by Darren Wills
All that most of television (and the world outside television for that matter) needs is someone to act as the ultimate avenger, a bold soul to wage war on the shit that pollutes all existence. To sort out or remove the shit people and make the world a more honest and real place.
This is me. At this point I take a step forward. I am happy to do my bit for world truth.
Intrusion
9F were horrific. They were always a tough group to teach, with some lively minded boys who liked to encourage each other to disrupt through smiles and laughter and were in no hurry to accept what I was trying to achieve with them. We were at the end of the lesson. I had kept a few offenders behind afterwards because their names had been written in black marker on the board and I was letting them know that there was a price to be paid for crossing Mr. Walker, the kind and knowledgeable English teacher.
“Can I go now, sir? I hardly did anything.” With plenty of emotional expression, this was a boy who clearly paid better attention in Drama lessons.
“This is a five-minute penalty. You mucked about. You delayed the learning of others in the class. That’s not on.”
“What about me, sir? I only spoke across class once. I’ll be better next time.” I imagined this lad in the dock in a few years’ time, trying to reduce his sentence. Perhaps I was being harsh here. Not many of my ex-students became villains.
I fiddled with my watch. “OK. Silence now. Five minutes silence. You disturb the silence, the five minutes starts again.”
One of the detainees sighed, all too audibly. Another one not yet ready for the world of employment, where we all sighed inwardly.
“OK, it starts now. Five minutes from now.”
A dagger of a look was given across the classroom. This was Friday, fish and chips day. Being late wlould mean that all of the fish would be gone and a meat-ish pie would be the only option. None of the six boys in front of me wanted that. Silence now took over the room.
My classroom door suddenly opened and Hazel, the school secretary came in. Looking around the room, she quickly appreciated the punitive nature of the situation and came round to my desk to whisper to me. “Thomas Huxton’s mum is in reception. Is this a bad time?”
“No. I’ll be down in two minutes. Just making these characters sweat a bit.”
Hazel smiled at me and left.
“Right boys, we need to make a deal,” I said.
* * *
Gwen Huxton was here to see me about her son being bullied by a group of idiots in the year above. It had all been about something Thomas had said about a girl, apparently. I had managed to convince the boys who had threatened Thomas that this was a case of Chinese Whispers, that it was better to move on from any conflict situation, especially since three students had been permanently expelled for bullying the previous year so carrying on any ridiculous dispute might not be in their long term interest.
“Anyway, Mrs. Huxton, I think it’s sorted. The school’s anti-bullying policy is pretty strong. We don’t accept it. When I spoke to them, the boys were receptive to what I was saying and they seemed to realize that what they did wasn’t right. I don’t think there’ll be a repeat.”
She seemed positive about this matter, at any rate. “Well, I want to thank you for sorting it out. Tom was very worried about it.”
“You should tell him that if anything happens, he should see me straight away.”
“I’ll do that. Are you going to be Tom’s tutor next year?”
“It’s highly likely. I want to take the form through to Year Eleven.”
“Well, I hope so too. I know that Tom will. He really likes you as his form tutor. So do I.”
Was she flirting with me? The platitudes were great, and this woman was hot, but I wasn’t allowed to enjoy the idea, even if it was a fantasyland that in all truth I would have ultimately turned down for obvious reasons. Outside the room, Hazel was once again seeking my attention and signaled to me from outside.
“Excuse me.”
I stepped up to the door. Hazel had some news, as her highly serious demeanour conveyed. “Your wife has been on the phone. You need to ring her. You’ve been burgled.”
* * *
I expected much worse. In my mind as I had driven home, I was seeing the jagged ugliness of broken windows, destroyed furniture and tell-tale spaces where key possessions were missing. In my head I was anticipating difficult conversations with soulless individuals representing the insurance company, as they failed to appreciate the emotional impact of such an unwelcome intrusion. A colleague of mine had been burgled a few months ago and the cretin who had broken in had shit in the bed, so I guess that had somewhat coloured my journey home from school, especially since on that occasion they had taken his fifty-five inch plasma screen television, whilst the two passports disappearing had suggested all kinds of horror in stolen identification and bogus credit card debts. I just hoped they hadn’t taken my Starship Enterprise. That die-cast metal wonder had pride of place in my culture room.
With all the nervousness of a dental-phobic going for an extraction, I let myself into the house. I walked through the hallway, seeing nothing disturbing, but when I reached the kitchen, Laura was standing with a cup of coffee in her hand, watching a man in dodgy dungarees removing broken glass from the smashed kitchen window.
Straight away, some emotional intelligence kicked in and I went up to my wife and hugged her. Knowing Laura, this would be traumatic and I knew she would be needing plenty of reassurance. She accepted the hug, before gently ushering me away from the kitchen into the dining room.
“What’s been taken?” I asked, trying to force a relaxed smile that I thought might help.
“I’ve been through everything. Nothing seems to be missing. Two police officers were here. We have a crime number, but they were baffled. Nothing’s gone. One of them reckoned somebody broke in and had second thoughts.”
I could see she had been crying so I had to say something to lighten the mood. “You mean they didn’t even take my Enterprise?”
Laura gave a welcome laugh that I wanted to last for a lot longer. “No. It looks like we had a burglar with taste.”
“Sounds like a nutty burglar to me. Was nothing taken then? Not even the telly? Have you checked your jewellery?”
“Nothing’s gone babe. I’ve been through everything. Another suggestion the officers made was that the burglar was disturbed soon after breaking in. It could have been August. I left him in the house when I left this morning.”
“August the guard cat. Now there’s a revelation. I would have thought the smashing of glass would have scared him off, or even better, might have alerted one of the neighbours.”
“The window wasn’t smashed. The sergeant said it was done professionally. A cutter had been used to make a hole big enough for a human to get through. It’s so fucking weird, Dom.”
August sauntered in like he was the king round here. I watched bemused as she picked him up. “Hey big boy. You probably deserve a treat today.”
“You don’t know for sure that it was anything to do with him that we didn’t get ransacked. A professional burglar wouldn’t be scared off by a cat. Although why a professional burglar would pick our house beats me. What the fuck do we have that’s worth stealing?”
“Well, it probably was this fellow that saved us. Trust me on this, babe. He deserves a double helping of dinner today. Don’t you, baby?”
Surprisingly, I wasn’t feeling as positive as Laura. “So, didn’t the twat go upstairs at all?”
“The policemen said he probably got no further than the kitchen. There are no signs of anything more than a broken window. I wonder who it was.”
“I told you somebody was at our back fence the other night. I bet, whoever it was, was sussing things out then.”
“But why? To take none of our valuables?”
“What valuables? Yeah, that is odd. It’s good, but what kind of burglar breaks in professionally and then doesn’t take stuff. Oh well. We managed to hang onto some privacy, anyway. Nobody rifled your sexy knicker drawer. We’re ok for tonight, sister.”
“And he got nowhere near your Enterprise. He would have only felt sorry for you.”
“In awe of Captain Kirk more like. Anyway, Mrs. Klingon, you can take yourself back to work now. I’ve got the rest of the day off, so I can take care of the glassman. I’m going to ring about getting a burglar alarm fitted as well. I don’t want this to happen again. The journey here has aged me ten years. I’m now too old to be your husband.”
Malevolence
An old cliché in life it isn’t what you know, but who you know. I know someone who works in a shop selling electrical and building equipment, a quality staff member. I wouldn’t say that I had him under my control, but let’s just say I have a bit of leverage. He is somebody who knows stuff. He has expertise. There is nothing dysfunctional or worthy of criticism about people who know stuff, useful stuff. Everybody should know useful stuff.
I had a special task in mind and he pointed me in the right direction. The guy seemed to understand me totally and was very helpful. Who knows? I might shop here again.
To cut a long story short, I had left that shop with some important equipment and came home knowing how to use it.
Knowledge is power. Mission was accomplished. I achieved today what I wanted and some important details are now achieved.
Someone once told me that anything is obtainable. I believe that. It all depends on how far you are prepared to go to achieve. I think it is clear how far I am prepared to go.
I am sitting in my room. I count eighty-seven items in front of me spread out across the floor around the bed, items that would never be missed by any but the most obsessive individuals (and these two oafs are far from obsessive), items that give me a real understanding of what I need to understand. A page of a bank statement sits next to a letter which is alongside a photograph of women on a night out. I took some good photos of things that might be useful, like their living room and bedroom. Everything is coming together pretty well.
They’re now easy meat. They think they’re safe, fixing the window. They’re becoming mine, but they don’t know it. I will get what I want. It’s about time.
Whitby
“It’s just a mass of green and brown. It looks like it stretches all the way to the horizon.”
“I know, babe. Sinister beauty, if you ask me.” This was the North Yorkshire moors, a part of Britain I had no positive feelings for. “I think there are terrible secrets here”
“What do you mean? It’s only Yorkshire.” One of Laura’s favourite novels was Emily Bronte’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ and I think that fact was having an influence here.
“I kid you not. Missing people are going to be buried underneath the heather around here somewhere, or not-yet-captured killers could be roaming around, sheltered by this wild beast of a landscape.”
“You’re going psycho on me, Dom. This area’s pretty. So natural.”
“Pretty? I bet there’s an actual wild beast roaming around here, like a large panther or some man-eating dog or two – perhaps even a pack of them.” The whole region for me was shrouded in natural expressionless gloom. I knew I wasn’t being logical. Perhaps this feeling I had was historical, that there was terrible guilt from a lifetime I experienced long ago. Either way, I was always happy to pass the Moors and see it in the rear-view mirror.
On this Saturday morning, we had taken the two-hour drive to Whitby, something we had arranged to do several months ago. Whitby was just…special. Laura and I loved it – the harbour, beaches and the eccentric shopping opportunities, and it was probably our favourite place in the UK, with Cornwall being too far away to drive there regularly. She once had said, “Whitby’s my Paris.” I had laughed at the absurdity of that but I could understand her point. We would spend all day hand in hand there, walking along the narrow lanes and scrutinizing the shops and bars, enjoying the many things the place had to offer.
Laura and I particularly loved the idiosyncratic shops. This was a wide range of businesses selling an incredible array of Goth clothes and trinkets. We had bought various meaningful and meaningless things from these places, enough clothes and ornaments to fill a wardrobe and a cupboard over the past few years, although we had only done one of the Goth weekends they have twice annually there. This was when the town became enriched by people who looked like escapees from Bram Stoker’s story, dressed in all kinds of finery. We liked the weirdness.
As always, the journey to Whitby was a positive part of what was always a positive experience. We stopped at the Highwayman Cafe, where, over a cooked breakfast for me and beans on toast for her, we talked about our plans for the weekend, when we like two kids making plans for Christmas. Laura dared me to feed the Highwayman’s geese that were separated from the people outside by a flimsy wire fence. I rose to the dare and tried to give one of the birds a piece of bacon but wished I hadn’t as it nearly took my arm off. She laughed loudly, attracting the attention of other visitors to the café, who looked on in disgust.
Being late-June, the weather was glorious, about twenty-six degrees. Parking the car was the hardest bit, and Laura told me off for being impatient, but I just couldn’t wait to be out of the car and walking on terra firma.
We checked in at Barnhall House, a smart old hotel with a fab little bar, where we had a four-poster bed waiting for us and we always made good use of our sleeping arrangements. The arrival sex reflected our enthusiasm for the trip. I could have stayed in bed with her for the rest of the day chatting and musing over how great we were, but this was Whitby and that would have been a waste. Well, at least she thought so.
“This is lovely, babe,” Within a half-hour, we were sitting comfortably outside the Marine Restaurant on the corner next to the river at a little table where we could observe the comings and goings of the wide range of people walking along the road. Laura, radiant in her sunglasses, had that contented no-work-today smile on her face that was always there when we came here. She was taking in the details of the fortune teller who was based opposite this restaurant, the same signs she had read on every visit here, but which she always found fascinating.
To this day, I don’t know whether that was a factor in anything, but her calm expression suddenly changed to something more tense and not quite so comfortable. Contentment suddenly became concern and she became much more focused. “I have something to tell you soon, something big. I don’t want to tell you today, because it’s not appropriate.”
“What do you mean?
“I’ll tell you soon.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you. Not today. Trust me on this, babe. I will tell you, but not today.”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
‘Please don’t quiz me or speculate, Dom.” She paused. “I wish I hadn’t said anything now.”
“Why did you say something, then? You know what I’m like.”
“Because it’s something important to me, and I couldn’t hold it in.”
The look of concern on my face must have been dramatic. “It’s nothing terrible or out of this world fantastic, just something. Now can we leave it at that?”
Laura had that look in her eyes that I had seen so many times before. If we hadn’t been in Whitby, I might have pursued it further and risked an argument, but having a brilliant two days was crucial to me, and probably to her too, especially after the burglary that wasn’t. Besides, knowing Laura, she would tell me what she had to tell me when she was good and ready.
Several hours and five pubs later, we opened the door of our room rather worse for wear. I had suggested we have a brandy and port three hours ago and from then on we had both drunk a succession of double gin and tonics. Apparen
tly, Laura slept on the bathroom floor that night, although I couldn’t remember anything about it after opening that door. I was on the floor when dawn broke, feeling like there had been a fight and alcohol had won, not for the first time.
It was late Sunday afternoon when we set off home. There was a characteristic reluctance about our walk to the car. It was always depressing leaving Whitby. Laura looked across at me, studying me, making me feel quite self-conscious. “Let’s go to the countryside tomorrow. A walk somewhere. I fancy some excitement, babe.”
Malevolence
He’s soft, this clown. I was looking at the website of the school he works at and found him on one of the pages. It didn’t take me long. There’s a picture of him with some kids on some school trip to some ridiculous place or other. It reminds me of one of those pictures that companies use to give a good impression and hide the bastardisation and abuse that really goes on. It’s a photo, but I can see into his eyes, see his inner thoughts and attitudes. He’s soft. He’s the kind of man who is easy to boss, easy to fool, only good when it comes to mastering little kids and putting them through it. Well I’m no little kid. I can make mincemeat out of this sap without even breaking sweat.
And as for her, well she’s made for me. She was designed that way.
My plan is just about ready. I’ve gone over everything in my mind so many times now and I actually think the time is right for the thing to happen. What’s the worst that can happen? I get rumbled and that’s a year or two inside. That doesn’t scare me one bit. I’ll be the meanest one inside so what’s the fucking big deal? I’m going for best case scenario. That means I’m going in search of the life I’m entitled to, the best life I’ve ever had. God knows it’s worth doing something dramatic to get that.