by Matt Shaw
I left the cellar via the stairs and entered the kitchen. I’m never going to be happy. I know that. Why should I keep trying to live a life like this? It’s not good for either of us. And now his murderous impulses are out in the open, it’s clearly not good enough for other people either. I don’t want to live like this. Not with him. Especially when we’re taken into custody. A lifetime spent rotting in a cell with only his hostile company? No. That’s not for me…
I stormed over to the kitchen worktop and pulled a knife from one of the drawers. I held it firmly in my right hand and pressed the tip of the blade against my shaking wrist. It will hurt. I know that. But it will only do so for a moment. A moment of pain for the same blissful feeling the children were rewarded with. I want that. I want what they found in their death. I want what he gave them. I pushed down a little harder. A small trickle of blood appeared where the tip of the blade had pierced my skin. It stung but not in a bad way. If anything, with all my pent-up feelings, I felt a bit of a release.
He pulled the knife away from me and threw it across the room. I watched on, helplessly, as it penetrated the cellar door and stuck in the wood.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed at me.
“I thought you’d gone. I thought I was alone!”
“You’re trying to kill yourself? Is that it? What - you want to fucking die?”
“I don’t want to live. I want the peace.”
“You’re a coward.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. You won’t face your responsibilities. You’re a fucking coward. You think there is a peace to be found by taking your own life? There’s not. Eternal damnation waits for those who die by their own hand.”
“We’re damned anyway, thanks to you.”
“I won’t let you kill yourself. I won’t let you kill us.”
“Please…”
I tried to cross the kitchen to where the knife was stuck in the door but he stopped me. For the first time ever, I realised he was actually stronger than me. It never used to be like that. We used to be equal but these last couple of days were really starting to take it out of me.
“No.”
“I don’t want to live like this,” I begged him.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I can’t live like this.”
“I’ll make you.”
“Please…” I tried again to lunge for the knife but - again - he stopped me. With the feeling of despair at how weak I felt, I wanted to scream.
“Not got much fight in you, have you? Fucking pussy.”
I watched helplessly as he sauntered over to the knife and pulled it from the door. He laughed as he waved in front of my face, “Is this the knife you wanted? It’s nice. I can see why you picked this one. Fucking sharp. Do some damage with this.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck me? No. Fuck you. You tried to kill us both because you’re too much of a pussy to carry on? Fucking selfish, not forgetting weak and pathetic.”
I tried again to take the knife from him but he kept it from my reach, even laughing at my attempts to regain control. He slammed the knife down into the worktop so that it was sticking out from the wooden top, a cheap version of the sword in the stone.
“You want to play with knives?” he hissed. “Fine - let’s play with knives.”
He reached down to the washing machine and yanked the door open.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he pulled the now clean, but still damp, clown outfit from within.
“We’re going out.”
“No. Okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m pathetic. I’m a pussy. Let’s just stay in. We can work something out…” I begged as he started kicking his clothes off.
“Every time I’ve talked to you, you’ve ignored me or tried to go behind me back. And to think, you believe I am the evil one. You need your head examining.”
“Well you haven’t exactly been upfront with me. You don’t want to offer the children a peace they’re missing from life - you just want them dead.”
“Well…True…But - hey - it was a white lie to make you feel better about yourself. You, on the other hand, are just destructive,” he sneered. He slid the cold, damp clown outfit on. “How do I look?”
“Take it off. Put your normal clothes back on. Let’s go and have a conversation.”
“I would but…So many people to kill. I just don’t have the time.”
He reached out, grabbed the knife and stormed from the kitchen. I followed, knowing I was powerless to stop him from doing whatever it was he had planned. He grabbed a pair of trainers from a cupboard under the stairs and stepped into them before grabbing the wig from the stairs - where it was always abandoned. He got to the door and reached for the handle.
“Please…” I tried one last-ditch attempt to stop him.
“Do you really want to die?” he asked. His voice seemed to have less hatred in it.
“It was a mistake. A moment of weakness.”
He smiled, “You’re lying. Again. You want to talk and yet you always lie. You can’t help yourself.”
“Fine. I want to die. I want peace. I want what the children have. You know, the ones you killed…”
“I won’t be able to watch you all the time,” he said.
He was right. No matter how strong he believed he was, there was no way he’d be able to watch me all the time. There’d be times where he wouldn’t be with me and - as soon as that time came - I’d do what needed to be done. I would end my life and find the peace I sought.
He smiled again. I felt unnerved.
“I’m not ready to die,” he said, his voice cold and low. “And so, we have a problem.”
“It appears so.”
“That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.”
He reached out for the door handle, twisted it, pulled the door open and stepped out of the house. He slammed the door shut. My mind was panicking as to what was going through his own mind. He was up to something.
11.
I opened the van’s door and jumped in, throwing the knife onto the passenger seat. This fucking vehicle.
“Where are you going? What are you planning? Tell me!” he was still bleating in my ear like the little bitch that he was. I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up but I didn’t. I managed to restrain myself as I fired up the engine; another cloud of black smoke spewed from the back of the van.
I leaned across to the satnav system and starting going through the recent additions to various postcodes he has visited as part of his job. The one at the top of the list was where I’d taken the boy from. The one underneath - that boy whose father wanted to play the hero -he’ll do.
“What are you fucking doing?” he screeched like a wild banshee when he saw I had selected the postcode. I ignored him as I sat back in the seat and reached for the seat belt. “Whatever you’re planning…Please don’t. Please. I’m begging you. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”
I glared at him via the rear-view mirror, “I can’t ever leave you without fearing you’re going to do something stupid so, really, you haven’t left me much choice.”
“I won’t do anything. I won’t. I promise. Let’s just go home.”
“I don’t think so.”
I selected reverse gear and backed out of the driveway, onto the main road. The gearstick slipped through to first and I slammed on the accelerator, not that this van was particularly quick at pulling away but still…
“What are you going to do?”
I looked to the knife and smiled. Did he really need me to spell it out? Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he wanted to snatch the knife from the chair so I reached across and took a hold of it. I put it on my lap, just to reiterate it’s my knife. Not his.
“You won’t get away with it!” He sounded desperate now.
“I don’t plan to.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because I don’t want to die. I can�
��t trust you not to do anything stupid so you’ve left me one option…Get all of my killing out of my system today, tonight, and then turn us in.”
“They’ll throw away the key…”
“That’s right so I’d better really make an impact tonight,” I laughed.
“But what’s the point? They’ll never let us out…”
“Exactly. And when I tell them of your suicidal tendencies, they’ll never let you out of their sight either. You won’t be able to wipe your arse without them watching, let alone kill yourself.”
“You’re throwing away your freedom.”
“Freedom, yes. But I am saving my own life.”
“This is fucking ridiculous!”
“Said the man who wanted to take his own life. Just shut the fuck up and enjoy the ride,” I snapped. I leaned down to the radio and turned it up to its full volume to drown out his whining voice. He wanted to die, I wanted to live. The way I saw it, this was the only option I had: have one great day and night - a time to really build some strong memories - and then spend the rest of my time in a small cell replaying those memories whilst ignoring his pathetic bleating. It may not sound ideal but I’d sooner live a life like that than not live a life at all.
He screamed over the sound of The Animals’ tune “House of the Rising Sun” blasting from the van’s crackling speakers, “You won’t even get to your destination! The police will see the van and they’ll pull you over! You said yourself last night was sloppy!”
He was getting desperate now. Yes, there was a chance that he was right - the police could pull us over before we got to where we needed to be but I figured it was a slim chance. Certainly worth risking, considering what was bubbling away in my dark thought processes.
I turned down another road. Despite the time, traffic was relatively sparse. I was quite thankful about that. The last thing I wanted to do was find myself sitting in a jam with this whining son of a bitch.
“You’re being a fucking idiot,” he screamed.
I always found it funny when he swore and couldn’t help but laugh. For some reason, it just didn’t suit his tone of voice and, instead of sounding threatening, he sounded like he was desperately trying to be one of the cool kids. Well - whatever - as long as he is ranting and raving instead of trying to get in my way, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. I don’t need to listen.
We continued to drive for about twenty minutes until I eventually pulled up outside of the house I’d been aiming for. I can’t remember the name of the kid and I can’t remember the name of the dad who so desperately wanted to be seen as a hero in front of his son. I had been pretty excited ever since leaving the house because of what I had planned to do but now we were sitting outside of the guy’s actual house, I was fucking buzzing: a grin stretching from ear to ear, a pleasant tingling sensation rushing through my very being. I killed the engine and - in doing so - the radio. The sound of (near) silence. My ears were ringing. Not sure whether that was because of the radio’s previous volume or whether he’d been constantly panicking and flapping in them.
He tried one last time, “Please, I’m begging you, don’t do this.”
“Hush now.” I snatched the knife from my lap and kicked open the driver’s door. I hopped down and looked around. Relatively quiet. Not that I would have given a fuck if it hadn’t been. I stomped my way from van to house and knocked heavily on the door. Little pig, little pig - let me in…
“I don’t want to see this,” he said, his voice audibly quivering.
“And yet you stay here with me.”
We could hear footsteps from the other side of the door. I slid the knife into the oversized pocket of his suit. A second later and the door opened. A woman was standing there with a bemused look upon her face. What? She never seen a clown before?
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here to see the birthday boy!” I said. I tried to sound jolly but I think I came across as loud. Need to try and camp it up a bit so I can sound a little more like him, the pathetic faggot. He was trying to talk, trying to warn her, but I managed to keep him quiet with a little concentration on my part.
“Johnny?” she asked.
Johnny, that was the fucker! And his dad’s name was Colin. Cunty Colin. I remember now. Not that I’d bothered to speak to either of them when we were last here. Fuck getting involved with that shit. I let him do all the talking back then.
“Oh it’s you! You did his party!” she said, a look of sudden realisation on her face as though she’d solved the world’s greatest mystery. I wanted to deny it - tell her it wasn’t me who’d performed at the party - but I couldn’t. I knew that would just cause problems by confusing her. “What can I do for you?” she asked, seemingly more at ease now.
“Is Johnny in?” I asked, trying to keep it light. “I have a present for him that I forgot to give to him at his party?”
“Really? Oh wow! He’ll be so excited to see you. He was talking about you for days,” she said. She stepped back a bit and opened the door wider for me. Does she really think I’m that fat? Cheeky whore. Can’t say she’ll live to regret that moment of rudeness. I thanked her (because I’m polite) and stepped into the house. She closed the door behind me.
“Johnny?” she called up the stairs, “You have a visitor!”
“Who is it?” came the squeaky voice of a runt.
Kids aren’t just annoying because they’re whiney and selfish, throwing temper tantrums when they don’t get what they believe they deserve… A lot of the reasons they’re generally annoying is down to their voices. Slightly higher pitched than they need to be - one octave away from being audible to nearby dogs only. They just kind of squeak at you when they speak. And some of them have the need to touch you when they’re talking too, probably because they know you’re not really listening. They come up to you and just tap you whilst saying what they think they need to say. You, in turn, stand there and listen to them - even if you were in the middle of a conversation with a friend or partner - because you know it’s the quickest way to get them to fuck off. Oops. Footsteps at the top of the landing. Happy face on.
Johnny’s face beamed when he saw me. My face beamed too, despite wanting to kick his fucking head in right there and then. Him and his rude mother. A quiet voice was yelling at me in my head to tell me to behave, ordering me to get out of the house. Not going to happen.
“Hi, kiddo!” I yelled enthusiastically.
I turned to his mother, “Colin due home?”
“He’ll be home in a couple of hours,” she said. She looked just as thrilled as her son. I somehow think that was more to do with his reaction at seeing me than seeing me for herself, especially going by the look on her face when she first opened the front door to me.
“That’s a shame,” I said, “he’ll miss your death…”
“I’m sorry?” she turned to me, a sudden look of terror in her eyes. Before she could react further, or even have the time to scream, I pulled the knife from my pocket and stuck it into her throat. Her eyes bulged in both pain and fear as a smile spread across my thin lips and a scream burst from dear little Johnny. I pulled the knife from her throat to a satisfying spray of blood and an audible gargle. She dropped to her knees, clutching frantically at the wound as her son about-turned and charged back up the stairs. Silly little Johnny. The front door would have been a safer option for him: less chance of me catching him before he finds sanctuary with an alarmed neighbour.
I stepped over his mother’s body as she continued to writhe around in pain. She wouldn’t last much longer, going by the blood pumping from her scrawny throat. At the bottom of the stairs I shouted up to my new best friend, “Johnny! Where are you going? We have two hours of playtime before Daddy is home…Don’t you want to make the most of it?” I laughed as I started my way up the stairs.
II
I was desperate to do something to help them but was powerless. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I regain control and take c
harge of the situation? Why am I letting him control me like this?
“You’ve had some fun, I get it. You’re in control…” I tried telling him. I wasn’t sure whether he wasn’t hearing me or whether he was ignoring me. It didn’t even matter if I was shouting at him.
“Johnny!” He was walking up the stairs, calling out the boy’s name in a low voice.“Johhhhhhhhnny…..Johhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyyyy…..Got a little pressie for ya!” He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down the landing for any sign of movement. “Come here, Johhhhhhhnny, time to play a little game…” I watched, desperate to reach out and stop him, as he tapped the bloodied knife on the side of his face as he weighed up his options with regards to which room to try first.
“You can’t do this, please…”
“Oh, hush your mouth,” he hissed at me, the first time he has responded to me in what seems to be an age. I seized the opportunity to keep him talking - maybe long enough for help to come (Colin returning home, perhaps?) – just to keep the boy alive.
“We have to go home. Let’s go home and talk things through. I promise - I won’t try and kill myself again. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll even let you keep control, at all times. I won’t interfere. Please. I promise. You have to believe me. Just let the boy live.
There was a mirror hanging from the longest wall of the landing. He looked into it - at my reflection - and slowly raised his finger to his lips.
“Ssh!”
III
I turned my attention back to where little Johnny could possibly be hiding. No way out from up here - at least not without jumping from the window or running back down the stairs and I can’t see him doing either.
What I like about little children is that it’s easy enough to scare them from their hiding place before you’ve even found it. Just one little sentence to force them into the light. Three. Two. One.