30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  I glance inside my cup. I'm irritated that there is just froth at the bottom. I squeeze the mug tight and almost dare it to crack, for a fragment of china to dig into my hand and draw blood. There must be a pained, or psychotic, look to my face, for a middle-aged man with lank hair on the pavement outside (the sort of guy that must gets looks wherever he goes) pulls his head back and stares at me as he passes.

  There is a queue at the till. Even though my fingers are already tingling and a woodpecker has been chipping away at my forehead for the last half an hour, I want a coffee. Nobody seems to be in any hurry, and yet everybody seems to annoy me. The customers disperse until I'm face to face with the girl who served me last week. She has a fresh complexion, with full rosy cheeks. I can imagine her sat cross-legged on a bail of straw in a barn. She is pointlessly pretty, though, because her permanently vacant face makes her sexless. I am irritable. There is no doubt about that. I want to ask the girl whether she's had a personality transplant. I doubt this passes as standard coffee shop etiquette, but I don't care. Last time the girl's expression was mute. This time it is worse. Is something written on my forehead? Does white powder coat my nostrils? She winces when she sees me. I talk at pace and smile frantically, order my coffee and tell her I want this one to take away. She asks for my name - again - and I give it this time without engaging in any further discussion, then I move away from her and loiter by the newspapers.

  Pacing in a circle, tapping my toes on the wooden floor as I do so, I sniff, then wipe the tip of my nose with the back of my hand. I pick up a napkin and dab at my sticky forehead. I keep glancing at the girl, longing her to hurry the fuck up but then, at the same time, trying to remain inconspicuous. My mind is so frazzled I can barely even pronounce the word, let alone spell it. Then - eventually - the girl looks up and shouts at the top of her voice.

  "Jeffrey Allen!"

  I throw the napkin on the floor. I blink out the sweat that has trickled into my eyes. I pull my hands out from my pockets.

  "What the fuck did you just say?" I ask.

  She glances at me with disgust, before looking over both shoulders for support. Two guys in matching aprons and tattooed arms slowly turn to me.

  "I called your name," the girl says, her voice monotone.

  "What name?"

  The two guys smirk. The realisation hits that they are dealing with a nutcase. "Your name," the girl says. "Whatever name you gave me." She takes a cursory glance at the cardboard cup. "Jeffrey Allen."

  "That isn't my name."

  She glances at the developing queue. There are more than six eyes on me now. Coins tap against the side of the counter. I turn around, and the whole coffee shop is looking at me: staring and evaluating.

  "Listen," the girl says, colour rising to her cheeks. "I really don't care what your name is. Do you want this coffee, or not?"

  I grab at the coffee and it spills over the edge. I turn on my heel and leave the shop as quickly as I can.

  This makes no sense. I am going mad. It is only when I am down the street and around the corner that I realise what happened.

  He is on my mind all the time. I must have given my old name.

  DAY TWENTY

  20TH JUNE 2018

  I have morphed into a caricature of the sort of person I despise, that I secretly (never openly) make fun of. I'm aware I possess eccentricities that make others raise their eyebrows, so surely I'm entitled to mock others under my breath?

  Normally I prefer to take my time when I'm out and about. My lifestyle affords me to do this, to make this choice. Not today. Today I'm Usain Bolt on Red Bull. If I had wings then I'm sure I'd fly. My body is high up in the sky somewhere; my mind is down by my feet, sinking into the ground, disintegrating into the depths of nothingness.

  My baggy, grey joggers are in danger of being trodden on by my light running trainers. My fists are in a ball; my arms pump with purpose. My upturned scalp is drenched with hot, itchy sweat. The volume on my iPod is turned to the max; I mouth the words of the beat.

  I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it, I like to move it!

  The orange sun is just beginning to rise, no doubt signalling the beginning of another sweltering day. Airports are packed with commuters setting off on package holidays to Spain, yet they're leaving more than enough sun behind. The sun is so close it feels like I can reach out and catch it. Flies rise from the pungent canal water; even they don't fancy their chances in that shit. A man walking his dog moves to the side as we cross paths on the grass that is turning more yellow and flaky by the day.

  I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it, I like to move it!

  The man winces, just like they did in the coffee shop, only yesterday. He tugs harder on the lead, fearful this crazy, manic man might attack him. Winking as I pass doesn't appease his fears. I feel like telling him not to worry, that it isn't me he needs to fear, it is the serial killer out on the loose, hunting us down. I turn around, but the back of his head becomes smaller and smaller.

  I keep walking, yet I still keep glancing over my shoulder. It is an urge, a compulsion, some kind of nervous twitch. I remember I did the same during my Welsh O Level in school. The desks were set in straight lines in the gymnasium. Rows and rows of desks. I had the feeling that the boy sat behind me was doing something behind my back, something with his hands. I had no idea what, but whatever it was put me in great danger. I kept turning around, but he had his head down, scribbling away, just like everybody else in the hall; everybody else in the hall but me. I knew that I had to concentrate to pass the exam; but, how could I? I was in terrible danger, but I had no idea what of.

  Nothing happened in that gym hall, of course, apart from me failing the exam.

  I keep swinging my arms, long and high until they're almost punches. I raise my knees high to my waist. The perceptions through my senses are dull and foggy; the images in my mind are bright, clear and clinical. My world feels like it has been turned upside down. I picture the girl in the coffee shop, though I'd like to blank her out. Her lips curled and her eyes widened, didn't they? The girl knew something, didn't she? But how? It isn't possible. My mind has to be playing tricks. Her image is replaced by the girls from school. We were just children. I was shy, overweight and awkward and I didn't have many friends, at least, not after my brother left me I didn't. Luke, why did you leave me? I repulsed girls. I was neither attractive enough nor cool enough for them to want to be associated with me. Quite the reverse: they didn't want to be tarnished by association. This was over thirty years ago, of course. What can it matter now? But I still long to push the images out of my mind: the girls are glancing and whispering and pointing. I felt exposed. I felt like a freak.

  Of course, one girl was different. One girl seemed more like me, seemed to understand me. And yet, I ruined that, too, didn't I?

  My pace quickens until I'm almost jogging. The sound of the girls laughing quietens, becomes more distant, and it is replaced by the words of Baldwin, in the interview room, speaking in my ear.

  I know you're not telling me everything. I know you have a secret.

  I press my body against the brick wall and bend at the waist, hands grazing my knees. The world becomes clear again as I look down at the dry pebbles and the wet worms slithering on the floor. My hands move to my waist and my eyes rise to the curve of the tunnel, to the cobwebs and the pigeons that lurk like shadows, like danger. A car rumbles and splutters over the bridge. The back of my head knocks against the wall. It feels damp. I press the palm of my hand to my mouth to smother my gasps.

  And then, I wait.

  I wait and wait until I wonder what it is I'm waiting for, but then I catch the leather of his shoe as he comes around the corner, as he enters the tunnel. Does he have any idea what or who is waiting for him?

  My hands circle his throat, the tips of my thumbs press into his Adams Apple. The whites of his eyes widen as the black fades away.

  "You," I say.

  ******
*

  Blaming everything on paranoia has given me some comfort. After all, if I'm merely paranoid, then all of the perceived atrocities of the world exist only in my mind. I am only a risk to myself. Heal my mind and the world around me heals itself. Now, the only reassurance is that I wasn't going mad.

  I'd prefer madness.

  A table separates us, just like in Richard's office. I estimate that I could reach his throat if I leaned forward and pressed my belly against the curved edge of the table. On the other hand, my chair is the closest to the exit. I'd be the favourite in a chase. I need to keep my options open: fight or flight.

  His face was one of sheer terror when I pinned him in the tunnel. I recognised that look. From my dreams. My nightmares. My dreams are nearly always nightmares. I recognised the look as that of my own when he was about to slash me with the razor. The look sucked the life out of me.

  I watch him now as he eyes his cup of tea like it is a precious jewel. I make sure he knows I'm watching him. He appears fascinated by the rim of the cup. My eyes burn into him. One of his cheeks flushes pink, like a birthmark.

  "You were at the bowling complex," I tell him. "I saw you. I thought I imagined it, but I didn't, did I? You were following me, just like you were following me today. I was there with my daughter. My little girl. Just what sort of a sick fucker are you?"

  There's something I'm hanging onto, something that is giving me hope. An absolute game changer. I tell myself that, however messed up this is, it could all still be alright. It all clings on what he tells me next. I'm urging him to say the words, to spit them out, but then I'm pushing them back into his mouth, fearing what he'll say.

  I hope it is him who's been playing these games. I can cope if it is. I can beat this guy physically and - possibly - mentally. I don't fear him. And, it would quash my greatest fear.

  Spartacus isn't out there after all.

  "Yes," he says. "I was there at the bowling."

  My heart races. Open up my hands. Ask him to continue. He keeps avoiding eye contact. Remains silent.

  "Tell me why I shouldn't just go to the police.”

  He looks up. His eyes burn into me now, making my cheeks flush. "You tell me. I don't know why you don't go to the police. That's something I've wanted to ask you."

  I go to explain, go to justify the reasons, but then I stop. Why am I explaining anything to him? I'm not giving him the upper hand, letting him back me into a corner. "Why have you done this?" I ask. "What have I done to you, Simon?"

  "What exactly is it you think I've done?"

  "Everything."

  I hope that it is everything.

  "I haven't done anything.”

  I slam my fist on the table. His precious tea spills over the rim of the cup. "Bullshit! You've already said you followed me at the bowling. And I've just caught you following me down by the canal. Didn't you realise I knew you were there all along? Why do you think I picked up my pace? You think you're the one playing games? Don't sit there and tell me you haven't done anything, okay?"

  Leaning back, Simon holds up his hands. "Okay, I've been following you. But I haven't done anything..."

  "Not done anything? So why were you following me then?"

  "Because I want to catch him. And you're the key to finding him."

  My heart sinks. My shoulders hunch forward. I've heard those words before. From Baldwin. Repeatedly. It didn't end well.

  Now I want to slam my fist into the side of his face. Not because he wants to catch him. I want to pummel his face because he is convinced Spartacus really is doing this. It crushes any last hopes I have that it isn't him.

  "I know what you think about me," Simon says. "You think I'm some loser kid who lives in his basement with his mum, don't you?"

  "But you do. That isn't opinion. It is merely fact."

  Simon jerks his head. He needs to approach this from a different angle, doesn't he? One that actually makes sense. "Yes, I still live with my mum. Yes, I spend a lot of time in the basement. I know better than anybody that this is classic serial killer fodder. I know it would be easier for you if I was the psycho, that you hope I am the psycho..."

  Damn. He knows what I'm thinking. He is right. Never before have I wanted somebody to be a psychopath so much. "Sometimes if it looks like shit and smells like shit then it probably is shit," I reply, but even as the words come out of my mouth I know I'm punching from the ropes.

  "That there might be the problem," Simon says. The sparkle in his eyes - hidden somewhere behind his glasses - has returned. "You've reverted to stereotype because it is the easiest thing to do, because you don't want to face up to reality. Let us start with the basement, shall we? That is my workplace, my sanctuary, my little piece of the world that is separate from everything and everybody. It is just like an office or a shed. I work long hours..."

  "Sounds delightful."

  "I write a lot of books..."

  "About serial killers."

  "About serial killers," he says. "Somebody has to, because there is a demand for it, there is a thirst for it from millions of people who live perfectly normal lives. I just happen to be better than most other people at it, that's all. I'll come back to that. You know that house, though, Marcus? That house is mine. I paid for it with my money, primarily from the sales of books that I wrote. About serial killers. So really - no, fuck it, there is no really about it - my mum lives with me. I moved her in to live with me. She isn't getting any younger and, if she didn't live with me, then she'd either live on her own or in a nursing home. I just want you to reconsider those preconceptions before you reach your conclusions about this situation. I look after my mum just as much as she looks after me..."

  I consider this. It is only his living arrangements. It does change the preconception I had about him. But then - really - who gives a fuck? Goddamn, plenty of men live with their mums these days, it is just the way of the world. The real issue at hand is whether or not he is behind these games, isn't it? And none of this changes any of that. My hope that he is the psychopath I want him to be, though, does feel like it is draining away.

  "She used to own her own home," Simon continues. "She used to live with my dad until my dad died."

  He told me when we first met that his dad died. He appeared keen to tell me about it but I didn't really want to know, did I? Strange, but his mum didn't seem like the type to ever be affectionate with a man. I do know how the reproductive process works. I now Richard would scorn me for my irrational thinking. I feel bad for Simon, of course I do, especially after what happened to Mum. But again, I'm struggling to locate the point. This isn't a counselling session. I usually sit on the other side of that particular desk. "I'm sorry to hear about your dad but, without meaning to sound harsh, dad's do die. What does that have to do with you becoming a psycho stalker?"

  He leans forward, his elbows digging into the table. "Dads do die. Sure. But most dads aren't killed," Simon states. "Most dads aren't killed by a serial killer."

  The penny suddenly drops. Things, or at least some things, are beginning to make more sense. "Oh," I say. There is silence for a few moments. I search for the next appropriate question. "So how old were you when your dad died?"

  "Fifteen," Simon says. "They say adolescence is a difficult time for the best of us. There was so much more division when you were kids, don't you think? There was a hierarchy in the school and a nerdy kid like me was most definitely on the lower end of the spectrum. I know these years were difficult for you, too. Well, try being fifteen when you get a knock on the door in the early hours of the morning and it is the police, and they tell you that your dad has been brutally murdered. Suddenly, examinations and acne become rather trivial, if you know what I mean?"

  I'm definitely feeling bad for this guy now, and I'm aware this is his intention. I bow my head. I don't want to fall into his net. I try to work out just what it is Simon is saying to me. I was left for dead by a serial killer. His dad was killed by a serial killer. He thinks Spartacu
s is still out there. What is the logical conclusion?

  "Did Spartacus kill your dad?"

  His eyes open wide. Then he laughs. "No," he says. "Sorry, I've just realised why you came to that conclusion. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mislead you."

  "So why are you telling me all this then? Are you trying to explain why you've become a nut job? Trying to justify it to me? Make me understand?"

  Simon's repulsed face makes me wince. I somehow know I am up against the clock. Spartacus set that clock. I don't have time for niceties.

  "I'm not a nut job. That is what I've been trying to tell you," Simon says. "I became obsessed with the man - if you can call him that - who killed my father. I wanted to know every tiny detail about him. This was only a means to an end, though. Ultimately, I wanted to find him and I wanted to kill him. I was driven by this single, crystal clear goal. He dominated my every thought. This obsession with one man expanded. I became fascinated by other serial killers. Admittedly, it is a morbid, troubled fascination. But the key point is this: it isn't because I admire the killers. I hate them with every fibre in my body because of what one of them did to my dad. Don't you see?"

  I think I already know the answer to the question I'm about to ask but regardless, I have to ask it anyway. "So why exactly have you been following me, Simon?"

  He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his tea before answering. "Spartacus fascinates me more than any of the other serial killers, partly because he is the one that was never caught, but also because to him it is just a big game. We have no idea who he is. He has become a myth. But he is still out there. And the only way we are ever going to find him is to make your move before he makes his move on you..."