by Ian Skewis
I was very keen to get that fire going. And now I will tell you why.
The crows were having a field day. Like an army of dark, hooded angels, they perched on Alfred’s shoulders, pecking and picking at him with seemingly casual indifference. Others flew lazily around him, their cries cracking the silence. Whilst Alfred stood silently at the heart of it all, his wooden frame tilted to one side, giving him an awkward elegance that would have been complete had it not been for the flies that swarmed around him. Moving as one, and constantly changing shape like a buzzing black amoeba. Blotting and darting to and fro. Teasing and shifting in writhing, hissing shadows. A vast black cloud that hovered above him.
Alfred’s general demeanour made him seem isolated and lonely. A forgotten soul. A relic. A fossil. His coat was faded, weather worn, and full of holes created by hundreds of sharp little beaks. There was an old trainer hanging off his left foot. Some of his straw stuffing had fluttered to the ground, some of it taken by the crows to furnish their nests. Some of it attached to the heel of his sock. The cant of his wooden frame, and the way his head lolled almost apologetically to one side, seemed to give him the air of someone who once stood proud, for despite the vandalism of his stature, and the finger missing from his left hand, the head still managed to convey in its tilt a slightly defiant air, one of almost royal rebuke.
But of the head there was no face, no expression. Nothing but the eye sockets of the skull, which stared emptily from their sackcloth across the field. Alistair’s skull. The jaw slackened, wide open, emitting a silent scream of anguish – because I stole his thunder.
You see, my father had no real power over me. I wasn’t coerced into burning the field that day. I needed to burn the body. So it served my purpose to appear to obey my father. Clever of me. The following morning, I dumped the charred remains into the sea.
It may seem strange, but I kept the ring.
The one I found in a box inside his jacket pocket.
Presumably, he was going to propose to that girl. I did not feel sad about it though. I actually think I did him a favour. Nobody belongs to anyone, you see. I’m wearing the ring now as a keepsake. The box I disposed of in the same way as his other belongings.
And as for Alfred, well, what can I say? I think it’s very neat that Alistair and I collaborated in the creation of Alfred when we were boys and that now as young men we have collaborated once more; only this time Alistair is no longer the artist, he is the work of art. Alistair has become Alfred. And I find that very amusing.
Mind you, I did come close to being caught at one point. Jack proved to be a worthy opponent. I actually developed a little bit of respect for Jack. And despite his good cop, bad cop tactics, which he could only have learned from watching way too much television drama, I still feel a strange kinship with him. He is most evidently lost, as we all are. Some over-inflate their egos to compensate for this discomforting fact – that Detective Clements is a prime example. Jack, however, is more accepting. He is plagued with self-doubt and anxiety, just like the rest of us. Witness him in the interview room that day. I observed him with the same level of detachment that a boy with a magnifying glass would observe an ant on a hot sunny day. I quickly picked up on the fact that the detective seemed to be trying too hard. His tough guy persona didn’t quite ring true. It smacked of desperation somehow. Nevertheless, I knew I had to survive this situation if my work were to continue, so I behaved in exactly the way he so evidently wanted me to.
But allow me to digress for a moment. As I’ve said, the book my mother gave me had been exceptionally useful of late. And it proved exceptionally useful now. I’d read in the well-worn pages that an octopus can squirt ink into the water as a method of self-defence. It briefly hides inside this black cloud of bodily fluid, confusing its enemy for a few precious moments – and then it makes a quick getaway. Other animals play dead. And others urinate or defecate in order to quite literally throw their predator off the scent. As I sat there with Jack pacing around me like a dangerous carnivore, I decided that deliberately pissing myself was the order of the day and the most theatrical and therefore the most effective choice. Shitting myself was just too vulgar and messy a display to think about really. And I don’t play dead for anyone.
I chose my moment carefully. I knew that Jack was about to take the interrogation much further, and that the shouting and the clenched fists and the generally unpleasant demeanour would soon give way to something uglier – the outcome of which could only be guessed at. But I knew Jack was soft. I also knew how badly he needed results. And that desperate men do desperate things. We both understood that he had to finish what he’d started. I was already prepared for it. I deliberately pissed myself right on cue. It had exactly the desired effect. One minute Jack was towering over me in his best attempt at intimidation, the next he was aghast at the sight of me quietly sobbing and sniffling as the piss trickled out the bottom of my jeans. I had successfully degenerated into a quivering wreck before his eyes. I had performed for him and I could see from my hidden vantage point that playing the innocent was working surprisingly well. I say hidden because I wore Moley’s persona that day like one would wear a cardigan – I told you he would still come in handy for something. By drawing on his naïvety, I had succeeded in portraying myself as the victim in this case, not the perpetrator. In essence, I had mastered the art of falling apart. I immediately saw the flash of guilt in Jack’s eyes, observed the shameful reddening of his cheeks and the stiffness of his walk as he exited the room. I had known all along that he did not have the stomach for this.
And I got away Scott-free. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
But don’t get me wrong. I did leave him a nice bouquet of flowers. See? I’m not all bad.
I couldn’t help having a giggle to myself on the way home. Really, I should have won an award for my performance. But I knew how lucky I was. I suspect Detective Clements would not have been quite such a soft touch.
But I’ll get him soon enough. Make no mistake about that.
Jack Russell’s trouble is that he’s lost his edge. He’s an old dog who’s forgotten how to learn new tricks. But I wasn’t so naïve that I felt my performance in the interview room had let me completely off the hook. Far from it. I had been observing Jack’s movements for quite a while. I knew almost to the minute when he would go for his nightly excursions. He had been poking around in the forest for some time now, usually in the wee small hours, and as far as I was concerned he was getting too close for comfort. I knew he wouldn’t give up his current hobby so I needed to concoct a way of getting him off my back. It took a while to figure out how to do this, but it all worked out well in the end. For me that is. My intention was to lure Jack onto the road where I could create the means necessary for a car crash to take place. I wanted to kill him from a safe distance, you see. Obviously, I did not want to be recognised, so I took my father’s spare walking stick, and I even copied his stride so that it would look authentic. This was just in case Jack happened to survive. He would see my father and not me. I hasten to add that I did not wish my father to spend his last days in prison for a crime he did not commit, but I needed a sacrificial lamb and he fitted the bill perfectly. Besides, he had never done me any favours. I quite enjoyed the fact that the roles had been reversed, for now he was ensnared just like one of those foxes he delighted in killing. And it felt good. In the event that my plan fell through, I would have no choice but to dispose of Jack in exactly the same way I disposed of Alistair. But this was the hard option that I wanted to avoid, because I have to admit I was more nervous about this than any of my previous endeavours. I had never killed a cop before. And even though I thought he was a relatively easy target, his status intimidated me, hence my preference for the softer option of killing him from afar.
However, I didn’t bank on a third party showing up, but when it turned out to be Matthew White then it all fell rather brilliantly into position – he was in the right place at just the right time. A usef
ul scapegoat with a suspect history of his own if the papers were to be believed. Then again, the hacks would swallow anything, as long it contained an ounce of sleaze. Really, it’s the press that are the pigs, not the police. In any case, I remained in hiding. I watched. And at one point I wondered if I would have to dispose of him too. But imagine my surprise and pleasure when Matthew inadvertently did my job for me by luring Jack right into my trap. Matthew had turned and fled as soon as Jack had sighted him and it was this chase that led Jack to me. The detective came out into the open, searching for whoever he thought was tailing him, unaware that Matthew was now in hiding. And it was here that I picked up the baton, as it were, and came out from my bolt hole, and did my best impersonation of dad. I pretended to hobble guiltily away, knowing that Jack would take the bait and follow me in his car. And once we were over the hill, I turned and ran straight at him. It was a huge gamble because I had dropped my disguise at the last minute, but it paid off – only I knew how difficult it would be to manoeuvre a vehicle down that hazardous stretch of road, particularly with that crumbling ditch running alongside. And I’m amazed to be able to say that it worked. The car overturned and I saw Jack lying mangled inside. It was then that I spied Matthew reappearing on the top of the hill and I suddenly realised there was a magnificent opportunity here. I went to the phone box and anonymously called the police, making it brief so I could get away as fast as possible without being caught. Then I hung up, wiped the fingerprints off, and with the trusty walking stick under my arm I darted out of sight. I headed back to the farm and I put the spare stick back in the cupboard.
All in a day’s work – and the sun had barely even risen yet.
I know how lucky I was and how much I owed to Matthew. My gamble was a dangerous one but it paid off in the end. Next time though, nothing can be left to chance.
When I killed Alistair I was troubled by guilt and the persistent feeling that I was being watched. In fact, I have been plagued with that notion since the burning of the barn. The trees seemed like silent conspirators and the wind whispered the promise of retribution. Even the pylons seemed like moral giants, ready to uproot themselves and lumber after me, firing bolts of electricity at my fleeing form. It all seems so childish now, but at the time I was persistently haunted by the idea that something was coming for me. I was living my life in fear and trembling. I smile with irony when I recall seeing that dark cloud above Alistair in the field. I convinced myself that it was merely a flock of crows, but deep down I was rather more convinced that it was the same cloud that brought the storm back… I realise now that it was only a halo of flies – after all, his body must have been decomposing rapidly in the heat.
I know now that these feelings of dread amounted to nothing more than my own paranoia, my own fear. Or to be more accurate – Moley’s. I guess he was going to be a tougher cookie to crack than I’d at first thought. But Moley won’t hold me back, not anymore. I dare say he may well come in handy at some point in the near future, but it will be entirely on my own terms. For I realise now that I have been singled out for a purpose. And that purpose is greatness. I was afraid of that calling but now I am positively revelling in it.
And now my voice has finally broken. I have evolved into something else. And it is something good.
So here I am. Surrounded by the standing stones of the dead, high on the hill of the Necropolis where the shadows are long and the tombs are encrusted with lichen and festooned with ivy. And all around me there are fond remembrances carved in Roman font. Orbis de Ignis. In Memoriam. And that old favourite – Rest In Peace.
And the sun is slowly rising on Glasgow’s horizon. The buildings and the streets are dislocating in light, sections hovering in shards and splinters cut by the sun’s rays. Already, I can see vehicles and pedestrians, all emitting their combinations of carbons monoxide and dioxide, which rise from the streets in puffs as they make their hurried way through the freezing fog, this petrochemical city of vapours.
And I can see a plane flying off to some distant destination. I can hear the traffic too.
And birdsong.
And the wind.
The dreamers are waking.
Some are making love.
Some are making breakfast.
Others are just making do.
Somewhere, a baby needs feeding or a school tie needs adjusting or a car needs starting. And, elsewhere, a promotion is in the offing, a lottery is won and a new child is born.
And perhaps it is a boy.
Which brings me back to Detective Clements.
It’s his boy next.
His son. His eighteen-year-old son. About to suffer a sudden and somewhat abbreviated life, I think. Shouldn’t be too difficult. And it’ll teach the detective a lesson he’ll never forget.
A case of what goes round, comes round, don’t you think?
R.I.P, son of Clements.
There. It is decided.
I take a deep breath.
And I smile broadly.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
It is the mask that I will wear for as long as is necessary.
For my story is just beginning.
And I have much work to do.
The sun is rising.
The city beckons.
A new dawn.
And I can already tell.
It’s going to be a beautiful day…’
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following:
Franzisca Aarflot, for showing an interest at an early stage.
Maureen Allan, for unknowingly providing the antidote.
Russel D McLean, for his helpful analysis.
Michael J Malone, for pricking up my ears and opening my eyes.
Unbound, for accepting my strange little story.
Xander Cansell, Head of Unbound Digital, for his enthusiasm and support throughout the entire process.
Gavin Mitchell and Jennie Ensor, for their readings.
Dr Brooke Magnanti, for her kind words.
My editorial team (Annabel Wright, Rachel Rayner, Sally Sargeant and Molly Powell) for their constructive feedback and assistance with my many queries.
Peter McMullen, ex-Strathclyde Police, for his advice on the investigative process – any mistakes are mine.
And thanks to Emma Thomson for the ‘sundowning’.
A huge thank you to my patrons, my friends and family for all their heartfelt support throughout the production of this book.
And a bigger than life thanks to my parents, without whom this book would not have been born.
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