by Jacqui Rose
I drove further into Liverpool. Into the housing estates you wouldn’t believe existed if you walked a few miles up the road to the city centre. The gleaming glass fronts of the shops in Liverpool One. The red bricks of the Albert Dock. Every year it seemed like there was a new glass-fronted building which reached up to the clouds, competing with the Radio City tower for its views. Turned into offices for drones to make more money for those who would never be seen in this city.
Toxteth. Liverpool 8. Home of the riots in’81. The butt of many a joke in the more affluent suburbs I’d grown up in. You didn’t want to end up there, that’s where everyone was on smack or crack, or whatever was the go-to drug of choice for the disenfranchised youth of that decade. It’d been a long time since I’d had to drive through the place, the years in between giving me pause. I wondered if I could still handle myself in a place like that.
You’d think someone driving a’10 plate Audi Q5 would look out of place. I’d thought I would anyway. Turns out the stories where only half right. The place still bore the scars of the eighties, true, but there were many signs of change. I turned off Park Road, going in search of more closely knitted areas. Signs of the council estates I’d been so warned about. Modern new-build houses competing for space amongst the older houses. Post-war, pre-war. No real signs of life.
The afternoon was drawing to a close. I began to think the papers had been lying to me all this time. The streets of the poorer areas weren’t littered with the destitute, the no-marks. They were dull, soulless. Or maybe I wasn’t looking properly.
I carried on further. Dusk turned into evening.
Then I spotted them.
Two of them. Three stripe tracksuit bottoms tucked into black socks, black trainers. Hooded tops. There was my archetypal scally. Uniformed up, one hand down the front of their trackies, as if they were constantly worried someone was going to come along and steal their dick.
I became aware of my hands sliding down the steering wheel as the sweat began. It was suddenly stifling in the car. I’d slowed down, right down, so I looked like I was cruising on Crown Street, looking for a prossy.
I watched as they strolled towards the play area, bereft of young kids and harassed parents now the evening was in full swing. Watched as they sat on a swing each and began sharing what I assumed was a spliff. Passing it between them, taking long drags, before exhaling slowly into the now darkened sky.
I slipped out of the car, parked in a street just around the corner which hadn’t caught up with the rest of the city and so was lacking any working streetlights. A glimmer of light from the main road a few hundred yards away provided a smattering of light so I could find my way into the playground.
The email had been brief, but to the point. Two no-mark scallies. I’d be doing the city a favour, it said. Only proviso was that it had to be at the same time, in the same place.
I shifted the hammer from my left hand to the right. My soft soled shoes made no sound as I crept through the small grassy area which the playground backed on to. The swings were in front of me, low-level sniggering coming from its current occupants.
It was almost as if it was made for me. That moment when everything comes together.
They were too engrossed in getting stoned and putting the world to rights to hear me come within six feet of them.
There’s a trick to fracturing someone’s skull with a blunt, heavy object. A certain sweet spot on the back of the head. Hit it hard enough and splinters of skull will float around in there, doing God knows what damage. Follow that up with a blow to the temple and it’s light’s out.
The sweet, sickly aroma of the weed clawed at my throat.
It was almost too easy. The drugs nullifying their reflexes was part of it. But, it was more than that. If someone had been walking past, they would have been impressed surely, at the speed of it, the grace.
One, blow to the back of the head of the lad to my right. Careful not to use the claw end of the hammer, in case it got stuck in his skull.
Not pausing.
Two, raising my arm in time to the second lad turning just as his mate fell forward off the swing, unconscious before he hit the floor. Catching him as he turned directly above his ear.
Three, still not pausing for breath. As they both lay on the ground, alternating between the two. Making sure the job was done.
Four, checking the area. Not a sound. Not a witness. Walking fast, but not obvious away. The hammer nestling back inside my jacket, blood and skull matter sticking to my jumper.
The whole thing took less than two minutes. Two gone. Hopefully forgotten.
I thought that might have been the end of it. Just the one messy job. As my hands rattled against the steering wheel, bloodied gloves lying in the passenger footwell, a lump the size of Speke airport at the back of my throat, I honestly thought it would be just that one.
That would be it.
But life doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t give two fucks what you want, what you need. People take, take, take. That’s all they do. I was at rock bottom and this was my only chance. The man at the end of the email didn’t care. For him it was a game.
But still. Hope. That’s all I had.
No luck. An email was waiting for me the next morning with details of my next job.
I replied saying I’d done enough. Please, understand. It’s already too much to bear.
Just a short reply came back
It’s over when I say it’s over. If you ever want your life back, then you better do as you’re told. I can end this in a fucking heartbeat.
***
16,080 minutes. How insignificant and short life can be, measured in terms of time. How much of our lives do we spend doing meaningless shit. Every now and again you read things in the paper … three years of your life sitting on a toilet, two months waiting on hold on the phone, twenty years asleep. Those crap little facts that mean nothing on the surface. Meaningless. Just time wasted. A life wasted.
The man standing in front of me, hitching breaths causing his t-shirt to rise exposing a dark, matted hairy stomach.
He’s nothing. At least four inches shorter than me, wearing a tatty old t-shirt full of holes from being worn so often. Faded denim jeans and no shoes. Just socks which, judging by the smell emanating from them, hadn’t been changed in a long time. Greying, thinning hair, sticking up at the crown where he’d slept funny on it. Just some dirty little scrote you probably wouldn’t look at twice in the street, and if you did, the second time would be out of pity.
A computer bleeped from the living room and his eyebrows raised. Like Pavlov’s dog. Geeky little prick.
Yet I can’t find any words to say. I’m struck dumb, unsure what to say to this man. This man who has taken so much of my soul.
Sure, I’ve gone over this moment so many times in my head. Rehearsed over and over as I drove the streets of Liverpool, guided by his unseen hand. Exactly what I’d say to him if I had the chance, just before I snapped his neck.
Yet now it seems pointless. Words would mean nothing to this man. Nothing.
***
The second job was more difficult.
Once he’d convinced me it was in my best interests to keep him happy and continue to do what he said, he’d laid out the next job.
He wanted panic.
He chose the area, but left me to work out the rest of the details.
I stood outside John Lewis in Liverpool One, thirty-six hours after I’d killed two young lads in a playground. The memory of the two bloodied faces, agonised looks frozen on their partially destroyed features, pulled at me. Almost made me sag in defeat.
Not an option.
I hefted the rucksack onto my shoulder, pulled my new black hooded top further over my features and looked for the best place. Inside the doorway would be too risky, cameras pointed at the entrance possibly identifying me. Like it mattered. I looked around for other cameras, knowing in a place like this it would be crawling with them. Best to just
put my head down and do what needed to be done. Sunlight crept up above the top level of shops, giving me the perfect cover for the sunglasses I was wearing.
It could have been worse I suppose. He could have asked for a real bomb. The Anarchist’s Cookbook wasn’t exactly on my Amazon wishlist … no, that wouldn’t have ended well. Not my forte.
Shoppers were gathering in numbers. An hour or so after opening and already the daytrippers were arriving. Drawn to the shopping centre, spend their well earned money on bits of shite they’d not think twice about chucking away in a year’s time.
I watched as a man in his late thirties drained the last of his cigarette, his North Face jacket open as the day turned warmer. His face scrunched up as what I assumed was his wife gave him an impatient look as he sighed and made a show of stubbing out his cigarette on top of a bin which was a few yards from the entrance to John Lewis.
I moved away from the side of the escalators I’d been perched against. Walked the few yards towards the bin, tendrils of smoke rapidly decreasing from the poorly discarded cigarette. I took one last look around and then in one swift movement, lifted the rucksack off my shoulder, placed it inside the open bin and walked off in the direction of Paradise Street.
Distance was key. A change in appearance at some point, so I couldn’t be tracked back to my car which was parked some way away. I knew they’d wind the tape back as it were, follow my path in order to track me.
The next step was the phone calls. I’d been provided with a list of numbers to call, things to say. He’d given me the details of a place where he’d left a pay-as-you-go mobile to use. It was now in the front pocket of my black cargo pants, waiting for me to begin.
First, I had to get away so they wouldn’t be able to piece things together.
I walked, constantly checking for CCTV cameras and their possible hiding places. The papers are forever talking about the thousands and thousands of cameras which monitor our every movement. I’d never given it a moment’s thought previously, believing I had nothing to hide and therefore nothing to fear.
Things were different now of course.
I turned left on to Park Lane, continued walking at pace until it turned into Jamaica Street. Various alleys ran off the street, perfect places to hide, change. I still wasn’t happy with the distance though. I carried on, passing the old breweries on the left, leaving the waterfront area and reaching the housing estate at the bottom of Grafton Street. The area changed, less chance of cameras, more chance of inquisitive curtain twitchers.
I found a place off to the side of a house, a small alleyway in relative darkness. I quickened my pace, diverted up into it and within seconds ditched the hoody and slipped off the cargo pants. The grey joggers underneath were clinging to my legs as the heat had begun to take effect, but my sweat hadn’t stained through them thankfully. I looked around and spotted a wheelie bin at the end of the alley. I ditched the discarded clothes inside, pushing past a ripe smelling thin black bin bag to bury them.
I called a taxi, using my own mobile, from the end of Upper Mann Street, leaning against a wall aiming for nonchalant as I waited.
An hour and a half after I’d placed the rucksack in the bin, I made the first phone call. I’d driven to the outskirts of the city after getting the taxi to drop me off near my car. Sitting in my car, imagining I could smell the blood from the hammer which had sat in my passenger footwell for mere minutes hours and hours before, I checked the slip of paper and dialled.
‘Newsdesk, Liverpool Echo.’
‘There are bombs placed inside Liverpool One.’ I said, affecting an accent which was half Irish, half Indian. I wasn’t prepared well enough to try anything special. ‘In thirty minutes it will detonate, taking many lives. One is in a blue rucksack, located directly outside the front entrance. There are five in total. This is not a joke. Praise be to Allah.’ I ended the call, half wondering where I’d got the Allah thing from, before immediately dialling the next number on the list.
Four calls in total. The next was Radio Merseyside, followed by St Anne Street Police Station and then 999 itself. The same message each time. Once I was done, I drove the car along the quiet street I was parked on, towards a grid a few yards ahead. Opened the car door as I reached it, and dropped the phone down it.
I drove, not knowing what else to do. I switched the radio on for Radio City, waiting for an announcement of some sort. Checked my phone every now and again for an email.
When I arrived home a couple of hours later, Sky News was running live updates from the scene. They obviously couldn’t get air traffic clearance for their usual helicopter shots, so had to make do with a reporter on the ground, who appeared to be only as close as Lime Street Train Station.
There’d been panic. Enough to make him happy I hoped. It took twenty-four hours for details to be released, but the discovery of the rucksack in the bin as I’d described had sent the police into overdrive. The evacuation of a shopping centre the size of Liverpool’s had probably been practised, but nothing prepares you for the real thing. People using the escalators had been trampled on, as those from the upper level had seen the police moving people away further up. As the few hundred shoppers attempted to leave, no thought was given to others. Multiple injuries. Someone in intensive care. Apologies already being issued as the hoax became more apparent.
I sunk further. Two would be enough. Surely.
I waited. Finally, that evening, my email pinged again. The third job. No promise of an end.
The old woman would be the hardest to live with.
***
16,080 minutes. Or 382,400 seconds. Ticking by seemingly endlessly as my world came to this moment. The clock on the kitchen wall ticking them off. Tick tock, tick tock. More beeping from the computer in the living room, his little network of scum wondering where he’d gotten to.
That was how we’d found the little bastard. Not that I’d had a lot to do with that part.
I knew now it was all a game to him. He liked action. Specifically, me causing pain on his behalf. A bomb scare in town, a couple of no-mark, no-future, scallies beaten to death near Toxteth … an old woman gassed …
Action. Moving me around a chess board marked with Liverpool landmarks and people, like a pawn. Making me do things he knew I had no choice but to do.
I found my voice. ‘Where is he?’
Warm, mid-summer autumn breeze entered through the open window, causing a few takeaway flyers to flutter to the floor from the worktop. I feel a bead of sweat form on my forehead. We’re standing only inches from each other. I could feel his breath on me, short and rapid. The rotting smell of it making me wrinkle my nose. I move closer and he tries to shrink back. There’s nowhere he can move to though.
‘Tell me.’ I say, my voice low, ‘I promise to make this easy on you.’
***
I guessed he could barely believe I’d carried out his first job. Murder. Plain and simple, those were the facts. No matter how I dressed it up to myself, I’d killed those two lads out of my own selfish needs. The second job, that was just about putting me in more danger I supposed. See if I’d be willing to plan and carry out something of that magnitude, no matter the fact that it was all a ruse.
The third job … there was no doubting his thinking behind that.
I could spend hours justifying the first job. Two scallies, who probably wouldn’t end up contributing anything worthwhile to society, who probably had done unconscionable things themselves … I was doing the world a favour.
Even I didn’t buy it. I was a killer. No matter the justification for it.
The second job. Well, no one really got badly hurt. Yeah, some people panicked and got banged up a bit, and there was that one woman still in hospital, but I was sure she’d be okay eventually. The story had already disappeared from the papers and TV. A few days and they were discussing something else. Just one of those hoaxes that happens every now and again. They’d release the tape of my calls at some point, but I wasn�
�t unduly worried. No knocks at the door in three days, so I’d begun to breathe a bit easier.
The email came on the fourth day following my Liverpool One jaunt.
I started shaking before I’d even finished the first paragraph. No, no, no. Not this. I couldn’t possibly justify it.
A defenceless old woman. That was how he described his required target. Not just a woman, not just old, defenceless as well. Just to ram the point home to me, exactly what I was being tasked with.
I deliberated for hours, although I knew what I’d do eventually. The only decision I needed to make was how. Choose someone I was already acquainted with, not family of course, but maybe a friend of my mother’s or nan’s.
No. It was going to be hard enough without knowing who she was. No, it had to be random.
That was how I ended up buying a day ticket on the 82 bus from town and travelling to and from Speke for a few hours. Occasionally, I’d spot a possible target and follow her off the bus. Kept my distance and shadowed them home. Twice I was thwarted by an unknown husband, or a unknown feeling of unease.
On the fourth trip, the bus now sweltering as the heatwave outside took full effect, my shirt sticking to the back of my seat, I spotted her. She was almost bent over, her shopping trolley providing support as she leaned forward off her chair as the bus slowly made its way out of town and towards Aigburth. She looked as if a strong wind would knock her over, but the large rings which adorned most of her fingers suggested there was something a little more about her than on the surface. A couple of sovereign’s, a large ruby coloured ring on her middle finger that if not costume, would be worth a fortune.
I followed her as she left the bus near Saint Mary’s Road in Garston. Turned left into a quiet street, terraced houses giving way to smaller bungalows as we walked a few feet apart, slowing every few seconds as she adjusted her handbag which kept slipping down her shoulder, before she gave up and placed it on top of her shopping trolley. I crossed the road as she reached her own small place, the gate creaking behind me as I crossed, and she went into the bungalow.
