Crime After Crime

by Crime After Crime (v5. 0) (mobi)

  Incidentally, on which birthday do you wake up knowing that now it’s time to wear a sweater on a Saturday night? I’d expect it if I was in my fifties. I’d rather not be around it in my thirties. Thirty-nine is still thirties.

  I know, I know, I begged for a seat at this table. I’m being too hard on them perhaps, but I am under a small measure of pressure right now. If we’d got to the after-dinner drinks this would be easier. Poor show, Gus, you flipped before the brandy was poured. I need a bloody brandy.

  No. They’re not bad folk. The common denominator in this room is merely a lack of imagination. Which is, I hate to admit, where Gus has one up. While they’ve been on the internet pricing decking, he’s been thinking pretty damn far outside the box. Bless him.

  Couples, who were holding tight to hands and forearms, are starting to ease back into their chairs. So far, not much is being said beyond the, “What’s he playing at?” vein. “Maybe he’s watching from a camera behind the mirror,” “Maybe there’s a microphone hidden in the hostess trolley.” You can tell which women are the daytime TV watchers. 70s sleuth to the rescue.

  We’re not about to make any sudden moves because on exiting the room, Gus left his dogs behind. During dinner they were two daft Staffies. Now they are bull terriers. Heavy-set, skulking thugs that finish what they start. Brushing about our feet we hear their wet, nasal breathing. At some point they could get restless. I am making friendly clicking sounds with my tongue when they pass, reaching my hand kind of near them, as if to pat. These overtures will put me at the bottom of their list.

  The smell of used dinner-plates and room temperature leftovers is too much. I’m out of my chair, knocking on the hatch. “Gus! I don’t know what you’re up to, but enough’s enough. Open up. Two single nougats and a ninety-nine.” No reply from the little double-doors. A murmur in the room about not upsetting him. Yeh, whatever. “Gus! Open up! If this is one of those murder-mystery dinner parties, you should have asked first. Games are shit, Gus. None of us wants to play because none of us wanted to be here anyway. We only came ’cause we felt sorry for you. Now we hate you. OPEN THE DOOOOR!”

  Nothing.

  As I sit back down (four dog eyes following me) footsteps clip across the kitchen and the hatch flies open. “Right, right, sorry for the delay everybody, I just had to, eh, get the room ready. Multi-socket adaptor fused but it’s sorted now, so we’re good to go… and no shouting. Did I hear someone shouting? OK, ahem… RIGHT! Hands up who likes me! Come on, show of hands, who likes Gus? Who is Gus’s friend?”

  There are more dirty looks directed at me than at him just now. He’s misjudged the level of terror. The delay in proceedings has taken us down from a seven to a four. So if he was expecting wholesale compliance, that’s not the mood of the room. Parent-teachers’ meeting is more the vibe.

  “Gus, I’d like an explanation of what exactly you think you’re doing,” says Head Parent. “You cannot hold us in a locked room.”

  “I need to use the bathroom,” says Nice Wife, with a hint of apology for the inconvenience. I’ll admit I’m slightly relieved he didn’t hear my outburst. I give it to him again, kind of. “Joke over, Gus. Very funny but it’s time to open the door.”

  “What about the game of poker you promised us?” says a v-neck.

  You’ll find in life that it’s not until a critical moment that you learn about the pointless waste of friendships of convenience. It comes over you in a tawdry wave of shame and regret and you can’t express the horrible realisation precisely because you don’t know the people you’re with well enough to communicate at that level. I’d rather be dealing with this alone right now, than be alone in the midst of this shower.

  And being all nicey-nice to Gus recently, because it was easier than telling him we wished he was Carol, has backfired in a big way. Firstly, it meant we came to his house tonight and secondly, we have no negotiating power. We didn’t like him enough to get to know him and now we don’t know how to appeal to his better nature; don’t know how to work him.

  I try reasoning with him, “Put your own hand up, Gus. Put it up your arse and then come through here and let us out.” I stand, with thoughts of approaching the hatch and strangling some sense into him. And then I sit down. There’s something unsettling in the way he is appraising us. Perhaps we do need to deal with this collectively.

  “I have a gun.” He holds up a pistol. “Amazing what you can buy on the internet. You should see what else I’ve got set up in the morning room. Anyway, this” – he waves it about – “is the reason you are going to put your hands up if you like me. Sheila, if you really need the bathroom, use the trifle bowl.” The chairman of our parent-teacher meeting requests clarification, “Do you want us to put our hands up now, or do we wait for Sheila to spend a penny?”

  “Now dammit! Put them up NOW!” When he shouts, the dogs pace and growl and hands fly up – all except mine. There’s a clammy sheen on Gus’s face, like he’s taken a little something to help him through with this malarkey. Not really Gus’s style, drugs. Maybe it was an extra thrown in with the gun deal. He’s got a look about him like he’s observing himself, trying to work out what he’s doing while he’s doing it. I sink a bit inside. If the person you are dealing with is under the influence, you’re lost. You can’t reason with an altered state. I’ve never understood people who argue for hours with a drunk.

  “Lying bastards,” he says. “Look at you all with your arms in the air. Please sir… I know fine well you can’t stand me. This was your chance to come clean. Ohhhh. At least Carol was always straight with me. She married me so she didn’t need to work. You people are so polite it’s cruel.” He points the gun through the serving hatch, holding it steady with both hands.

  “Not voting, Monty?”

  “Nope.”

  “Quite right. I like a man with the backbone to be honest. We could be friends, you and me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Of course we could. You tell it like it is, same as I do.”

  “You tell it like a floundering headmaster. You… are a twat.”

  Somebody whispers for me to shoosh and stop winding him up. I want to vomit at the way they’re scared of him.

  “Who else thinks I’m a twat?” Gus asks.

  The hands are faltering, coming half way down and going back up and creeping back down, stopping half way. Nice one, Gus! To lie, or not to lie, that is the excruciating question. Everyone’s looking to see where everyone else’s hands are.

  “Pathetic,” he spits. “You’re still at it. You don’t know whether to tell the truth or tell me what I want to hear. Inbred arrivistes. I’m going to enjoy the next bit very much.” The hatch closes. I conclude my fellow guests are facing imminent death.

  A crew-neck whispers, “What are we going to do? We have to get out! We have to jump him.”

  “What about the dogs?” asks Head Girl. Good point.

  “Have any of you ladies got Valium?” I ask. “This is not the time for modesty. We won’t think any less of you. If you have some, whip it out.”

  John opens his wallet to extract a sheet of pills. “Not the man I thought you were, Johnny boy. Never mind, give it here.”

  I press two pills, what the hell, three pills into a square of cheddar. I drop it under the table and when the first mutt picks it up I drop another other chunk for mutt two. He scoffs it.

  “OK. As long as Gus waits five minutes before he comes in, it should be safe to overpower him.”

  Five seconds are all we get. The key turns and Gus and gun appear. He is making a Barbara Woodhouse gesture with his hand: posture and vocals all stiff and ridiculous. What a tosser. But an excellent dog-trainer of a tosser, it has to be said. His alert command, “Danger, boys, danger,” has them growling and prowling. Any movement in the room not sanctioned by Gus and they’ll explode forward. Consequently, it’s no great feat for Gus to get a single file of acquiescent diners through the door. I am told to stay put. He leaves a dog behind to
make sure I comply.

  Fido is watching from a respectful distance. Because my body can’t move, my mind works overtime. Never again will I say ‘yes’ to an invitation I’d rather say ‘no’ to. I think about Helen. The way I’ve obsessed for days over how she ended the relationship, how she spoiled our happiness; it’s her doing, it was her, it was her. In this captive moment something tells me it was my doing. It was me.

  The dog slumps to the floor and I’m up out my seat. I check the windows but they’re locked. Placing a chair under the serving hatch, I step on it and feed myself through head first. I have to move the toaster and kettle along the counter to give my body somewhere to be while my feet catch up. Contorted between the work surface and the wall cupboards I nearly laugh but find I’m not in the mood. By rolling my body slightly my feet drop to the floor. I pull the hatch closed in case the dog wakes up. Gus’s planning has been remarkably accomplished thus far, so I’m not surprised when the back door, the kitchen window and the kitchen door are all locked. If there is a phone in here I can’t say, hand on heart, I’ll use it. Of course it’s sad, the snuffing out of innocent lives. But not as sad as the snuffing out of important lives. Or my life. Jesus, what is that? Is that a hairdryer? What the fuck damage can he inflict with a hairdryer? That sounds like Stewart screaming. What hair is Gus pointing that at?

  That is definitely a drill and that is definitely Gail begging him to stop. This is sick. I bang madly on the door. “Gus, stop! You’re crossing a line, Gus. What are you doing?! STOP!”

  I’d rather not hang about. I open the cupboards looking for something heavy enough to break the double glazing – a casserole pot, a fire extinguisher, a Scottie dog door-stop. I settle for a kitchen chair. I time my thwacks with his torture episodes. Why draw attention to myself if I can help it? The window is above the sink, keeping me too far away to get enough force behind the chair. Out of breath, I sit down. What the fuck am I doing? Knocking my pan in to escape is tantamount to telling Gus he’s the big guy, telling him he’s running the show when actually, he’s pitiful. Gus is the shit on my shoe. I will sit here with my dignity and party with the schmuck when he comes back.

  Gus would give anything not to need the respect of the others. It bothers him that he wants the acceptance of such unremarkable specimens. He hates himself for it and he hates them for it too, so they have to die. He won’t kill me though. He’s not ashamed of wanting my approval because it’s worth having. Anyone would want to be more like me. He’ll keep me alive to learn from me.

  The morning room noises are hard to take. The only thing I know off-by-heart is a hymn from school assembly. I sing about a green hill far away at the top of my voice.

  The oven clock says seventeen minutes have passed when the kitchen door opens. He doesn’t take me to the morning room. Keeps me where I am. He’s not all here, if you know what I mean. In some psychopathic frenzy that is probably making total sense to him. Turning on the cooker rings and plugging in the coffee grinder will be fitting with a logic I have no hope of penetrating. Gun in hand, he fiddles with the end of a roll of cellophane, which he manages to free, and wraps it round and round my torso, cling-filming me to the seat. Then he places a chair opposite me and sits wielding the gun with a maniacal grimace.

  I open with a casual ice-breaker, “Isn’t it so often the way? You take the time to make your whole house look nice, and then people spend all evening hanging around in the kitchen.”

  “Tell me you like my new Insignia.”

  “Gus…”

  “Ask me about it! Ask me about engine size.”

  “For Christ’s sake, it’s a Vauxhall.”

  “A coupé, though. Unbelievable traction. Sexy, isn’t it? Isn’t it!”

  “You have the dogs of a man who has no balls and the car of a man with no personality.”

  Maybe I’ll be in this chair for hours more or maybe it’ll be over in minutes. Either way I don’t seem to care. It’s not ‘life’ that is important, it’s quality of life; “So what if your house has been repossessed / wife has left you for a younger man / mother isn’t your real mother / business partner did a runner – so what? You’re alive, that’s what matters.” Fuck that philosophy. Who would want to be alive after any of that? Living with public humiliation isn’t living. A small, compromised existence isn’t worth having. If you’re doing things properly, you play to win. It’s a damage limitation exercise – ding ding, round two, play it, fight for it, score the point. The other guy only cares about himself and you should too. Concede and you’re lost. People who crumble and crumple – I can’t stand those people.

  “How’s your golf handicap these days, Monty? Still in the twenties?” he asks.

  “Gus, you’re stalling. Whatever you’re in here to do get on with it. If it’s a build-up in tension you’re trying to achieve, frankly, I’m bored. It’s been a long evening. Let’s move it along. If you really want to, we could do a preliminary half hour of forehead on the hotplate and fingers in the coffee-grinder and then you could kill me with a bullet. I mean, whatever you think is the best way to proceed. All I’m saying is, if it’s the satisfaction of me screaming and begging for mercy you’re after, it’s not going to happen. Just so you know. In case that makes a difference to your timetable. Will you stop staring at me! Jesus. It’s making me waffle.”

  He places the end of the gun right against my temple and, no word of a lie, I don’t flinch. I don’t expel a bead of sweat or tense a single muscle. I could be a drunk on a night bus. Seconds pass, maybe a minute.

  “Monty, goddamn,” Gus shouts, “you’re impossible! OK, hell, I give in. I’m not going to kill you. I haven’t killed anyone. They screamed on cue and then snuck away with their headlights off.” Gus’s face has reverted back to its own smarmy version of normal. So stunned by this complete change in atmosphere, I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Helen,” he answers. “She phoned me yesterday. She was upset. Said you’d gone on and on at her until she caved and agreed not to come. Well, let me tell you, that seat at my table is Helen’s. She is our dear friend. You are the overweening sod we have put up with because, for reasons known only to her, Helen liked you.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, all of us. We’ve tolerated you but I can’t say anyone was disappointed to hear about the break-up. Jubilant might better describe it.”

  I am so tired – a post-adrenaline crash. “What a song and dance, Gus. Can you get me out of this plastic? Why didn’t you just phone me and give me an earful? Tell me I wasn’t welcome?”

  “This was much more fun, don’t you think? A bit of a practical joke extraordinaire. Where’s the satisfaction in a phone call with Mr Supercilious Smart Alec?”

  Gus points a pair of scissors at my neck, places them astride the cellophane casing and cuts his way down. I despair that he cared that much about making his point, and thought his scheme was funny enough, to go to all that effort. All I can utter is, “I need to leave now.”

  He unlocks the kitchen and we walk down the hall. I feel no relief walking out the front door. I feel like a low-life: their protective love for Helen being healthier than anything I could ever offer. On the doorstep, I say, “Well, it’s good to know you all dislike me as much I do you.”

  Gus holds his car key up, asking, “Run you home?”

  “In that thing? Nah. I’d rather walk.”

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  Kate Tough’s first novel, When You Kill a Thing and It Doesn't Die, was awarded a Scottish Arts Council bursary and short-listed for the CPP women’s fiction prize. It´s being published in 2013. Kate was selected for the prestigious 26 Treasures exhibition at the National Museum of Scotland in 2011-12, and her poem is in the 26 Treasures collection, published by Unbound. Since gaining a Masters in Creative Writing, Kate has taught in professional and community settings. In 2009, she was writer-in-residence at the Wigtown Book Festival (a
festival she highly recommends). Kate is the host of Glasgow’s monthly showcase, Poetry@The Ivory.

  www.katetough.com

  Rat Trap

  Paula R C Readman

  If you are asking me if I believe in forgiveness, in my experience, those who beg for mercy, seldom deserve it.

  Last night was difficult for me. In the end, I turned over onto my back in bed, eager to find rest, when somewhere outside my room a door slammed and robbed me of my sleep once more. For some reason sleep eluded me. Under normal circumstances I sleep well, even better after the excitement of a kill. Although I always believe it’s the smell of the blood that helped me to sleep.

  But not tonight.

  For the first time in years, I haven’t slept well. Eventually, I had to get up and switch on the light.

  And here you are? Like some half-forgotten dream.

  Questions, bloody questions. If you are going to rob me of my sleep tonight, I might as well answer your questions. To start with, you really need to sort out the lighting in this place. It’s too dull.

  Oh, so you’re telling me the lighting is supposed to calm my nerves. Lady, the last thing you should worry about are my nerves. What’s puzzling me though is why you’re wandering about at this time of night, anyway. Can’t you sleep? Or maybe you’ve something to hide too!

  Questions more bloody questions.

  So what’s with wanting to know about my mother now?

  I might as well tell you, I suppose. Overall, she was a good woman, maybe a little bossy. Really, I don’t know about other people’s mothers. Where I lived separated me from the rest of the community… Now look here, others like you, might view my isolation as being wrong, but for me it made things easier. Mum was a qualified teacher, who opted to do my schooling at home, as the nearest schools were many miles away. Mum liked living alone, especially after Dad left, though, she liked to drive to the nearest church every Sunday.