by Paul Charles
I decided to go with Plan B.
The problem was, there was no Plan B. There hadn’t even been a Plan A. Then I started to think; if I did work for the government on secret work, what would I do?
Simple: I’d try to gain access by another route.
John Harrison’s flat was in a terraced street so I counted the houses down to the first break and hopped over the hedge. Then I nipped into the back garden and counted the number of gardens back down again until I reached Harrison’s. I knew it immediately; it was as overgrown as the front and I took some comfort in that, because the additional foliage offered me shelter should anyone, including my chief suspect, happen to look out of their back window.
All the houses were identical and lucky for me they had a single storey extension built out into the garden. Some people used this for a kitchen, some used it for a dining room and some kept them for their original purpose, which was a washroom and a coal shed. The ground floor flat had converted their coal shed into an extension for the kitchen, forming an L-shaped dining area.
I needed the owner of this house to: a) be in bed; and b) be considerate enough to leave me a dustbin in the garden. Which, to my great delight, they had. I climbed onto the dustbin and then up onto the single-storey roof. It creaked, like what sounded to my ears, like thunder as I tip-toed across it, to what I considered to be John Harrison’s back window.
I spent quite a few minutes trying to work out the best way to open it. James Bond would have a diamond glasscutter and he’d scratch a perfect semi-circle close to the latch on the frame, but not before sticking a rubber suction pad to the piece of glass he wished to remove. He’d then very gently tap the glass, tug the rubber and the glass would come effortlessly with it. He’d stick his hand through, open the latch, step into the room, dust himself down and proceed to save the heroine.
My initial idea was somewhat less ingenious than James Bond’s. I’d take off one of my shoes and break the glass with the heel of my size eight and a half. It would cause a bit of a racket, I know, but I’ve been in houses on numerous occasions where people hear things and they go, ‘What’s that?’ and everyone goes silent for a few seconds and when they hear no further disturbance, they all continue talking as though nothing had happened, perhaps even assuming the disturbance was from next door. So I knew that it was vitally important to remain totally motionless for that period, you know, just after the ‘What’s that?’
On second thought, perhaps better not to risk that approach and have John Harrison coming to investigating the disturbance immediately after the ‘What’s that?’ point.
I then started to think that if I’d a knife or something I could stick it between the gap – you know, where one window frame slides up or down past the other, which would allow me to flick the catch open with my knife. The problem being that I didn’t have a knife. Well, that wasn’t the only problem. It was very cold and Mary Skeffington was in danger. There had to be something I could do to gain access. And then I had another idea.
I placed my hands on the wooden cross of the window and tried to push it and guess what, the window slid up – freely and quietly! The catch had been open the whole time. Eat your heart out Sean and Sherlock.
I’d pushed the window up to its full height and instantly I wished I hadn’t. The smell that escaped into the fresh air, nearly, quite literally, knocked me off my feet and back down off the roof. The stench was totally unbearable, like an open cesspool. I had to sit down on the roof to catch my breath and some fresh air. I ventured back towards the open window again. Same thing happened. I took a handkerchief and placed it over my bloodied nose, which for some reason or other had mysteriously stopped bleeding, and tried again. This time I made it into the room.
I moved across the floor on my hands and knees and infrequently I’d drop my handkerchief hand to make a wide arc in front of me in the darkness, to ensure I didn’t bump into anything and give the game away. I heard some muffled sounds from the next room and I made my way gingerly towards the vertical stripe of white light, which signalled, I hoped, the bottom of the door.
I wasn’t quite able to hear what was going on, but I was sure I could hear someone giggling.
When I reached the stripe of light I dropped on to my stomach and put my ear to the door. The idea was to see what I could hear, but again the sour, sickly stench nearly got the better of me. I put the handkerchief back over my nose and I tried again to position my ear next to the crack where the light had been coming from.
I was now able to hear a little more clearly this cycle of sound.
First there was a click, like someone clicking his or her tongue, sounding a bit like tetc. Next there was a hissing sound and then another little chuckle.
I would have been happy to find one of Dylan’s keyholes to peek through, even down upon my knees. I didn’t want to burst through into the other room if there was a chance I would endanger Mary’s life. At the same time I realised that I needed to do something.
I raised myself up onto my knees and took the door handle in my free hand. I’d turn the handle as slowly as I possibly could; stopping every time there was even a suggestion of a noise. I tried to time my sounds to the cycle of sounds from within. As I did, I tried to figure out what the strange sounds were. I didn’t like it, John’s sinister laughter, not one little bit.
After what seemed like an age I’d worked up the courage to turn the door handle to its extreme. I waited for a few seconds and started to pull the door towards me. It came easily. Very slowly, I let the handle return to its regular position. The door was a couple of inches ajar now, but my view was obscured by what looked to be a high-back sofa. I eyed my way around the room as much as I could. There was a red glow of some sort rising from the other side of the sofa, lighting up the ceiling and shooting a few shadows around it.
‘This is such fun, isn’t it?’ John Harrison said.
I hugged the floor, then I realised he wasn’t talking to me.
I strained my neck as much as I could, but I couldn’t for the life of me see anyone else in the room. In my desperation to see something I accidentally dropped my handkerchief and I was sure I was going to pass out from the fumes clouding the room.
Those odd sounds were clearer now, still the tetc, then the hissing noise and then John’s manic wee laugh.
I heard John say, ‘I’ll get around to you, Mary. It’ll be your turn very shortly, I promise. I have to finish with Jean first – she’s very jealous, you know. She’s always been very jealous of you, you know. Even though it was me who left you. That was never enough for her, you know. Nag, nag, nag, every time we met, Mary this, Mary that. Sulk, sulk, sulk. If it wasn’t Mary this or that then it was bloody David this and bloody David that.’
Okay, so Mary and Jean were both in the room with him. I thanked God she was alive. That must be what she foul smell was, I’d think, he must have locked Jean in this room for the last three weeks and not let her out for anything. But then I’d managed to get in, hadn’t I?
Tetc, hiss, then the evil little laugh. On and on the sound circle continued.
‘You know,’ Harrison continued, after one of his laughs, ‘we get married until death do us part. That’s what I told Jean, anyway. I told her that when we had agreed to marry. We’d promised each other to marry and the only way to break it was by one of us dying. Now, I certainly wasn’t going to lose my life over Jean dumping me. So I was fair, Mary, I gave her the option; she could either marry me or die.’
He wasn’t going to kill anybody if I’d anything to do with it.
Tetc. Hiss. Laugh.
‘She spat in my face and said “Not if you were the last person on this Earth." What a stupid thing to say! If I were the last person on this Earth, she’d be jumping all over me to keep the wild animals away from her. She’d be desperate for me to feed her, to house her. Mary, why do you think man is put on this planet? We’re here to look after you. It’s that simple. Jean didn’t get that. She thought s
he could do without me and look what happened to her when she lost my protection?’ he continued, as I tried to make myself comfortable and avoid a cramp.
Okay, he’d done Jean some harm but he kept saying he wasn’t finished. What was he doing? Exactly how much time did I have left? What was I going to do? What would Bond or Holmes do, for heaven’s sake? Somebody help me… please.
I’d do what I always do in times of trouble. I was about to say in ‘such’ times of trouble there, but I’d never been in such a situation before. But in any other troublesome situation I always do the same thing, and that is to say the Lord’s Prayer. There, it’s out. I know it probably doesn’t do any good… I know, I know, but it’s the only thing I was able to think of. It was as if was I was inviting a little bit of good to come onto this Earth from Heaven.
‘From Heaven? Where exactly is Heaven, David?’ you ask.
Okay, okay, enough already – I told you I was desperate!
Tetc. Hiss. Laugh.
What was he doing in there?
Tetc. Hiss. Laugh.
‘It was simple after that really,’ he continued, ‘I was really shocked how simple it was, Mary. I mean, this big thing we call “life”, this miracle we call a “human being”, it’s so frail really. It doesn’t take much to topple it. Yeah, yeah, the scientists go on and on about how phenomenal the brain is, how miraculous the heart is, how incredible life is, but all it takes is a bit of metal to put an end to all that. You know what, Mary, talking about knives; I was surprised how easy it was to stick a knife into Jean.’
John stopped for another laugh, only this time it was a different sounding one, as though he was amused at himself.
‘From the look in Jean’s eyes I’d say she was also quite surprised at how easy the knife slipped into her. Funny that she should lose her virginity to a knife. And the skin, you know, it’s not really all that strong. You’d think it would be made to protect you against all eventualities. But it was a bit like it is when you stick a fork into a walnut. You don’t think you’re going to be able to do it, you think maybe, you know, because of the strength of the name, walnut, even steel would never pierce it. Then you push your fork into it and it starts to give way, and you can actually feel your fork sliding right into it. That’s exactly what it was like with Jean, Mary. I didn’t think the knife ever would go in, but it did – on and on and on, and then I tried again and again, and every single time her skin couldn’t resist the metal blade of my knife. I have to tell you, Mary, I’ve never been as turned on as I was when I was stabbing her. You should be flattered, because I’m turned on just thinking about how I’m going to wet my pants all over again when I do it to you.’
Tetc. Hiss. Laugh.
Part of my difficultly, frustration if you will, was that I still didn’t know if he had a knife to Mary’s throat. I would still have to be careful. But shit… I was clearly running out of time here. My heart got the better of my head and I stood up and burst into the room.
My element of surprise was lost immediately due to the sight and smell of the scene in front of me.
John Harrison was sitting on the sofa in front of the electric fire. He had Jean Simpson’s decomposed head resting on his lap. He was plucking hairs – the tetc sound – from her hideous-looking head and throwing them onto the bars of the fire, thereby creating the hissing sounds.
Tetc. Hiss.
But he would stop laughing when he saw me.
Jean Simpson was dressed in a wedding dress but the once white, micro-dress would be odiously soiled by all of her escaping body fluids. The smells were unbearable, yet John Harrison would appear to be unaffected by them.
As I walked closer to John and Jean, Mary eventually came into view; she was lying, bound and gagged, at John’s feet.
I tried to keep my eye on both John and Mary. I watched John in fear and I studied Mary for a sign of life.
I felt mutterings in my stomach. I remembered all the crisps and sandwiches I hadn’t enjoyed on the train journey back from Derby. Derby, and the walk around Matlock with Jean Kerr, would seem like years ago. I had to try not to think of the food in my stomach. But I could feel a cold sweat starting to cover my body from top to bottom. I started to gasp for air.
‘Ah Holmes! I didn’t think you’d be troubling me until the morning,’ John said, as he lifted the remains of Jean’s head from his lap.
He stood up, leaned over the fire to the mantelpiece and picked up a stainless steel knife. The blade was about a foot long.
‘Yes Holmes,’ he continued, as he rolled his eyes, ‘I’ve got another experiment you can help me with. I want to see if it’s as big a turn-on to kill a man as it is to kill a woman. I mean, I know I’m not gay or anything like that, but I have this feeling that taking a man’s life is probably going to be just as exciting. Too bad you’re not going to be around for me to discuss the results of my experiment with you.’
‘It’s too late, John, the police are outside,’ I’d lied. Well, I’d had to hadn’t I. I couldn’t believe how shaky my voice sounded.
‘Oh, we’re going for the pantomime version then, are we?’ he laughed, louder this time.
Mary Skeffington moaned through her gag.
She was alive!
Halleluiah! Halleluiah! (Never ever knock the Lord’s Prayer again, okay?)
John was edging towards me, knife tightly grasped in his right fist. From his grip, it was clear he was going to stab me from above. From his trousers it was clear that he was aroused.
My stomach started to heave; it cared not a hoot for either man or blade. The repugnant smells were not mixing well with the recurring taste of the sandwiches and crisps. John continued towards me. Now he was no more than a few paces away. The light of the electric fire element was glistening on the blade. I knew I should be embarking on some kind of campaign, but I felt like death warmed up. I couldn’t summon up any energy to combat either John or my stomach.
Thankfully my stomach gave first. It offered up its contents, all of them, and all over John Harrison’s face. For a man who had been spending so much time in such vile conditions recently, I was shocked at his reaction. He was repelled. He yelled and screamed and tried to get the sick from his head. My heaving had subsided so I took careful aim and landed one kick with all of my might, square in the middle of his goolies. It was an easy target, you know, his “well-packed lunchbox”, as Jean Kerr had unselfconsciously labelled it.
‘Confucius say never go to battle with your tent still up,’ I’d said, more out of relief than anything else.
He toppled to the floor in agony. I found it a little bewildering that this person who had just taken life and was about to take another would now be crying in pain on the floor like a baby. His face was blood red and he started to froth at the mouth. I’d walked over to him, literally, to make sure the wind was completely out of him and also to rescue Mary Skeffington.
By the time I’d managed to help her out into the street, the police had arrived. Apparently I wasn’t as quiet or as discreet as I thought when I was climbing over the neighbour’s roof, and they’d called the police.
Time for the end credits, I thought – when the hero and heroine walk off into the sunset. That’s really what I was expecting to happen but instead I found myself lying on a cold, hard surface. I was still lying on a cold, hard surface. John Harrison’s doorstep, in fact, exactly where he’d knocked me out by slamming his door full force into the middle of my face. While lying unconscious on his doorstep, I’d dreamed that entire nightmare but please believe me, at the time it was most certainly my reality.
But you know what bad nightmares are like; sometimes they’re worth having just to enjoy the relief, the bliss you experience when you regain consciousness and realise they’re not real.
But what was real was that both Jean Simpson and Mary Skeffington were still missing.
Chapter Thirty-Eight.
Did you believe that? Do you think I’ve been hiding the truth behind that ju
st-suppose story? It would make a lot of sense wouldn’t it? It would explain John’s behaviour.
You see, when you come across someone in your life and you see how they act and you think they are maybe a wee bit funny with their ways; as in drawing dirty pictures of their wife-to-be; as in never looking you in the eye; as in always saving, never spending; as in being a bit grubby; as in not wanting to have sex with their girlfriend; as in having eyebrows that are very nearly joined in the middle; as in not liking great music; as in having sex with their girlfriend’s girlfriend; as in always planning for the future and not ever living in the present; as in having no obvious friends. When you come across someone like that, well, at the time you just think they’re funny, not as in funny peculiar, but just as in funny, as in different, don’t you? Well, you just let it pass, don’t you? But afterwards, when you find out they’ve murdered someone, then you start to think that all their funny little idiosyncrasies were, in fact, very weird, and that you should have spotted them as clues to the fact that you were dealing with a potential murderer.
That night, as I struggled to my feet again on the doorstep outside John Harrison’s flat, imagining the worst and trying to figure out what to do next, but never quite managing to, I knew something was amiss. I felt it in my waters. I had an intuition. I’d a second sight. I was convinced of his evil deeds and intentions. I recalled all the clues he’d given us over the last several weeks, clues I’d not picked up on at the time. Clues I’d been too blind to notice and now, because I hadn’t being paying attention, John Harrison was up in his room with the decomposing body of Jean Simpson and, worse than that, he’d kidnapped Mary. If I didn’t really figure out a way to get into his smelly flat, he would definitely do her harm.
