The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  I’d noticed a change in all three men shortly after I warned them. A nervousness that hadn’t been present before invaded their lives. Spring flowers had burst through by then though, so perhaps it didn’t seem real. Maybe they showed the notes to each other and thought it was a joke.

  Goofy seemed the most unsettled so I decided he’d be first. If the police caught me after him, at least that devil would have suffered.

  Six long months passed before it snowed. My life changed in the meantime. I dated a few people who came in the shop but kept it light-hearted. I made friends with one of the older paper boys. He loved the movies, and we’d often go together. The more violent the film, the better. He liked gore, and I wanted ideas although I already knew how to kill.

  On a Friday night at closing time after winter finally arrived, I followed my three targets as they left the pub. Goofy’s drinking had noticeably worsened since the note. I hoped that was the reason, anyway. The other two staggered back with him to his house and burst into riotous laughter as he fell through the front gate. The gently falling snow gave the perfect cover. A white coat with a hood, a hat, and tightly wound scarf disguised me. A person scuffing through the powder dressed like that could be anyone of any age.

  The others faded from view through the flakes within a few moments of leaving. I removed the sharpened weapon from my pocket and waited until Goofy pulled himself up. He shuffled to his front door. The key scratched at his lock as I stood behind him. I’d seen many a stray shot from distance tear the spinal column and disable but not kill its target. With years of built-up rage, I plunged the screwdriver into his back. Once, twice, three, four times. A thrust for each of my family.

  He screamed, sharp and short. More a fox’s yelp than a human cry. Twisting to one side, he slumped against the door and scowled through teared vision. The flurries hid us from the road, so I revealed my face.

  ‘You? Why?’

  ‘You shot my parents.’

  ‘What?’ His words came out with a gurgle, and he spat blood down his chin. ‘You work at the newsagent’s.’

  ‘Yes, and you murdered my little sister.’

  His expression widened in an instant. Few forget shooting a child. He spluttered a reply, which tailed off to a wheeze. ‘I killed you, too.’

  ‘No, you shot me. There’s a difference.’

  I removed the Stanley knife from my coat and placed it on one side of his neck. Our eyes met for the final time.

  ‘I’m going to kill every one of you.’

  He had the same strange expression on his face that my father had. Clearly, if you live a life like theirs, being murdered isn’t such a surprise.

  I pushed his head down so the spray wouldn’t cover me and pulled the blade hard across his throat. I enjoyed a few seconds watching the blood pour out and darken the front of his jacket, and then I left him to die.

  8

  The Snow Killer

  I’ve drunk little alcohol over the years as it upsets my sleep but I’ve struggled with insomnia since I retired. Crosswords and word games don’t tire you like a full day at the office. However, if ever news called for a few sherries, it’s today’s diagnosis. There’s a nip in the air, which signals the approaching cold weather.

  I enjoy the walk to the local shops. It’s strange how when I had work to do, I rarely left the house. Now, I have so little company, a trip to the newsagent’s or supermarket, and perhaps some conversation, is most welcome. The checkout boys and girls work hard, but they often chat to me if the line is small. I try to time it so I get to the till when there’s no queue.

  I occupy myself by looking at the prices while I wait. It all seems so expensive nowadays. Imagine paying so much for a single apple. In my day, they virtually gave them away. Having said that, when my TV broke, I discovered I could get a new one for about the same price as a pair of good quality shoes. It’s a strange world I find myself in. It won’t sadden me to leave it.

  There isn’t a great deal for me to do before the end. I’ll make an appointment with the solicitor soon. My will is almost ready. I had an enjoyable week deciding which charities deserved my money. Turns out, I’m pretty rich. I had a pleasant time a few years back when I sold all of Uncle Ronnie’s heirlooms. I struggled to find somewhere to sell them, but eventually I found an auction house who had a look at my possessions.

  I worried there’d be a stolen property list somewhere and an item would flash up on it, leading to an investigation. Of course, there wasn’t, and I had the most exciting day at the auction. I prepared a story for if they arrested me on the spot, but I didn’t really care about being caught. At times, I yearned for people to hear my story. It’s been an ever-present aspect of my life for years but the itch is becoming intolerable these days. Maybe I could confess in my will and have a letter sent to the press.

  The best objects fetched ten thousand pounds each. That’s not a fortune, but Ronnie had been busy and there were plenty of them. Ironic that he should die having spent none of his ill-gotten gains, and I will too. At least this way, someone can put the money to good use. There’s no chance the bloody government is having it.

  The shops aren’t far. I breathe the air in and the world has sharp edges. I evade the meathead policeman who tries to run me over in his Noddy car. He seems a decent man who acknowledges his neighbours. His house used to be a convenience store. A strange place that sold almost everything except anything you might actually want. That’s probably why it closed. I can still make out the front door but there’s a huge established hedge around the property now which reminds me of the passing of time.

  I arrive safe and sound. Outside the off-licence, I spot the Chapman sisters. They are scum personified, in my humble opinion. I’ve known them since they were two grubby faced mixed-race kids struggling to get by on the rough housing estate their father dragged them up on.

  Not any more. The eldest is a tall, willowy creature now in her mid-twenties. She reminds me of the strange, beautiful creatures from that film Avatar. It’s probably the weird clothes she and her block-headed brute of a boyfriend wear. They make their legs look too long.

  She is the brains of the operation, he the muscle. I’ve seen them dealing drugs for years. That big detective lives five minutes’ walk away and can’t see what’s under his nose. The eldest Chapman is a supervising force. She sits in an enormous SUV and annoys everyone with her awful, loud music. Have the police given up? It’s one of the few things that still makes me cross. Drugs caused our family’s problems, too.

  The younger sister, little Chapman, wasn’t so lucky in the height department, but she is pure evil. The twisted devil got caught climbing out of houses all over the place, but never ended up in jail. She must be eighteen or nineteen now. She’s the one who scoots about on a ridiculous tiny BMX, organising younger kids to cycle and flit around like annoying bees delivering their illicit goods.

  I’ve seen her slap the kids’ faces and push them about. They always come back though. I suppose they have no choice. The Chapmans and Block-Head are the alphas. The smaller ones can’t survive out of the pride. Little Chapman spat on my shoe once. I’m sure she did it on purpose. It took a lot of willpower not to go home and get a weapon.

  Once I’m at the shop there’s a wide range of drinks and I ponder my choice. My landlady’s favourite tipple springs to my mind. The past really does want to be heard today. I select a bottle of the best sherry, Harveys, and find a reduced pack of four steak burgers while I prowl the aisles. They’re out of date after today, but I can freeze them individually, and they’ll keep for ages. I’ve got a piece of cheese that needs eating up too, and with a bag of Doritos I found on offer, I’ll be having a right party. While I stick around for the last person to be served, I ponder whether it would be nice to share these things with someone else.

  ‘Morning, it’s going to snow.’ I grin at the boy. He often has a pink streak through his hair, which isn’t quite my bag, but he smiles back.

  ‘Yo
u be careful out there. Don’t want to break a hip.’

  Cheeky sod, I think as he rings up the items. I could break more than his hip. There it is again: a real flash of rage. I haven’t experienced such violent thoughts so strongly and suddenly for many years. Where are they coming from?

  Checking out always seems to take ages with price-reduced products and I hear a colossal tut echoing over my left shoulder. Pink Mohican boy rings a bell, and another louder tut sounds behind me. I start to perspire underneath my collar despite the chill in the shop. I pour the change into my hand from my purse as the total will be just over twenty pounds, so I can give him the correct money.

  The manager arrives, presses some buttons, and the boy tells me the price. I stare at the coins, but I don’t seem to be able to engage my brain to select the right ones. Panicking, I hand over a bundle of notes and receive an exasperated glance in exchange. I’ve forgotten to bring a bag too, but it’s too late to ask for one now they charge for them.

  I step to the side and put my money away. The queue behind me is large. ‘Jesus,’ the first person in line states as she barges past me. It’s little Chapman.

  ‘You might have nothing better to do, fossil, but I do!’

  I frown at her. What an awful girl.

  Grabbing the burgers and sherry, I hurry from the shop. There’s a poorly maintained cobbled path, Baggswell Lane, between my street and the centre, and I’m forced to slow down. The melting snow has made the surface slippery and anyone, let alone a geriatric, could easily fall. Footsteps approach behind me, which I ignore.

  A hand grabs the bottle I’m carrying and spins me around. Of course, it’s her.

  ‘Don’t you ever shame me with a bad look like that, old timer.’

  She attempts to rip the bottle away from me, but my body is feeling strong today. When she can’t pull the sherry from my grip, the surprised expression on her face amuses me. Young people think they know everything. Suddenly, Little Chapman thumps my wrist hard with a closed fist. The bottle drops and smashes at my feet. She likes that. Finally, she shoves me in the shoulder, and I fall to the wet ground. It’s not weakness that made me an easy target. It’s shock that someone could be so brazen in broad daylight.

  ‘This is my manor. Don’t forget it.’

  She leaves with a lopsided grin. I clench my fists. A surly youth walks by but doesn’t look over, never mind help. It takes a minute to crawl to my feet on the sharp stones, and I start to shuffle back to my bungalow. I decide I am pleased that I can’t have that drink, because I’ll need a clear head for my plans. The Chapmans will soon discover that I don’t just get mad. I also get even.

  I limp back down the lane. The pain fades as I move, but my mind returns to the others I killed. They underestimated me, too.

  Back then, Goofy’s demise shocked nobody. The local press called it a gangland hit. Within a few days, the drama faded. Even with all the people that came in and out of the newsagent’s, I heard little talk of it. The ones affected most by it were Laurel and Hardy. I served them less than usual and nearly always together. Safety in numbers, I suppose. Despite their forced bravado, they became shadows of the past.

  The woman I lived with inherited a fat spaniel from a dying relative. She presented it to me with the words, ‘I’m too old for a dog.’ It pined for a week. I guess she missed her previous owner. But animals live in the present. The hound was called Angel, and when she realised that she’d still be fed and there were walks to enjoy, she settled in fine. I tried to give her a different name but she responded to nothing else. After ten years, only Angel worked. I marched her all over, but her stubborn excess weight puzzled me until I caught the landlady sharing her corned-beef sandwich.

  Once a week, late at night, I visited my family’s grave and left fresh flowers. In the summer, I took them from people’s gardens on the walk there. In the winter, I borrowed them from other plots. I continued to go every Sunday and, even when I could afford to buy my own, I still filled the vase in the same way. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I did it to remember Uncle Ronnie.

  On one of these walks, I spotted Laurel arriving at Orton Longueville church. I kept out of sight and noted that the grave he visited belonged to a lady who’d died recently aged fifty-nine. That made her about the right age to be his mother. Her plot lay in the left-hand corner because that area had the few remaining spaces. Ironically, the gravestones of my parents and sister stood nearby.

  When the snow next fell, I decided to act. Since the winter weather had returned, Laurel’s nervousness had increased. I hated him. His breath stunned you from the other side of the counter. He hawked up phlegm and spat it between his shoes, and I couldn’t think of a person the world would miss less. Even so, I didn’t relish the thought of killing again and wondered if the dog was making me soft. But if I reminded myself of Special, my resolve hardened.

  The following Sunday came. The weather forecasters failed again and a clear day arrived. The snow lay thinly on the ground and melted fast. I felt I had to strike. Leaving Angel at home, I fetched the .22 rifle from the van. I’d kept Ronnie’s weapons just in case I needed them. That morning, I wiped the gun and rounds of fingerprints, and found the thin leather gloves that would help keep my aim true and my fingers warm.

  Orton Longueville church can trace its history back to 1240 AD. It’s a small but pretty building. Tombs and memorials surround it. Most of the occupants residing in the cold earth died long ago. Over the years, their descendants perished, so there were few visitors, and likely none on a bitter Sunday morning. It’s sad those graves grow over but, in the end, we’re all forgotten. I never let my family’s final resting place fall to ruin.

  The rear of the churchyard backs onto a road that leads to a hotel. There was a hole in the fence in the far corner that’s still there today. A large rhododendron hides two missing panels. I discovered that when Angel escaped through it once, and I chased her. She thought it a game afterwards.

  That morning, I found a white gravestone to hide behind and waited. Sure enough, half an hour before the church service started, Laurel arrived.

  From fifty metres away, a bullet may not have pierced his thick coat, as .22 Rifles are not assault rifles. They are quieter and less deadly. With all the skill that Ronnie taught me, I plugged Laurel in the thigh, around about the spot where those men shot me. Then, with crinkling eyes, I put another one in there for good measure.

  I checked to see if the sound had alerted anyone and ran over. He made a lot of noise for a little man. Such terrible language as well. Luckily, there was nobody nearby to listen to his screams. I had a trapper hat on, which I removed. His howling stopped. Eyes widened and his mouth gulped with questions. Why was the newsagent’s assistant trying to kill him?

  He solved the conundrum faster than Goofy though and connected the dots. He tried to sneak his pistol into view, but I tutted and shot him in the chest. The velocity of a .22 round is such that after it punches through the outer layer of its target, the bullet often lacks the energy to come out of the rear. It ricochets around the body cavity instead, tearing through organs and blood vessels. Laurel didn’t have long. He knew that, but still wanted to blame someone else. His desperate claims rang false.

  ‘It was Big Eddie’s idea. I didn’t want to kill that family, and definitely not the kids. Goof fired at them. Get me an ambulance.’

  It’s funny that I was almost right to call his friend Goofy, although, considering his teeth, maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence. I pointed the gun at him and spoke the last words he would hear.

  ‘You failed. Unfortunately for you, I survived. I’m going to your house now to wipe out your family and your Labrador.’

  He blinked with pain and snarled a reply. ‘You’ll die like this, too.’

  From observing him pet his dog, I could tell he clearly loved it more than his wife. I lied, because I shot neither, but I wanted him entering Hell believing that. I rammed the rifle into his neck and blasted him in the throat.
The blood pooled beneath him. I had no qualms about desecrating holy ground. If there was a God, he watched as they murdered my family. I didn’t need friends like Him.

  9

  The Snow Killer

  Little Chapman’s assault is front and centre in my mind when I get back to my house. I drag out the toolbox from under the stairs and empty it out in front of me. Looking through the implements, I smile at each one as my youth returns. Vehicles weren’t so reliable then. A bulky wrench with old imperial measurements on it reminds me of fixing a flat tyre with Ronnie on a rare day out to the coast. A thick, flat-head screwdriver triggers the memory of when I loosened a screw and received a mouth full of oil after breaking down on the way back. For a few seconds, I taste the bitter-sweet liquid again. Yet, I struggle to recall what I did last week. What did I eat yesterday? Did I have anything?

  That tool had another purpose. I grab it and feel its heft. Its weight is reassuring but perhaps it’s too heavy for me to use now. Although I recall thinking at the time that a human body wasn’t designed to resist sharp, pointed objects. Another smaller Phillips screwdriver catches my eye. Its shank is still long but thin. The tip is keen. I place it to one side next to a file. That will do. I’ll sharpen it later.

  There’s a newish Stanley knife, which I place next to it. Finally, wrapped in newspaper from the 1970s, is the hammer. I open it out with care. It seems bulkier now. Well, we all weaken as we age. To kill with something like that needs technique and strength: a big swing and follow-through. I drop it back in the box.

  The paper crumples and dissolves in my hand, but parts are readable. There are footballers with long hair and tight shorts. One proudly sports a moustache much the same as Burt Reynolds had. My eyes flick to a picture of me on the wall taken around that time. Ronnie had stolen a camera, and we fired off a few shots. I got them developed after he died. We’d taken a selfie. I bet the kids think they invented them. Only our mouths smile, and I can’t recall if I was ever happy.