by Karen Botha
It actually sounds quite sensible, much as it begrudges me to say. “So, let’s get this clear. I could be on www.Iamsingle.co.uk and you could be on www.Iammostdefinatelymarried.com and, as long as neither of us specifically stated up front that you being married was a problem, then you’d match us up and let chemistry do its stuff?”
He colours.
Victory kicks in my chest.
“Well, in theory, yes.”
“Although, I guess your next statement is that it would be an unlikely match, as being married is something that would likely flag as being an issue?” Mo looks at me, scrunches his brow, but he knows better than to interrupt.
“And how do you check out the authenticity of your clients, Mister Meredith?”
His eyes check the door, no doubt looking for an escape route. “There are two levels of service.”
“There always are,” I mutter, staring at him.
He dips his eyes, “Yes...”
I wait for him to continue.
“The first level of service is unchecked. If the clients pay extra, we check their bills and some form of photo ID, and they get an accredited flag on their profile. This gives our customers some sense of security in knowing that the person they are with is who they claim.”
“Indeed. It’s never good to get in bed with someone who uses an alias.”
Mo coughs now. “We have a list of some of your clients here.” He hands him a piece of paper as he stands. “By the end of the day, we’d like to know who they've been communicating with over the last four months.”
Declan looks at the paper, stands and shakes Mo’s hand. “Of course. Assuming you send over the necessary warrant, we’ll do anything we can do to help.”
“You’ll get your warrant. We appreciate your support.” I stand but ignore his hand and make my way to the door.
Mo follows. “What was that about? I know he’s a smarmy git, but you were a bit fierce on him.”
“Mo, do you really want to know?”
He eyes me, suspicion creeping in, “What have you got yourself involved in now?”
“We should grab a beer for this one.”
Mitchell
Mickey’s flat is dirty, with beer cans scattered over every available surface and cigarette butts lingering in overflowing ashtrays, weeks after being stubbed out. The curtains that hang over his filthy windows are old sheets, hung over poles and not drawn in years. Mitchell shudders at the thought of the black mould clinging to the hidden frames and coughs. This one will have to be quick. At least his judgement was correct. The block of flats seems quiet, and his expectation that anyone he encounters would be too high or drunk to remember, was fair.
“So, do your friends at the group we just attended know you’re gay?” Mitchell’s opinion is that it would be pretty hard not to at least garner some indication of this, but he’s interested in Mickey’s response, nevertheless.
“They’ve never mentioned it and I haven’t flaunted my sexuality.”
“Did you not mention it because you’re a minority within a group which seeks out vulnerable minorities and you’re afraid?”
Mickey pauses, “Hey, you’re not going to start causing trouble are you, because if you are, you can leave. I thought this was more about copping off.”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t want them to know about me, and I want to go back and meet with them again. I’m just trying to get a feel for how the land lies out there. I don’t want to jump into hot water by saying the wrong thing.”
Mickey nods. “I see. That makes sense. I’ll give you the heads up about who to be careful around when we go next time, if you like. But no, I don’t think they’d take to me.” He sips his beer.
Mitchell agrees. If this pans out as he expects, Mickey will not be attending that group, or any other ever again. The thought of what he did to that poor dentist makes Mitchell want to retch.
“So, what’s the story with the dentist you guys kneecapped last week?” he asks.
“Ah, it was gross man. He was eyeing up a girl in the newsagents. It was me that spotted him whilst he was ahead of me in the queue.”
“What was he doing?”
“Leering over her whilst she served him. She was only about eighteen. It’s like a girl’s not allowed to have her tits out without being ogled.”
“Did you know him, is he a problem?”
“I know of him. He’s got a wife and family, and a respectable job as a dentist. Doesn’t mean he’s not sniffing around our white girls though.”
Mitchell isn’t sure that is always the case, but nods anyway. “So, what happened?”
“I went back and told the group about it. They arranged to have him taken care of.”
“By taken care of, you mean kneecapped like they were talking about in the bar earlier?” Mitchell smiles.
“Exactly, my friend.”
“Did anyone check him out first?”
“Nah, what’s the point? I’d seen all I needed to with my own eyes. Dirty bastard perving over our young women.”
“But, you didn’t go and beat him up yourself?”
“Nah, mate. No need for that. Got heavies for the heavy work.” He brushes his hands down his jeans.
‘Spineless piece of shit,’ Mitchell thinks as he scans around the room for something suitable. “Let me get you another drink.” Mitchell stands and heads towards the under counter fridge. He pulls the arm of his sleeve over his fingers as he opens the door, more to avoid the encrusted filth than to avoid leaving his fingerprints. They’ll be lucky to pull anything meaningful out of this shithole when they find him. “I need to take a tablet, my head is killing me.” He takes his man-bag and gets out two kinds of pills, takes one himself and slots the other into the open can of beer, chatting to allow time for it to dissolve in the froth.
“So, where are your family?”
“Ah, they’re around, but they don’t bother with me much.”
“Did they have a problem with you coming out?”
“Not so much. They weren’t really bothered about anything in life. They let me get on with things my own way.”
Ah, the latchkey kid gone wrong. If he’s learnt anything since he got back from Afghan and started on his new mission, it’s that loneliness has a key part to play in building communities of bullies. Or even worse, terrorists.
You don’t have to be an international slayer to be a terrorist. In Mitchell’s opinion, as soon as you use violence and or intimidation against innocent civilians, then you become a terrorist. That’s what sets him aside; the people he picks aren’t innocent.
“So, that’s how you got involved with this group then, looking for a family?”
Mickey stops and thinks. Mitchell waits whilst Mickey’s eyes roll to the top left before re-centering on him, “I’ve never thought about it like that, but I think you may be right. They were there when I didn’t have anyone else. Come to think of it, everyone in that group is a bit of an outsider in some way or another.”
“So, they come together in the spirit of mutual hate and wreak violence on undesirables?”
“Hey, you joined that group tonight man. What’s your story?”
“Here, take a swig.” Mitchell hands him the can of beer he’s been swirling around at his side whilst Mickey chats.
He glugs, doesn’t notice a thing. ‘His taste buds are probably shot,’ Mitchell scoffs as he saunters towards the hammer abandoned on an empty shelf.
“Sure, I joined, but like I say, I’m interested in people.” A pulse radiates from his temple, round to the back of his eyes, causing him to screw up his face and suck in through his teeth.
“You OK, man?”
“Sure, nothing a beer won’t solve. Just a headache.”
Mitchell wonders how this man might have turned out if the influences in his life had been stronger. If he’d been given proper purpose. If this group of evil misfits could be such a guiding force, it says a lot for the role of parents.
&n
bsp; He must strike fast. He wants Mickey awake for this. Mickey should understand what he put his victims through, it's only fair.
He makes sure his shoulders are relaxed as he collects the hammer from the side. “Have you been doing some DIY?”
“Not recently. I’m still getting around to filling the shelf.” He laughs.
‘Lazy mo-fo must have exerted himself putting the shelf up,’ Mitchell thinks, ‘couldn’t find the energy to put anything on it after all that hard work.’ Scum!
Mitchell is now standing next to him, parallel with Mickey’s legs which are stretched out on the sofa as his head lolls on the arm.
Before Mickey has realised what’s happening, Mitchell pulls the hammer above his head and sends the metal claw crashing into Mickey’s knees with all his might.
Mickey screeches, pain searing down into his ankles like a branding iron. The crack comes again, another intense burst as his legs crumble. His mind concedes to the burn, his sleepy brain unable to comprehend. Mitchell’s charming face is contorted, wild eyes flashing, spittle escaping the side of his pinched mouth as he connects another vicious blow.
There’s screaming in the background, it doesn’t sound like Mickey’s voice.
But it is.
“What?” Mickey manages to screech between floating in and out of conscious thoughts.
“This is how it feels to be plucked out of society randomly and brought to trial in one person’s court of justice. You’ve done this more times than I can ever repay you with. But this is your time to experience the torment you cause others.” Mitchell is seething the words, spitting them through his clenched jaw.
The burn blazing through Mickey’s legs is like scorching water. It’s not sharp like a knife wound, but it radiates, scalding his innards. He prepares for another wave as Mitchell’s hand raises above his head. Blood flies off the metal edge of the hammer, splattering over the wall behind Mitchell. He starts to laugh. “You’re pathetic, look at you.” His eyes bulge.
“Please, no.” Mickey grapples with Mitchell from his position splayed out on the sofa. As Mickey grabs the end of the hammer and hangs onto it, knowing his life depends on it, he watches a slow-motion image of his own blood smearing over his palm.
Mitchell forces the hammer free, gritting his teeth. The skinny, out-of-shape bully is no match for him. As he drags the hammer high again, another spray of blood spatters the wall. One more final smash and Mickey passes out.
Mitchell stands over him, adrenaline spent, his breath coming in spurts as he wipes blood from his eye, smearing it across the side of his face. He can't wait to leave this shithole.
Dashing into the bedroom and returning with a stained pillow, he holds it over Mickey’s motionless body until it spasms and turns into a corpse.
He strips the body and leaves it in the house.
Mitchell
He needs to get out of the area and quick. They’re probably looking for his barge now, so it's time to follow his loose outline of a Plan B.
He can formulate the rest whilst he’s travelling.
But, he’s resourceful.
Leaving all the belongings he has, other than what’s in his man-bag, he bows his head low and takes a convoluted train journey through the North of England, until he hits Glasgow.
He usually tries to keep hidden from cameras but, in a city like this, with CCTV on every post, it’s impossible. However, the pure volume of people surrounding him makes him feel more secure. He makes sure he travels around within crowds, blending in whilst all the time hiding his face under his cap. He hopes for the best. They won’t look for him here yet, anyway. If anything, they’ll have found his barge and they’ll be searching Yorkshire.
So, now, he needs a burner phone. He waits until about 4pm, when the streets change. Gone are the cosmopolitan visitors bringing the buildings alive with tourism and business negotiations. Out come the riff-raff from the days gone by. A simple cosmetic facelift of the streets doesn’t change the constitution of that city.
Sure enough, he’s able to buy what he needs with minimal effort and even fewer questions. He gets online without delay and logs into the website he’s been using.
‘I’ve found myself in your area with work. Fancy hooking up?’
SEND, COPY, PASTE, x 5
That’s how many options he has around this city. People he’s been keeping on the back burner, just in case. And now the time has come to thaw out some of those lukewarm candidates. That’s how life shifts sometimes, for no reason other than chance, they find themselves being bitten on the arse, landing right in the middle of some god-awful situation..
Rachel is the first to reply to his message. She was always over-keen. She’s thirty-seven, or so her profile says, a business woman in the city centre who seems to spend more time flirting online than producing any kind of work.
He hates that kind of defiance of the system. People happy to take home their enormous paychecks, without the decency to deliver the day’s work for which they’ve been employed.
Albeit, he doesn’t necessarily agree with their employers’ ethics either. Most wars wouldn’t start if it wasn’t for greed, whether that be for financial reward or power, and so he also abhors selfish individuals more worried about money than life. Without Afghan, he’d still have Will.
He manages to block it out most of the time, but today he’s got too much craziness going on. The calm of his barge is good for him, helps him focus only on what’s important. He heads out of the city, hiking along the river towards the hotels and conference centres on the outskirts, until he locates a park where his head can de-fog.
His phone dings, signalling a message on the website.
‘Where are you?’ Rachel asks, ‘I’m in town.’ He taps the screen a moment before giving her directions to the cafe in the park that is away from CCTV. Then he turns to enter that same café. He’s not thinking about Rachel any longer. His mind has wandered back to last night and the principles at stake. Maybe changing up his M.O. has messed with his head more than he thought.
“Hot chocolate, please, and a slice of that cake.” He points to the carrot cake. He’s suddenly ravenous, having not thought about eating in his urge to stay alive and on mission. A dog walks through the open door alone, heads over to the plastic container on the floor and takes a slurp of water before nudging Mitchell’s leg, asking for a pet.
He grins, kneels and snuggles into the cold head. ‘Why can’t people be like dogs?’ he thinks. Loyal and caring, they love unconditionally. Like the family in Afghanistan who risked their lives to save Will and him. They didn’t care about race or creed, just doing the right thing.
“Why is it so hard for people to do the right thing, boy?” he whispers into his new best friend’s ear.
“Here you go.” The cafe tender passes his order over the counter and asks for payment before Mitchell takes his new dog and his food to an empty table by some children’s toys scattered on the floor.
Now, the people in here are the types he’d like to see as the heart of society. Every man and his dog, quite literally, is in and out, conversing in the way communities used to chat. Guests, with or without dogs, pet any stray searching out a leftover morsel, all whilst they enjoy a warm drink and a bite to eat.
There’s laughter in that way that public places often try to replicate with the use of background radio noise. This place needs no such falseness. The people are happy, open and welcoming. If he could stay here for the rest of his life, then he would. It feels safe.
He relaxes back in his chair, sipping his steaming hot chocolate, squashing a melted marshmallow against the roof of his mouth before swilling it and a tablet down.
Will would like it here. The place is alive, but it’s not frenetic. Another dog rushes through, lead trailing behind her, covered in mud. No-one bats an eye. Even when the frantic owner, clearly not from these parts, dashes in behind, all needless apologies because her dog sensed what she could not.
“Sorry.”
She holds her hands up, scolds her Lab who is chasing a Jack Russell in circles around his table.
Mitchell grins, “Don’t be. It’s fine.” This is the first genuine smile which has crossed his lips in years. Well, since then, at least. He might hang around here. He’ll have to see how tonight pans out.
Rachel isn’t due until 6pm, when the cafe closes. However, for the first time in a long time, he’s content. He pulls his phone out to check the time. He has a text on his personal phone, ‘Call me.’ It’s 5.15pm, he has time, so he goes to dial, but then Rachel wanders in. Keen! She rushes over, plants a kiss on his cheek.
“Hi.” She blushes as he half rises, caught off guard. “I recognised you from your profile picture.”
“And, you look just as lovely as yours.” She looks nothing like her picture, he had no idea she’d arrived. Even if it was 6pm, and he’d been looking out for her, he would still have missed her. It’s shameful. Maybe she was thirty-seven when the picture was taken, ten years ago. These women are more bothered about getting laid than finding a partner, even though most of them testify to wanting to find ‘Mister Right’. How can you start off a relationship with an out-and-out lie?
‘Idiotic whore.’ He thinks. ‘Talk about setting yourself up for failure. Mind, at least this one is single. That makes a change.’
“Huh?” She’s chattering to him as she removes the bohemian scarf she had looped around her neck, waiting for his response.
“I asked how long you’re going to be up here?” She smiles, willing to allow the clear warning sign of him not engaging with her right from the off, to go unnoticed.
‘Desperate,’ he thinks.
“Ah, as long as it takes,” is what he replies, plastering over his face the charming smile he knows works every time. It gets him out of trouble every time. He chews his finger nail and wonders whether he could use that scarf tonight.
