I AM HERE TO KILL YOU

by Chris Westlake

  "Chaps?"

  "Yes. You know. Men..."

  "I know what chaps are. Which ones?"

  "The usual suspects. Geraint and Dave. Oh, and Ray."

  Rose's dull eyes light. "Katherine's husband. Interesting."

  "What is this all about?"

  Rose holds my gaze. "I think it is all to do with her, Bernard. The change in Apinya? Because of Sheena. The reason I'm not going to the group? Because of Sheena. And God knows what she's doing with the men in the pub..."

  Rose flinches at my laugh. I didn't mean it to be cruel. But this is madness. "Are you sure this isn't paranoia, Rose? We spoke about this before..."

  "You decided I was being paranoid..."

  "Yes. Quite. But the men in the pub had never even spoken to her. She caught their attention because she is - apparently - an attractive young lady. She was just in the pub for a drink. I'm not even sure Apinya has changed, or if she has, that it's not a positive change."

  Rose's forehead crinkles. She knows I have a point. Sometimes she believes what she wants to believe, like a conspiracy theorist adamant the world is flat, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

  "Can you just keep a cautious eye on Apinya, Bernard?"

  "She is my wife. It is my duty to do that regardless."

  Rose finishes her coffee. "Are you alright, Bernard?"

  Oh wow. Things have got really bad. She turns up unannounced at my beautiful house looking like a corpse, talking nonsensically, and she is worried about me. I'm surrounded by the latest gadgets, living a life of luxury, and yet she sees straight through all of this.

  "We should have kept in contact more, shouldn't we?" I ask.

  "Yes. We should have."

  "We make a right pair, don't we?"

  Her smile turns into a laugh. "Yes, we do."

  "So what are you going to do about this Sheena woman?"

  I'm taken aback by the coldness of her hand, by the tightness of her grip. "She knows things I haven't told anybody. Only you..."

  She takes in my shocked expression. I nod. "So I'll ask again. What are you going to do about this Sheena?"

  "I need to be braver than I've ever been, Bernard. The first thing I'm going to do is to go back. I want to speak to him. See what he knows."

  I keep my face straight. Try to hide my horror. "Okay," I say. "Promise me a few things?"

  "Yes."

  "You'll come round for coffee more regularly? You'll keep me informed? And you'll ask me for help if you need it?"

  Rose rises to her feet. "I promise, Bernard," she says.

  Sheena

  Opening the door, she is just as I expected her.

  Her unlined face suggests that she is probably in her early thirties and yet, oh dear, that beehive hairstyle and drab, lifeless navy cardigan belongs on a lady ten years older. I could quite easily imagine her in a black and white photograph on the mantelpiece. Thick lenses magnify the hazel, unblinking eyes. Papers threaten to drop from the folder balanced precariously in her left arm. Holding up her faded identification badge (oh, she has put on some weight) in her right hand, the flushed cheeks and the glistening sweat on her forehead tell me she is frazzled and overworked. Absolutely perfect, darling.

  "My name is Melanie Taylor. I hope you were expecting me today, Sheena?"

  My smile is warm enough to thaw her worst expectations. The poor woman must come into contact with all sorts of horrific people in her line of work. It comes with the territory, so it's difficult to feel sorry for her. God knows what she expected of me. I'm sure my pencilled name has stared at her from her diary for weeks. She has read about me, discussed me with senior colleagues. Of course, they told her to tread with caution. Isn't the world today so frightfully cautious? Maybe she thought I'd open the door with an axe in my hand, or a detached head under my arm?

  My open hand invites her into my home. "Of course," I say. "I've had your visit in my calendar since the letter arrived. Been quite nervous about it, if truth be told."

  She pokes her head around like a mole appearing from a hole before unloading on the sofa in the kitchen diner. Does she just have one of those faces, or is she looking for signs that something just isn't quite right? She stops looking around pretty quickly, though. There is nothing strange to find here. My house is meticulously clean and tidy - very minimalistic. It is the perfect example of how a normal, sane person should live. Of course, there is nothing accidental about that.

  "Cup of tea, Melanie? Maybe something stronger?"

  Melanie slaps the flat of both hands down against her thighs and releases a horsey laugh. Does relief drain from her body? Not only am I normal, but I'm fantastic.

  "Wish I could have something stronger," she says. "Really, after the day I've had so far! But it's more than my job's worth. I'd love a cup of tea, though. Milk one sugar. And thank you."

  The kettle boils and I open and close cupboards. From the kitchen, I comment that it can't be easy doing her job. Must come into contact with all sorts. I make it clear that I'm not one of them.

  "Oh it does have its moments, as you can imagine. But it can be wonderfully rewarding when you help somebody."

  Killers. Rapists. Paedophiles. And not forgetting their victims, of course. "I bet," I say, passing her the cup of tea and sitting down opposite her, close enough to touch her leg. I don't drink tea. It yellows your teeth. I join her now, though. Nobody likes to drink alone, do they? Taking a long slurp (and seemingly savouring it like a tug of a cigarette), Melanie tells me it hits the spot. She blows out air. The niceties are over. It is time to get down to business.

  "So, how are you settling in to the town, Sheena?"

  My face is overly enthusiastic. "Good. Really good. Much better than I ever expected."

  Melanie scribbles on her notepad in cumbersome, messy handwriting. "That's fantastic news," she says. "Just what I was hoping to hear."

  "It's not been easy, of course," I say.

  Her face distorts with sympathy. I must be doing good if she feels sorry for me. "Of course not," she says. "Breaking away and making a fresh start never is. Especially in these circumstances. But I do admire your bravery in doing so, Sheena. I wholeheartedly think it was the right thing to do. You needed to get away."

  "Become innocuous?"

  "Maybe." Her eyes narrow. She isn't sure about my choice of words. "So how are you getting on in the town? I imagine this is a massive culture shock from London. Have you made any friends yet?"

  Suddenly, I'm five-years-old and my mum is asking how I got on at school. I look to the ground. My mum is dead now. When I told her I'd made plenty of friends after that first day, she told me not to lie. Sent me to my room. I wasn't lying then, but I will lie now. I tell so many lies that sometimes I forget what is true.

  "I've joined a group," I say. "Nothing fancy. Just a group of women who meet up every Saturday morning and share our problems. We went out the other Saturday, nothing major, just a few drinks down by the river. I'm cautiously getting closer to a few of the women. I hope you understand that I need to make sure I can trust people. It is difficult for me to share things with them until I know they're on my side. There are two sides to every story. I can't be judged."

  My fingers twist the hem of my skirt. The fabric rolls a few inches higher. My sun-kissed thighs are smooth to the touch. Result. Just as I suspected, Melanie's eyes widen. They look high inside my skirt.

  "Absolutely," she says, blinking and pushing around papers. "Of course I understand. You've had a huge shock to the system, Sheena. You need security. You need to surround yourself with people you can trust. This group sounds like a fantastic step. Well done."

  I expand my smile to show her I appreciate her endorsement.

  "So do any men attend this group?" she asks.

  My pinched expression tells her that no, men do not attend the group.

  "And...have you met any men in the town?"

  She shifts her weight forward. She wants me to feel comfortable telling h
er everything. What she wants me to tell her is that I've left him behind, that I'm no longer in touch, that I've moved on. After all, if I were an alcoholic then she'd want to ensure I wasn't drinking. In her mind, he is my poison.

  "I've been trying not to," I tell her.

  "Oh."

  "Don't think I need them in my life right now."

  "Oh, I get that."

  "Don't you think they're the cause of all trouble and disruption?"

  "All trouble and disruption? Oh, you mean in your life? I guess you could say that with your individual situation. Yes..."

  "No. I mean the cause of all trouble and disruption. Its best I stay away. Don't you think?"

  Her heads arches to one side, like she is trying to read between the lines. "I guess that might be advisable in your circumstances."

  I don't persist. I can tell she wants to deflect what I'm saying. I take her cup and head to the kitchen, pushing out my arse as I walk. When I return, I can tell that she 's been hit by a thought, one that needs scratching. The softness of my face tells her to go ahead, that she needn't worry. She can ask me anything. I won't be offended.

  "I was just wondering," she says. "Do you think anybody in Pontbach knows who you are?"

  I don't miss a heartbeat. "No," I reply. "Nobody knows who I am. I plan to keep it that way."

  She continues writing, then closes her folder with a bang. She runs through some formalities, says it is great that I am doing well, tells me to look out for another appointment in the post.

  I escort Melanie to the front door. "Come around again any time you want," I say. "Even if it is just for a chat. Or something."

  As my eyes flicker down to her heavy bosom, my guest desperately scrambles inside her handbag for her car key.

  I close the front door. Jesus, I think. This is going to be even easier than I imagined.

  Tuesday 9th October 2018

  Katherine

  Sometimes I wonder about my epitaph, what the priest will say about me to the congregation at my funeral, what I'll be remembered for.

  She was content with her life.

  This is definitely the impression I give. Why wouldn't I be? I have a loving husband, a beautiful home, a son that has graduated and progressed his career in London. I don't have money worries or work demands. The cakes I bake are the talk of the town. I have my friends from the group. When I want to relax, I embroider and piece together jigsaws. You could say (with some right) that I'm a privileged, pampered, middle-class suburban housewife.

  And yet today (and many other days) the black clouds have fallen from the sky and engulfed my entire body. I'm too tired to sleep. I'm too tired to stay awake. I don't want to be here, but I don't want to be anywhere else, either. I feel trapped, but I have nowhere I want to escape to.

  Ray left for work early this morning, like he did yesterday and the day before. Ray is lucky. He is straightforward. He does not over-think. He does not contemplate the pointlessness of it all; he never sees himself as a hamster going round and round just to stay still. With my wet cheek sunk into the pillow, my half-opened eyes watched him pulling on the same grubby jeans as yesterday, watched him sniff his faded white tee-shirt to check it didn't smell too bad to pass for another day. The thought of pulling my own feet out of bed saddened me. The thought of staying in bed all day terrified me.

  And so, a few hours later, and with the rest of the day lying ahead, the spitting rain sticks to the living room window. The room is dark even with the curtains drawn and the lights on. All I can hear is the humming of the fridge, the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall and my racing, rebounding thoughts. I experience every passing second of my life. I can almost see it, like an upturned egg timer; my life - what is left of it - disappearing before my eyes.

  Why did I choose this life? Why did I let him choose this life for me?

  Picking up the remote control, I point it at the 60-inch plasma TV screen. Daytime TV? I throw the control onto the carpeted floor, like a hot coal threatening to scold my hand. I don't want silence, but I don't want noise. I wipe the underside of my eye, reminding me of Rose leading a meeting. Not only have I sucked out my tears, but my emotions, too. What about a quick lie down, to gather my thoughts? It is never quick though, is it? I imagine springing from my bed, revitalised and recharged, a squirrel with its tail upturned. Sheena would be like that. That never happens though, does it? I always wake like a cardboard box left out in the rain. Glancing at the clock that just never stops fucking ticking, I calculate the hours and minutes until Ray returns home. Jesus. That is just too many minutes, too many hours.

  I shoot up from the sofa. My coat moves from my hand to my back. The front door opens and then shuts. My trainer sinks into a puddle, saturating my sock. The drizzle wets my cheeks and leaves a ball of moisture on the tip of my nose. I blow it away. Glancing over my shoulder, I squint before swinging open the car door. That's a bit odd.

  The windscreen wiper squeaks. The heater doesn't clear the mist, but it does aggravate my sensitive skin. Green and yellow fields surround me on both sides. I've no idea where I'm heading, but that's the point. Wherever I'm heading, it isn't here.

  I glance in the mirror. That white van is still there, joining me down the winding, twisting roads. My neck juts forward, my eyes try to see through the haze. I'm compelled to peek back in the mirror. What is it I fear? The van has edged closer, despite the rain, despite the slippery road. A man is behind the wheel - of course - and the eyes are set too close together, the forehead hangs over the brows. Of course, I know serial killers don't always look like you'd expect them to. Turning the heater off and blowing out my own hot air, I dab at the windscreen with my sleeve. Ray is not here to tell me off, to inform me that it does more harm than good. I go to change gear, but my wet foot slips from the clutch to the brake. The car slows, nearly halts to a stop. I put the car in first. Slamming my foot on the accelerator, the engine revs, sounds like a hair dryer, like it is about to blow.

  I don't need to look in my mirror to know the van is right up against me, virtually kissing my bumper. He is deliberately trying to intimidate me, to suffocate me. I slam my foot on the brake. This time, the car halts to a stop. One. Two. Three. Strength seeps through my body. In my own time, I push the gearstick into first, press my foot against the accelerator.

  Blowing air from my plumped cheeks, it feels like I'm blowing away the tedium and monotony of everyday life. Fuck you. Fuck men. I'm bigger and stronger than any of you.

  My bravado shrinks the closer I get to the junction. An overgrown hedge lies in front of me. Where am I? How do I get home? Is this really liberating? What if I get lost? What if Ray's tea is late? Glancing in the mirror, at least the white van has gone.

  I try to ignore the dark shadow engulfing me from the right. Pretend it isn't there, like a red bill on the doorstep. It doesn't go away, of course. It merely grows bigger, more engulfing.

  The white van stops. It takes up the whole other side of the road. The driver peers down at me with swollen cheeks and hair in tufts. Thankfully, there is no trace of anger, just a glimmer of a smile. He lowers his window. His pointing finger indicates for me to do the same. The breeze is refreshing. He looks like he wants to say something. Maybe apologise for getting too close? Perhaps ask if I am okay, if I need anything?

  I watch in slow motion as the man pulls back his head and sucks in air through his teeth. I know what is coming. I watch it unfolding.

  The dirty green phlegm covers my face.

  Through my sleeve, I hear his laugh, hear the engine of his van. I'm glued to my seat, my body numb. And then, I almost visualise the red mist forming before my eyes. Gripping the gear stick, I thrust the car into gear and slam my foot down on the accelerator.

  The car stalls.

  Turning the key in the ignition, I start again. The car moves away, in the direction of the van. My breathing is thick and heavy and full of moisture. The window steams up. I cross the white line as I turn a corner, no idea
what is round the other side. I glance down at the pedometer. 60.70.80. The roads are narrow and curving. There he is. The white of the van appears in the distance. 90.100. The rear of the van grows bigger, wider. I get close enough to take in the dust, the grime, the moisture on the treads. The metal ladder on the roof rattles, looks like it may fling off as the van goes over bumps and divots in the road. I dig my teeth into my upper lip. Wiping with my forearm, I sneer at the trail of blood.

  My eyes widen as I spot something on the back of the van.

  A telephone number.

  “You fucking idiot.”

  Thrusting my hand inside the glove box, I dig and paw like I'm searching for a pound coin down the slim crack of the sofa to slot into the electricity meter. I pull out my phone. Glance down at the screen. Tap with my finger. My leg appears in the screen, then the steering wheel, all out of focus. Looking up, through the tiny gap of clear windscreen, I'm on the other side of the road, heading for the hedge. Slamming my foot on the brake, I tear at the steering wheel. Road. Hedge. Road. The car spins, then stops. Facing the other way.

  My first thought: thank fuck I'm alive. My second thought: turn the fucking car around.

  What would the old me do?

  I pick up speed at the same rate my hope of finding the van fades. It is nowhere to be seen. I try to remember the telephone number, then realise I didn't know it in the first place. I'm just putting random numbers together in any old order. I slam my fist down against the steering wheel. The horn blasts.

  And then, just as the car begins to slow, as I start taking control of my breathing, the white flashes in my eye line, a boat bobbing on choppy waters.

  “Got you.”

  Exhaling sharply, I realise I'm gaining ground, even though I haven't sped up. The van has slowed down. Reality hits me. I'm a mouse chasing a cat. What am I going to do if I catch him? Momentarily, I long him to speed up, to give me a way out, an excuse for not catching him.