she will be badly injured, so we need to get someone to her as soon as possible.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Is . . . is that possible? Oh, please may she have survived! We have two young children.’

  ‘It’s unlikely she’s survived the fall, I have to be honest with you. But there is a chance.’

  We reach the site of our picnic. ‘So talk me through the last few moments before your wife jumped,’ short officer says.

  ‘Everything seemed normal,’ I reply. ‘We were eating our sandwiches, talking about nothing in particular. After we’d been here for about twenty minutes Lucy stood up, saying she had a cramp in her leg. She got up, and just ran towards the cliff. Didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to come here for a picnic?’ tall officer asks.

  ‘Lucy’s,’ I lie.

  ‘And you didn’t think this was a strange place to come?’ Short officer.

  ‘We’ve been here before for picnics,’ I lie. ‘She was saying that as we weren’t going to make it to France on holiday this year the next best thing was a picnic with a view of France. I did point out you can‘t actually see France from here . . .’

  The two police officers look at each other.

  ‘I’m not feeling too good,’ I say. ‘Do you mind if I go and wait in the car?’

  Another exchange of looks between the officers. ‘Okay, PC Summers will go and wait with you,’ short officer says. ‘We’ll need to take some details if that’s alright.’

  I nod my assent.

  Back at my car I give PC Summers my name, date of birth, address and contact numbers, then settle down to wait to see what the coastguard find. I sit in the front passenger seat of my car, with the door open. The cop paces up and down a few feet from me. We don’t talk.

  After I’ve been sitting in the car for about forty minutes Courtney rings me on my mobile. I look at PC Summers for direction as to whether to take the call. He nods assent, and I connect. ‘Courtney,’ I say. My voice sounds somehow altered to my ears. ‘What’s up?’ What I want to say is, ‘What the fuck were you doing at Jake’s place?’ but for obvious reasons I don’t.

  ‘Joey wanted me to call you,’ he says. ‘He’s gotta job for us.’

  ‘Not a good time right now,’ I reply. ‘Can I ring you back?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Can’t explain now. I’ll have to fill you in later. When’s the job for?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to help, but listen, let me speak to you later.’

  Courtney rings off. I don’t want him to think I’m on to him, but I don’t have time to worry about this as just then the other police officer approaches the vehicle. He walks straight up to where I’m sitting and says, ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that the coastguard have recovered your wife’s body. She didn’t survive the fall.’

  I experience a sudden urge to start laughing, and my mouth even begins to form a smile. I have to snap out of this fast. I force myself to think of what would happen if I was ever convicted of my wife’s murder and the urge to giggle passes. I put my head in my hands. ‘Oh, no,’ I whimper. ‘This can’t be happening. We’ve got two small kids . . .’

  ‘This must be a dreadful moment for you,’ PC Summers says, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘We don’t want to keep you too long, but you’re going to have to come with us to the station. We’ll need to take a formal statement.’

  I lift my head and do my best to splutter pathetically. ‘What’ll I tell the kids?’

  ‘Where are your kids now?’ Summers asks.

  ‘With their grandparents. I . . . I can’t face telling them. We argued this morning. Oh fuck, oh fuck . . .’

  ‘We can ring your parents if you like,’ the unnamed policeman says. Turning to Summers he says, ‘I’ll drive Mr Cuthbert to the station in his car. I don’t think he should be driving right now.’

  Summers nods. I’m driven to a police station in Eastbourne. The cops treat me gently, but I know at the back of their minds is the possibility that Lucy’s fall wasn’t an accident. I’m taken into an interview room where Summers and another cop take my statement and question me. Has there been anything unusual about Lucy’s behaviour recently? Was my wife on anti-depressants, or had she ever been treated for depression? Has she ever previously tried to harm or kill herself? I wonder what sort of expression Lucy’s face bore after hitting the rocks. Would a look of terror have been frozen on her features, incriminating me? I can only hope her head was pulped on landing.

  When the questions are over I’m told that I’m free to go, but that I will need to go to the local morgue to identity Lucy’s body. I feel exhausted, and think about asking them whether this can be done another day, but I figure this might strike the cops as a strange reaction. A grieving husband would want to see the body of his dead wife. I am a grieving husband, I remind myself, emitting a phoney sob that sounds like a small mammal’s squeak.

  The morgue seems strangely familiar as I enter it, led by a man whose name I fail to catch. Too much Hollywood, I guess. It’s all there – the gurneys, the autopsy tables, the banks of morgue freezers. I’m taken to a gurney that holds a sheet-shrouded body. The sheet is lifted from the top half of the body, and there lies Lucy, looking very dead. Her corpse isn’t as badly damaged as I would have expected. Apart from a gash to her left cheek the head looks pretty unscathed. Lucy’s eyes are open, and in the manner I’ve often heard described but never witnessed, the expression on her face is one of mild surprise. ‘So that’s what dying’s like,’ it seems to say. ‘Not such a big deal really.’

  ‘That’s my wife,’ I say.

  On the drive back home, I feel slightly nauseous. I’m not looking forward to facing Lucy’s parents, who I’ve now spoken to briefly. Well, I’ve spoken to her father; her mother was too hysterical to talk. I feel a wave of exh
austion. I really enjoy killing, but it all seems to be getting a bit much. I can’t look at people anymore without seeing them as potential victims. I feel like I’ve been dragged into my very own horror film, one that is lasting a lot longer than ninety minutes.

  Pulling up outside my house I kill the engine and reach for a can of Special Brew I bought at a service station a few minutes earlier. I crack it open and empty the contents in two gulps. Warm fuzziness quickly envelops my brain. I can do this, I decide.

  I let myself into the house and find it’s very quiet. I walk into the living room. The parents-in-law are sitting on the sofa, both with red eyes and snotty noses. The kids are on the carpet, playing quietly. ‘Hi,’ I say to the room.

  Ben gets up off the floor and runs to me, grabbing a leg. ‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asks.

  ‘Have you said anything?’ I ask, addressing the adults in the room.

  Arthur shakes a head. ‘Not yet. They might have overhead something though.’

  ‘We’ll talk about Mummy later,’ I tell Ben. ‘She’s not with me right now.’

  ‘We’ll stay tonight,’ Gloria announces. ‘We can stay a few days if you’d like.’

  I nod my agreement.

  ‘Can I have a word with you in the kitchen?’ Arthur says, standing up. Gloria looks at me with disdain.

  ‘You stay with your sister for a little while,’ I say to Ben, prising his hands from my leg. ‘I’ll be back in a second.’

  ‘What the hell happened today?’ Arthur asks when we’ve changed rooms. ‘Lucy would never kill herself. It’s just not in her nature. No matter how dreadful things were, she’d never leave her kids.’ The man is shaking and he swallows uncomfortably. I can smell whisky on his breath.

  I open my mouth to reply, but he isn’t finished. ‘What were you two talking about this morning? Lucy wasn’t herself when we saw her earlier.’

  An opportunity presents itself. Now is the time to ‘reveal’ some sort of horrible truth. It has to be truly horrible, but also a lie that can’t be found out at a later date. I have about two seconds to think of something.