The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  “What the …who are you?”

  Rubbing his eyes, Larry Beckinsale sat rigidly in his chair, and peered at David in astonishment.

  “What do you want? Who let you in? Is my wife back already? Dawn?”

  He got to his feet and confronted David, his surprise turning to anger.

  “Get out. I’m calling the police. You?”

  He pulled himself up as he recognized the person standing in front of him.

  “You’re…”

  David smiled faintly but said nothing.

  “… from work. Um, what do you want? This is bloody irregular you know. I never see colleagues at home. You better have a damn good reason for coming here unannounced. How did you find out where I live by the way? I don’t give out my address to just anybody. What’s going on? You haven’t said how you got in.”

  As he spoke his face assumed an expression of righteous anger tinged with contempt. It was a look familiar to David and many of his colleagues too, it was the look of a man who believed he was in control, the look of a man used to authority and wielding it. It was a look that collapsed into one of sheer terror as David stepped forward, knife in hand.

  Three thick ropes looped out of the darkness above. Their yellow and blue striped towelling handles dangling hypnotically before his eyes, swaying in the demonic blasts of air. In the corner behind a curtain lay a pile of new bell ropes, bought with money collected at the summer fete – it had been the most successful for many years. A coil was heavier than he remembered and it was with difficulty that he hoisted one on to his shoulder, and staggered back into the nave. The rope was oily to the touch and smelled strongly – of linseed, cricket bats, warm summers, of women in light floral dresses, laughing as a gust of wind lifted the flimsy material briefly exposing white thighs to his eager adolescent gaze – his neck chaffed against the roughness of the rope and in his rush to reach the centre of the nave he almost extinguished the candle.

  “More haste less speed,” he found himself saying out loud. Then laughed. It was something his mother would have said and it was so banal, so inappropriate. Dumping the rope on the flags he hurried to his office in the vestry, placed the sputtering candle on top of the filing cabinet, watched as it settled then dimmed before flaming into life. He sat down at his desk and with trembling hands unwrapped the cellophane from a new packet of cigarettes, removed the silver paper and took out a single cigarette, placed it on the desk and then threw the box into the waste-paper basket.

  “Yeessssss.”

  With difficulty he opened the box of matches that had lain there undisturbed since Albert had manoeuvred himself out of the church that afternoon, aided by a disdainful Peter, the squeal of his wheelchair, which he hadn’t noticed earlier, piercing his ears like a needle, setting his teeth on edge. Picking up the cigarette he ran it between his fingers before bringing it slowly up to his nose. The seductive smell infused his unfamiliar body – aching arms and back, itching face, a sensitive scalp and a bloated stomach bulging uncomfortably over his belt – with yearning. When lit the rush of smoke lifted him temporarily, an all too brief high, before depositing him gently back into a freezing cold church in the middle of the night.

  The blade passed easily through the thin cotton of Larry’s designer T-shirt, assertively through the muscle wall of his stomach and into his intestines, meeting no resistance until it came to a jarring halt as the tip of the knife pierced one of his vertebrae. David was surprised and pulled out the knife. Larry stood there offering no resistance, just clutching his stomach with blood-stained hands, staring through bulging eyes and groaning in a strange constipated way, his cartoon mouth circular with surprise. Uncertain what to do next, David stared back, watching the stain spread rapidly across Larry’s chest, obliterating the red lettering on the shirt. He could have stood there forever, but Larry lunged at him with a wild cry, his last act.

  Opening his eyes, he stood up, slightly dizzy, stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, which he then carried carefully to the basket where he emptied it. The office was a mess and he tentatively began tidying the piles of papers and magazines that were strewn around the room. Then as quickly as he had begun he lost interest and wandered over to the curtains that divided his office from the nave. Parting the faded drapes he stared for an instant into the darkened body of the church, then returned for the candle and his chair.

  David stabbed Larry over and over again, piercing his stomach, chest, arms, thighs, before dispatching him with one final thrust to the neck as his body collapsed to the floor. His Grandfather marched before him, a grey haired old man in a black shirt and shiny leather boots, his raised right arm outstretched in a salute. There were unfurled banners and the serried ranks of his fellow fascists were singing a marching song, the words indistinct, the melody dissonant but everyone was happy. They were cheering and clapping. David swore his Grandfather winked at him as he strode past. He hesitated then ran after him, slipping his hand into his. Other children were doing the same, joining the parade. The sun was shining.

  Standing beneath an old age-blackened oak beam that ran the width of the nave, and from which traditionally every Easter was hung a wooden sculpture of the crucified Jesus on a cross, Tony carefully positioned his chair. The seat was covered in an ancient cane latticework and he worried that it would not support his weight. He’d sat on it for years at his desk and it had creaked and strained deliciously under his bulk, but he always used a red, purple and black floral patchwork cushion made by one of his parishioners, to spread the load. The cushion now lay discarded on the floor of the vestry. He was obsessed with this problem for a moment before abruptly deciding it was too late to go back for the cushion or another more robust chair.

  Carefully grasping one end of the rope he uncoiled about half its length, looping it casually over his left forearm. He then climbed rather unsteadily onto the chair, which shifted position but held his weight. With a calm sense of deliberation, he looked up and began slowly to rotate the end of the rope, letting a length of it gradually slip through his hand as he did so. Judging everything to be as it should be he let go of the rope and it snaked upwards into the darkness. To his surprise it passed first time over the beam and slithered back down towards him. Perfect. In his eagerness to grab the running end he almost unbalanced and wobbled precariously on the chair.

  “Bugger me,” he gasped, “that was close.”

  A school playground far away and Tony and his best friends, Leonard and Frank, were tying knots in girls skipping ropes in the stinking boys’ urinals, safe in a sanctuary where nobody would dare come looking for them. Reef knots, slip-knots and Frank’s speciality, a sheepshank, Leonard pointed out that it sounded rude and everyone laughed. Tony’s party-piece was a hangman’s halter, which as he said “you never know when such a knot might come in handy.” They had pulled a face at that one, then the bell had rung and they draped the noose over the water cistern above the leaking brass pipes and stained porcelain and run giggling back into Miss Govern’s class. They were never caught, no one ever told on them.

  The rope moved effortlessly through his hands, the memories were so vivid it could have been yesterday, a tear ran down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily and tested the knot. It was close to perfect, tight and compact, and the rope ran smoothly. He let it hang.

  Measuring by eye he adjusted the length of the rope and then tied the bitter end tightly to a pew. Breathing heavily he stared at the noose in the flickering candlelight. He felt nothing but the thumping of his heart.

  “Time to go. Fuck you, Anthony.”

  He folded his jacket and placed it on the ground, blew out the candle and in the pitch dark climbed on to the chair. Standing on the tips of his toes he placed the noose round his neck, carefully positioned the knot behind his left ear and tightened. Static everywhere, he wanted to hear, but there was nothing, only static, the hiss, the crashing of waves. He kick
ed the chair away. There was intense pain, a burning around his neck, building pressure behind his eyes, his tongue was swelling and the airway in his throat was crushed. He was unable to breathe.

  “Oh God.”

  He reached up above his head with both hands, grabbed the rope and pulled with all his strength. Relief. He thought he saw a light, the faint flicker of an early dawn, heard a bird singing.

  He could hold on no longer.

  The drop.

  Black.