by Matt Shaw
“You never told me.”
“You never seemed bothered. Every time you watched the television it was always one of your silly films.”
“They’re not silly.”
“Whatever.” He pointed to the screen, “Here you go.”
The news’ opening credits rang through the living room. The programme opened with a story about a children’s entertainer who’d been arrested after a number of people stepped forward to make child molestation accusations against him, dating back thirty years.
“There’s some sick people out there,” he whispered.
There was a second story about some affairs happening overseas. I didn’t listen to what was said as I knew it was most likely to be scaremongering. Most stories about foreign affairs seemed to be designed just for that - a way of making us feel at ease about the government’s latest plan to push forward with stepping in and getting involved. Why they couldn’t just keep their noses out of business which didn’t directly concern them I do not know. It’s not as though they need to…I stopped mid-thought. My eyes were transfixed to the screen: a picture of a smiling child that had been taken on a bright, sunny day in what appeared to be a back garden. He was sitting on a swing, a padding pool to the side of the photo and fences behind him.
“He didn’t look like that at the park,” he said.
“Shut up!” I hissed.
The story ran through. The boy had disappeared from the park yesterday afternoon. Jack, aged nine. His parents were said to be distraught. Any information and you were invited to phone through, with a number provided.
“You really did it?”
He nodded, “I did say so.”
“The pictures are all real?”
“Good, aren’t they?”
“They’re not just what you imagined?”
“No. They’re real. Just as I told you.” He hesitated, “So what do you think? It feels right, doesn’t it?”
“What are you talking about? They’re fucking looking for him!”
“They’re not looking for him. Relax.”
“Did you not just watch that?! His picture was on the news. It’s probably in the papers too. They want their son back!” I shouted.
“Calm down!” he shouted back. He waited until I was calmer before continuing, “They’re not looking for him. They don’t give a shit about him. And I can’t say I blame them - the whiney little cunt.”
“He was on the news.”
“A picture which did not represent the boy I took was on the news. People will be looking for the kid shown in the pictures, not the one I disposed of.”
“Are you fucking insane? They’re the same person.”
“Are they? Are they really?” He stood up and walked us through to the bathroom. He looked into the mirror. “What do you see?” He was staring at me, his eyes almost rabid with excitement. He screamed at me, “What do you fucking see?!”
“I see you.”
“And I see you. Are we not one and the same?”
“I am nothing like you.”
“You are me!”
“I’m not!”
“When people see me, they see you.”
“No. When people see you, they see a monster. When they see me, they see an entertainer.”
“Then - by your own argument - the boy in the picture is not the same as the boy I took…They are two different people and if that’s the case…They will never find him.” I stormed from the bathroom and slammed the door shut. “Admit it - we got away with it. Just as we always get away with it.”
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” I begged him. I hurried through back to the living room and slammed that door shut too. I just wanted some peace and quiet. I sat myself down on the sofa and flicked the television channel back over to Laurel and Hardy.
“Why do you keep denying who you really are?” he whispered in my ear. He didn’t sound annoyed, as he had done so before. In fact, if anything, this was the kindest I had ever heard his voice. Almost compassionate. Had it been the first time I’d ever spoken to him, I may have believed him to be sincere. But it wasn’t the first time I’d met him. And I knew who he really was. A murderer. “You could be so much happier if you just stopped lying to yourself…” I reached for the controller and went to turn the television back up to its maximum level. “You want space?” he asked. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m going out tonight and I’d very much like for you to join me.”
“Where are you going?”
“If you want to know - you’ll come with me,” he said with a broad smile on his face. “You know where to find me.”
7.
The rest of the day was filled with thoughts of the dead children. I couldn’t help but picture how frantic their parents must have been, desperate for their safe return. He seemed to relish the pain he caused the children, the fact he killed them. He couldn’t seem to understand that they were someone’s child. Someone out there loved them no matter what he thought of them, whether they were being too loud with their screaming or tantrums or whatever. He didn’t have the right to end their lives. No one had the right to do so.
In the brief moments where I wasn’t thinking about the dead, I found myself growing concerned about what he had planned for the night. Maybe I should go with him? Perhaps, if I did so, I could stop him from doing whatever he wanted to do. But then what if I couldn’t stop him? What if I had to witness it first hand? The atrocious acts he was capable of carrying out sickened me, yes, but they also frightened the hell out of me. It’s one thing to see painted pictures of what he once did but it’s another thing altogether to witness the act itself. It didn’t matter how many times he tried to tell me I needed to join him, I needed to be a part of it - I didn’t want to. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t be a part of it.
When I went upstairs, I carefully moved all of the furniture against the bedroom door. I wasn’t being careful so as not to damage it though. I was being careful so as not to disturb him. Had he caught me moving the bits and pieces, he would have easily stopped me - far more easily than I could have stopped him when it came to carrying out his heinous acts anyway.
I knew the blockade wouldn’t stop him but I hoped, regardless, that it would at least put him off from trying to go out. Perhaps a laziness stopping him from bothering to start moving things back to where they belonged? I hoped so.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared ahead at the blockade, unblinking. It was getting late now and I knew it would only be a matter of time before he sees what I’ve done. May as well use the last bit of quiet time to mentally prepare myself for an argument. I kept asking myself why I was putting myself through this and delaying the inevitable. The man was sick. He didn’t need locking in his bedroom like a reprimanded teenager, he needed proper psychiatric help; help that I was unable to offer him even if he were prepared to listen. I should just phone the police. I should just warn them of him and let them deal with him, whether that be putting him in jail or a mental health facility; he needed to be removed from the streets before he hurt anyone else. But where would that leave me? We weren’t the same person. I didn’t deserve the same treatment and yet that’s exactly what I would get. They’d tar me with the same brush. Not just the authorities but everyone else too; all those who’d get to learn of what he did to those poor children. Even if they’d go easy on me - the courts and professionals - the stigma the crimes would carry with them…That’s the sort of thing that would never leave you.
I reached down to the small make-up mirror on the floor and picked it up. It had toppled off from the table when I was dragging the whole thing across to the doorway. I hadn’t bothered to pick it up as the additional weight wouldn’t have done anything to help with the blockade. I looked at my reflection in the shattered mirror. Due to the various cracks, there were lots of my made-up face looking back at myself. I couldn’t help but wonder which was the real one. So many faces, so many potential personalities. Was there a ‘real one’ or were they al
l necessary to form the bigger picture? I threw the mirror back to the floor and was relieved when it broke a little more until it was at the point of now being completely useless to use. I wished I could curl up into a little ball and just wither away into nothing. More than that, I wished I’d not been born at all as thoughts turned to my mother and father.
They divorced when I was young. Mother moved away and I found myself left with my father, a stern man who liked a drink. His demons mostly came at night where he then found the need to take them out on me. By morning, he’d always come into my cramped bedroom apologising and hungover, but I could never trust him. Even when he promised me it would never happen again, I could never take him at his word. There was always a part of me which waited for the night-time monster to come crawling into the bedroom - that look on his face. I shook the image from my mind. I don’t need to be thinking about that now - not whilst I am feeling vulnerable.
I lay back on the bed and shut my eyes. The blackness provided by my closed eyelids was nice. It made me feel at peace with the world, despite knowing there was no such joy to be experienced. I wished it could last forever. Who knows, with a little encouragement like - say - the tip of a blade against my wrist, maybe it could?
II
I woke with a jump to the sound of his irate voice. I must have fallen asleep. Hardly surprising, considering the fact it’s quite late now and I hadn’t slept much the previous night when we got home, despite feeling as though I were absolutely shattered. He was standing up and staring at the blockade I had prepared for him in front of the bedroom doorway.
“What is this? This some kind of fucking joke?”
“No joke.”
“This is supposed to stop me how exactly? I’ll just move it.”
“Look - whatever you’re planning tonight - just stay in. Stay in with me and we can talk.”
“Talk? You’re having a fucking joke. Very good. Funny. Nearly had me there. Come on - give me a hand moving this shit out of the way. I have things to do, places to be…”
“I’m not moving anything. I mean it. Don’t go out. Stay home. Talk to me. We need to know what we’re going to do from here on in.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Seriously? I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to go to a bar and I’m going to get some fucking drinks inside of me and see where the night takes me. You’re more than welcome to join me. Who knows - maybe we can pick up some skank and have ourselves a little three-way. In fact, fuck it, you want to bond? That’s what we’ll do. We’ll have ourselves a three-way. See if we can meet in the middle. What say you?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“No. What? That’s it? Just no.”
“I’m not going out with you. I don’t want you to go out. I want us to stay in and talk things through like adults.”
“Adults? You’re dressed as a fucking clown and you want to talk things through like adults? Fuck, man, you should be a standup comic. You’re coming out with some funny shit tonight.” His voice changed and became even more hostile in what seemed to be a blink of an eye, “Now help me move this fucking shit out of my fucking way before I do you some fucking damage. Understand?”
I sat on the bed. He can threaten me all he likes but I won’t help him. I want no part in this. Just as I want no part in going out with him to try and bond over the back of some drunken whore.
He waited for me to help and then realised I wasn’t going to, “Fine. Fuck you too.”
He hopped to the blockade and started throwing the items across the room in an effort to get out.
III
He’s a fucking child if he thinks this is going to stop me. What? A few bits of furniture thrown in front of the fucking door and - bam - just like that he thinks he has me trapped? Absolutely pathetic. I grabbed his precious make-up table and lifted it clean off the floor.
“Please be careful with that.”
“What? This?” I threw it across the room and watched with glee as it splintered into pieces over the bedroom floor. Had he really given a shit about it, he wouldn’t have used it to try and block my path. He should expect everything in my way to get broken because I aim to smash it all. Teach him - maybe - that he has absolutely fuck all control over me. I heard him cry out when the table broke. A possible lesson learned. I picked up the next item in my way - the chair that went with the make-up table - and launched it at the window as hard as I could. It smashed through, sending glass flying to the floor outside.
“Okay. Wait. Let me get it for you.”
“No - seriously - it’s fine. You just fucking stand there and watch. I’ve got it.”
I grabbed at the chest of drawers, the last item in my way, and toppled it over with a hard shove to the side. It crashed to the floor, sending the items within spilling out all over the place. At least we know what he’ll be doing tomorrow whilst I’m getting over my hangover. He’ll be cleaning. I reached forward and grabbed the door handle. I twisted it and pulled it open.
“Wait. Please. Come on. We need to talk.”
I stood there in the doorway for a moment. I could stay and talk to him but what was the point? He’d only carry on with the same bullshit about how I am wrong for doing what I do. The same crap I’d heard time and time before. I wished I could believe him about wanting to actually talk. Not what he wanted to talk about but what we needed to talk about. I shook my head and headed off down the stairs. It won’t be a discussion about what needs to be discussed. No sense wasting my time. At the bottom of the stairs, I threw my Chuck Taylors on, trying my best to keep my back to him to avoid anymore pathetic conversations. With my shoes on, I walked over to the front door and reached out for the handle. I paused. I’ll give him one more chance. I slowly turned back to him.
“One more chance,” I said.
“For what?”
“To come with me.”
I could see he wanted to come. He was tempted. But it wasn't because of the reasons I wanted him to accompany me. I could see it was because he thought it gave him more chances to turn me away from the path I was set upon.
“Forget it,” I told him. I reached over to the side where the keys to his van were hanging. “I’m borrowing your van,” I said. I didn’t wait for him to argue with me. I turned back to the front door and let myself out, slamming the door behind me.
I walked over to the van and climbed in. I slid the key into the ignition and leaned back, catching a sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. Fuck me. Still dressed like a fucking clown. That’s just fucking brilliant. I put my hands on the steering wheel and screamed out in a blind fit of rage. That fucking cunt is starting to get to me. Well I can’t go back in. I can’t go and get changed - not with him in there. It will just invite the possibility of more conversation. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. At least if anyone sees me, they won’t actually see the real me. They’ll see him. I get to have the fun, he gets to take the fall. Sure I’ll go down with him, but they’ll know it was him. They might go easy on me. I fired the engine up and slammed the van into reverse. Sooner I get out of here, the better.
IV
I like these calmer moments. He isn’t around. He isn’t whining in my ear; pathetic little cunt that he is. It’s peaceful. Even when I have company and they’re screaming. To me - it’s still a calm moment.
I don’t have company with me tonight though, as I drive around in his holly-jolly fucking van. Shame there aren’t any garages open where I can part exchange this heap of shit - not that people would be happy to take it off my hands. I’d probably end up owing them money.
With the house out of sight, in the rear-view mirror, I pulled the van over to the side of the road and reached across to the glove compartment where he stored his satellite navigation system. I pulled it out, along with the plug in cable, and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. The screen shone to life as I waited a few seconds for the menu screen to become available.
“Come on
, come on,” I said - could my words hurry it up? The menu screen appeared on the small display offering up various options. The one I wanted was the choice for ‘most recent’. I pressed into it and selected the top postcode.
A message flashed up a second later, informing me it was calculating the route.
“Thank you, modern technology.”
I never paid attention when he did the driving. If you told me I had to go to where he’d be only a couple of hours earlier, I would never have been able to get there. Not without stopping and asking for directions anyway. Thanks to wonderful tools such as this, all I had to do was press a few buttons. A couple of buttons and - just like that - I am guided there via the quickest possible route.
“Where possible, perform a u-turn,” the machine ordered me.
I selected the first gear and did a clumsy three-point turn (actually a four-point turn) in the road before heading back in the direction I had just come from, a beaming smile on my face as I drove. He should have come with me tonight. He may be on the fence about what I do in my spare time but - I think - this could have changed his opinion. This could have made him see the light. Maybe I’ll take a little project home. Keep it downstairs until he is ready to watch; ready to lend a helping hand so he can understand - and see - how much pleasure there is to be gained from it.
I drove for about twenty minutes or so, following the route offered to me via the satnav, and eventually pulled into the road I was looking for. He hadn’t entered a house number when he’d previously put in the postcode for the property but that was fine - I didn’t need an exact number. I wasn’t good at remembering directions but I was when it came to remembering what the properties looked like. I drove to the end of the road, away from where I actually wanted to be, and let the van roll to a stop.
It has gone midnight now. All of the houses have their lights off with the exception of one at the far end of the street. Night owls I guess. Bad news for people like me as it increases the chance of someone seeing me - and it’s hard enough to remain inconspicuous whilst driving around in this clapped out heap of shit.