by Haywood, RR
‘It’s not pleasant,’ I say with the understatement of the century, ‘it leaves a permanent mark that never goes away. It eats you up day and night. It infects every second of every minute of your existence. You brought me in to do something so let me do it. I’m going.’
This time I do switch the phone off after hanging up. I can understand the urge she feels to give personal retribution and I can only assume she was one of John Williams’ first victims, given her age.
John Williams will be fifty by now, no…I count the years and realise he’s now fifty two. Elizabeth can’t be older than thirty one, thirty two at most so yeah, he would have been early twenties and well into his stride as an evil bastard.
This is fucked up. The whole of it is a dirty, seedy thing tinged with filth and disgust but I’m already halfway to hell so another few steps in that direction doesn't matter a row of beans.
Six
My jeans are okay but my t shirt stinks. I need deodorant and a new top to wear. Once dried and dressed I head out into the warm evening twilight air and head towards the main city centre. A pleasant stroll at any other time and it’s only a few minutes until I’m into the old part with big buildings and wide roads. Cyclists are everywhere but so different to the ones in England. Here they all use the same old fashioned bikes with not a mountain, racer or hybrid in sight. Bells are fixed to every handlebar and not one person wears a cycle helmet or that fucking awful bright yellow shit. The area is flat and wide with lanes marked on the roads and pavements for the cyclists to enjoy.
Tourists everywhere, Japanese, loud Americans, Europeans and everyone in between. Groups and couples stroll slowly, school children being ushered by stressed teachers doing constant head counts. I pass the train station and follow the general flow. Just an ordinary man out for an evening stroll.
At the back of the train station I see the old city complete with cobblestoned roads and a wide square. At first I assume it must be Markt Square but it looks nothing like the one from the movie and there’s only a couple of cafés. Again I follow the main pedestrian movement as they head down a wide road bordered by high buildings with boutique stores illuminated by soft orange lights that only serve to accentuate the ambience.
I find a chemist and buy a small can of spray deodorant, a toothbrush and paste, a travel towel and some other essentials. All around me are people carrying day bags or those awful American things strapped to the waist. I need to blend in so using the Euros I was furnished with I purchase a small rucksack and fill it with my newly purchased toiletries. Next I find a clothes store and buy a baseball cap and a couple of plain but different coloured t shirts.
Back in the street I’m everyman. A casual tourist strolling down the road with my backpack as I stare with interest at the sights. I even find a café and buy a take away coffee to carry along with a complimentary map of the city centre showing all the museums, canals and places of interest. Map and coffee in hand, it takes me back to the old days of absorbing the area and matching your own appearance to it. But appearance is only part of the strategy. If I walk fast, with intent, with focus, then I become more noticeable. This is a tourist hotspot during dusk on a lovely summer evening. There is a gentle motion to the crowd that moves and snakes. I match that speed and do as they do. Stopping to smile at the horse drawn carriages. Staring at the brightly coloured jewellery in the shop windows. Sipping my coffee I create a whole new persona and one that doesn't warrant a second glance. That’s the test. Seeing if anyone double takes or holds their gaze for longer than expected. What I’m thankful for is this is Europe and nearly every other fucker has a beard too. Not as good as mine I might add. But then that’s being narcissistic.
The wide road feeds into the central square. Markt Square. The famous square where Colin Farrell and Brendon Gleeson mucked about drinking coffee. Colin Farrell isn’t that attractive anyway, it’s all in the accent and the way he looks so vulnerable.
Markt Square isn’t quite what I was expecting. I don’t know what I was expecting but this seems, I don’t know, a bit dull and lifeless. It’s a normal square with a big monument thing in the middle with some pretty buildings round the edges. The tower, the one Mr Gleeson threw himself from, isn’t that grand or impressive either but there is a queue stretching out the door for people wanting to climb up.
The cafés all have awnings of the same shade of deep green. White shirted waiters loiter at the openings, grinning and beckoning passers-by to come in and take a seat. Bright lights glow into the darkness and the square is full of noise, subtle and low. People talking, laughing, voices calling out. Horses clopping along the cobblestones and cyclists ringing their bells.
I start at the corner of the street I came in from and head over to the café. I can afford one slow walk round to start with then I’ll have to wait a while before doing it again. Twice in a row in a short space of time could draw comments from the waiters.
Phillipe De Smet. A middle aged businessman. That’s all I know and all I need to know. I don’t care if he has a family, wife, children or if he donates money to saving the fucking elephants. Phillipe De Smet. The image of his face and the manner of his movements is locked in my mind. Average height, greying brown hair kept short and neat. Paunchy but not obese.
I smile at the waiter and study the menu for a minute, then with a look of affability on my face I let my gaze drift over the chairs and tables and the people at them. Couples, families, groups but no De Smet. I stroll on nice and slow to the next one, thankful the crowd is thick and busy. Same again and a slow read of the menu while moving my lips as though reading it to myself. I glance inside and see a single man seated with his back to me. Smiling at the waiter I head inside and stroll casually towards the entrance. Not him. I look around as though expecting to find someone, check my watch and head back outside with a roll of my eyes at the waiter. He says something in French which is good as he doesn't instantly think of me as being English.
And so it is repeated. Café to café. Menu to menu. A good look inside and round the four squares I go. Of course he might not be here tonight. He might have a poker game on, or be watching a match somewhere, maybe going to church or terrorising and ruining the life of some poor child.
Then as easy as that, there he is, except he is not alone. It’s him alright. The same man from the footage and I have to bite down the urge to walk in and stab him in the face with the fork he’s using to shovel food into his gob. But I don’t think his table guests would be very grateful for that. Five of them. De Smet and four others. Three men and one woman. All roughly of the same age and all wearing average business clothes. Co-workers of some kind.
I head inside and after being pounced on by a very eager waiter I take a seat a few tables away from his, positioning myself so I can see him without having to turn or twist. I order coffee and some kind of pasta thing with chicken. The waiter nods, grins, smiles and treats me as though I’m the best person in the world, which is very nice of him.
An ashtray on the table indicates I can smoke. I roll one up and light it as the waiter delivers the coffee. Then I sit back and watch the paedophile while he makes office small talk.
It strikes me what their reaction would be if they knew what I knew. If somehow I could show them that footage. They wouldn’t hesitate to join me in tearing him limb from limb, but they don’t. They think he’s the same as them. An ordinary man caught up in the gossip and doldrums of everyday life.
My food arrives and despite not feeling the slightest big hungry I force myself to eat it for the sake of appearance. I go slow, not wanting to finish too soon. The table of office workers are ahead of me, finishing their food with satisfied smiles. Waiters attend to clear the table and a joke is shared amongst them. Polite laughter and comments given that elicit more laughter. I eat my food which drops down into my acid filled stomach to churn over with the memory of watching that naked piece of shit torture a child. The sound of his laughter is the same from the footage. The way he grin
s and nods. His manner, movements and motion are all the same.
I have to force myself not to stare. I’m a casual tourist studying my map spread open to the side of my plate. I sip my coffee while working out which of the many wonderful sights to go and see next.
They have coffee too. Delivered in tall glasses topped with thick cream. They chat and drink coffee. I finish my food. They carry on chatting so I order another coffee. I light a cigarette and study my map. They keep chatting but slowly those tall glasses become empty and I feel an increase of aggression at the thought they might order more.
They don’t. The subtle change of the group tell me they’re getting ready to go. The nods are more pronounced and some of the words are more emphatic. They pat pockets and open wallets as the bill arrives. Some discussions over splitting the bill as they work out the finances. De Smet is right there, smiling happily as he counts bank notes to place down in the middle. He leans in to listen to a comment the woman makes and laughs cheerily. They all stand up, gathering mobile phones and bunches of keys which they pocket.
I lean back and yawn with a slow stretch before folding my map. The waiter is there in an instant. I ask for the bill and set about making my own preparations to leave.
I let them go first, paying my bill slowly while fighting the urge to run after them but that’s where the discipline and training kicks in. Blend and be part of the crowd. Be a nobody with nowhere to go and no rush to get there. I amble out into the square and cast about until I spot the profile of the group heading towards one of the exit roads. Map in hand I stick with the crowd at a good distance back, allowing myself fleeting glimpses through the press of bodies.
One of the men breaks away with a round of waves. He heads off to the left towards a different road. The remaining group walk steadily at a pace slightly faster than the crowd, thereby marking them out as locals and not tourists. Their manner and motion speak of familiarity, not only with each other but with the area. They remain engrossed in conversation rather than taking an interest in their surroundings.
Another man heads off with a wave and within a few strides he’s inside another café being greeted by two women. De Smet and the woman move into the road as I study their body language. No contact between them, not a casual touch of the arm or a gentle hip bump to be seen, mind you she’s about thirty years too old for his tastes.
We’re moving back towards the first square I found at the back of the train station. They chat amiably as we cross roads and move into the middle of the square. Finally she nods, grins and heads off towards a sign and it takes me a few minutes to realise there’s a set of steps leading down to an underground car park. She’s heading for her car while De Smet keeps walking.
He speeds up now, striding to get home but forced to stop when he reaches the side of the road and waits for a gap in the passing traffic. He looks left and right then turns to glance behind. I steel myself from showing any reaction. This happens sometimes with almost a sixth sense that some people get when they’re being trailed. Unfortunately, due to the traffic he doesn't move until I’m right by his side and we’re forced to cross together.
I stare down at the map and make a show of looking about at nearby road signs, enough of a show for him to glance over. He nods in polite greeting and heads on while I slow down as though studying my route.
He gets ahead of me and I mark the side street he walks into and wait another precious few seconds before going after him. At the corner I glance about looking for a shadowy recess to use. De Smet is already further down and walking with the same steady tread as before. Finding a recessed doorway I dart in and slip my rucksack off. A quick change of t shirt to a different colour and I tug the baseball cap onto my head before stepping back out. The map is away now and the rucksack strapped with both straps rather than the one shoulder method I had before.
If he glances back now he’ll see a man wearing a baseball cap and a light coloured t shirt which is a completely different profile to the man he glanced at crossing the road from the square.
He does glance back too, which makes me think he’s suspicious of being followed. He lives here so why keep turning round? I can’t imagine this area is rife with street crime or robberies and besides we’re only a short distance away from the city centre.
Something triggers a memory but my brain is too scrambled to pin it down. The way he walks and moves, the way he turns to check the view. All so familiar.
He reaches the corner and turns left and while he’s out of sight I pull a pair of disposable latex gloves I got from the chemist and pull them on. Next the pair of long boot laces are made ready. Knotted thick at the ends to prevent the thin material being pulled through my grip.
Reaching the corner I keep my hands tucked behind my back as though walking in contemplation. As I look up I see him take a right into a darkened entrance which I keep my gaze fixed on while trying to work out what it is. For a minute I start thinking it must be the path to his house and only when I get closer do I realise it’s a footpath leading to a park. Fuck me this couldn’t be better. Why am I having good luck now? Normally my luck would mean we’d walk round the corner into the path of a fucking carnival with marching bands while the Belgian Special Forces form a protective guard round him.
Still, take the opportunities while you can. I speed up trying to tread carefully so as to avoid noise. The path winds left and right and is almost pitch black with only the moon giving just enough light to see.
A right hand bend that straightens out and I see him ahead, walking slowly while drawing a packet of smokes from his pocket. He lights one up and the flame from his lighter casts his face in a soft orange glow. The smell of his cigarette reaches me. The end glows red as he inhales. Next he pulls the phone from his pocket, slides a thumb over the screen and starts checking through messages or email or whatever the fuck people do with phones these days. I pause, making sure he’s not about to make a call. Moving softly again I keep to the side of the path and wrap one end of the hanging boot lace round my right hand. Step after step draws me closer and still he jabs and pokes at the illuminated screen. A soft chuckle escapes his mouth and he flicks ash to the side. I stop and wait. Listening for any other sounds. Voices. Phones. Dogs. Anything. He’s a few steps into the dark open expanse of the park. I’m still in the path so I don’t know what’s to the left or right of him. The only thing I can hear is him, chuckling, smoking and being alive. Which will be rectified very shortly.
A few steps to go and my make shift garrotte is made ready with the other end of the boot laces wrapped round my left hand. Gripped and ready I stay low and keep my eyes glued to the back of his head. The phone in his hand bleeps once, then twice. He thumbs the screen and presses it to his ear. A tinny voice speaks to him. He answers in a language I don’t understand. A conversation takes place while I remain frozen to the spot and hoping to fuck he doesn't do what every other twat having a phone conversation does and walk about with that zombie shuffle. He takes a step forward and so do I. Talking into the phone he turns slowly to the left and I match his movements, staying close behind and in the blind spot to his rear.
He gabbles on in a muted tone, sucking on the smoke and gesturing with his hand between puffs. God come on you fucking prick. Selfish fucking prick. My thighs are starting to burn from being held in a crouch. Get off the phone so I can strangle you for fuck’s sake.
The call ends abruptly. He lowers the phone, jabs at the screen and slides it back into his pocket with a heavy sigh. I charge forward but the fucker hears me coming and spins round at the last second.
De Smet staggers back in alarm, his face showing alarm, he goes to call out but morphs quickly into defensive mode. I slam the attack home, literally charging bodily into him. He yelps and tries to turn but my hands are already up pushing the length of the boot lace into his neck. I twist round trying to get behind him but he goes with me, both of us turning on the spot. I drive a knee into his side, straight into the kidneys. He ga
sps with pain but keeps turning. I step back quickly and heave on the lace with enough force to take him off his feet but the fucker was prepared for the move and comes with me, staggering to stay upright. His right hand goes for his waist with what I can only assume is a desperate reach for his phone.
This has to end quickly so I launch forward with a hard kick to the back of his legs. I keep kicking, slamming the base of my feet at the back of his knees while levering hard on the bootlace. His left hand is up, scrabbling to keep the material from tightening on his neck. Another heave and this one takes him off his feet. Those obsessive hours in the gym have made me stronger than I realise. He goes down heavily with a burst of air that escapes from his lungs. I tighten the garrotte and start heaving on the ends with all my might. He tries to draw breath but already his throat is constricting. That right hand scrabbles for the phone but in his panic and confusion he reaches behind to the back of his trousers. A snake and wriggle to get my feet onto his chest with his head is almost on my lap. I quickly circle my hands to make the adhoc noose tighter and wrench my upper body back with every ounce of strength I have. A gurgling gasp escapes his mouth as the first gunshot echoes through the park. A pistol in his right hand, the bastard had a pistol strapped to the back of his trousers. I heave harder, my arms straining from the exertion. The gun waggles and waves but already the lack of oxygen to his brain, the pain and the shock are causing him to become confused. He could point the gun over and take a few pot-shots, but he doesn't. He lets another one go into the air maybe hoping to draw attention or maybe just clutching the trigger in reflex of being choked to death.
Strangling someone isn’t like the movies. It takes a lot longer. The body reacts to any perceived threat and reacts accordingly. His body produces a surge of adrenalin to counter the danger. He scrabbles with fresh wild energy, bucking and twisting to the left and right. My heels slam down onto his chest as we roll around grunting and hissing. Sweat already pissing down my face, I lean back to try and avoid getting any on him. The pistol lets off another shot, then another, the huge retorts booming into the quiet of the night.
