by Morton Bain
The next few days go by in a blur of automatic actions, carried out while my mind is focused on my forthcoming Kill Day, which I’ve decided will be a Tuesday morning in two weeks’ time. I preach a sermon, visit a number of elderly parishioners, ferry my kids to and from school, and screw one of my casual lovers. The weather stays good, a little blowy, but bright and free of rain. We eat paella on Saturday night, a meal Lucy has really mastered. She makes it properly salty, necessitating several large glasses of white wine to quench my thirst. On Sunday afternoon I take my daughter of six, Chloe, to the local park. I watch her as she clambers over the climbing frame, paying particularly close attention to the way her limbs, hands and feet co-operate. The human body truly is remarkable, but how remarkable that one human body can cause another’s to become still through the act of murder. I have no desire to kill Chloe. I wouldn’t say that I love my children, but I tolerate them in the same way that cows tolerate birds that share the field they are grazing in.
On the walk back home from the park, the visual distortion I’d experienced earlier reappears. I keep swinging around to see if I can catch sight of something fluttering above my left shoulder, but of course I don’t succeed. Is this my personal devil trying to alight on my shoulder, in preparation for the forthcoming gorefest? I remember watching a ludicrous TV programme called ‘Dexter’, where the hero is an altruistic psychopath. Altruistic psychopaths just do not exist, and my inability to see past this largely spoiled my enjoyment of the programme. It did introduce one concept I’m finding myself resonating with, however, and that’s that of the ‘dark passenger’, conceived of as the psychopathic tendencies of Dexter embodied in a person that ‘rides’ with the killer in his car. Where the dark passenger is when Dexter isn’t in his car isn’t made clear, but I guess there’s something about the stillness a solo motorist experiences on a long night drive that might encourage the appearance of one’s shadow side. Is this blur I keep seeing my very own dark passenger?
Around about the time the blur first appeared I also noticed a tightness in my abdomen and difficulty breathing easily and rhythmically. It’s as if there’s a tension building up inside me, and I’ve got a strong suspicion that I know what’s going to relieve it. The other day just before my Sunday morning service this tension became so strong I had to help myself to some Communion wine in the church vestry. I felt a bit like a rock-star in his dressing room, dosing myself up before coming on stage. I think I overdid my medicinal gulp, because I felt quite giggly during the first half of the service. I was beaming and emanating uncustomary warmth, and could see from faces in the congregation that my flock simply thought I was filled with the love of Our Lord and Saviour. Fools.
There’s a person that has been on my mind quite a bit recently, and that is a man who is incarcerated because of me. He’s also someone who is due for release from prison soon, and I can’t help wondering if my murderous desires have been stirred by this knowledge. At university my best friend – if friend is a word that can ever be used to describe someone I’m in a relationship with – was a fellow student called Jake Forte. We were in the same hall of residence in our first year, on the same course – Economics – and shared an appetite for mayhem. When I say we shared an appetite for mayhem I don’t mean the hooligan variety. Psychological mayhem would maybe be a better description of what we got up to. We would choose a woman at random from our year, then subject her to the most cruel and unusual mental tortures. There was Jane Gonzalez, for example. Jake got to know her, bedded her, and then saw her regularly for about three weeks, during which time she fell for him. He then suddenly dropped her, claiming he’d been told something about her from an unnamed person that had totally changed his opinion of her. She was devastated, even going home for a week to try and get over Jake. On her return I moved in, taking advantage of her wounded pride and raw emotional state to quickly seduce her. I spent a month in a relationship with her, before suddenly declaring that I had come to the realisation that I was gay, and wanted to start seeing Jake romantically. A few days after I dropped this bombshell Jake paid her a late night visit, quickly leading her to the bedroom. A few minutes after they started making out, Jake stopped suddenly, and said the information he’d been given about her – which remained unspecified – was still bothering him, and that he wanted to see me straight away. With that he left her.
Soon after this, Jane started drinking heavily and taking lots of drugs. She flunked her first year and dropped out. Someone I bumped into about five years after graduating said that she had become a prostitute. I’ve often wished that I’d bump into her on one of my whore-visits, but it hasn’t happened yet. I sometimes wonder whether I’d have to pay her if it ever did. I think I’d either pay her nothing or twice the going rate.
Jake and I had several ‘Janes’ during our first two years at university. It got so bad – or good – that the Women’s Union organised a petition to get us kicked out. Of course, that had the opposite effect to the one intended; we weren’t kicked out, and the curiousity of several women who would otherwise have been unaware of our existence was piqued, with predictable consequences. We ended up dubbing our project ‘Girl Snooker’. Jane Gonzalez, our first victim, had red hair, and we likened her demise to ‘sinking red’ in a game of snooker. The challenge, then, was for us to move through the rest of the colours – yellow, green, brown, blue and pink – before culminating with black. A girl could be linked with one of the colours by virtue of her appearance (green eyes, for example) or name or circumstances (one of the girls we fucked over was a Sarah Brown).
Girl Snooker only ended when Jake met Charlotte Greening. You could say she well and truly snapped Jake’s cue. I knew from the moment I met Charlotte that with her arrival on the scene everything was going to change. She looked like Jake’s twin sister; both had small, button noses, cleft chins and deep-set eyes. When they were together a calm descended on them that they never seemed to achieve in anyone else’s company. From pretty much the moment they met they were finishing each other’s sentences and generally behaving as if they had known each other from birth.
Needless to say, I was not pleased by Charlotte’s arrival. Jake was my plaything as far as I was concerned, and the fact that his happiness increased immeasurably after meeting his soul mate was of no interest to me. After my preliminary tactics of talking Charlotte down and trying to distract him with other women failed, I resolved to take things to a new, more intense level. My plan was to convince my friend that Charlotte had been cheating on him. Knowing Jake as I did, I knew that he wouldn’t be capable of dealing with this. I began by one day asking Jake who Charlotte’s new friend was, then going on to describe a tall guy I had allegedly seen her with on a couple of occasions. Jake wasn’t alarmed by this question – though he couldn’t say who this fictitious person might have been – but this served to plant a seed. The crucial step in my plan followed about a week later. Knowing that Jake stayed over at Charlotte’s flat from Wednesday evening to Sunday morning, I broke into the latter’s home on the Wednesday morning by jimmying a living room window. I snuck up to Charlotte’s bedroom and deposited a condom full of semen in the woman’s bed.
As I walked away from the flat I considered the chances of success in my relationship-wrecking attempt. I realised there was a possibility that Charlotte would change her sheets prior to crawling into bed with Jake, but also knew that they would be getting home together quite late that evening, and probably wouldn’t bother. I knew that Charlotte was on the pill and didn’t use any other contraception with Jake. If Jake found the condom he would know that it hadn’t been used by him, and there would be absolutely no way Charlotte would be able to explain away the presence of the rubber in a manner that allowed her to retain her innocence. All said, it was a devilishly good plan, and the only shame was that I wasn’t going to be on hand to witness the fireworks if the johnny was found.
My plan worked. Oh, it worked. Thursday morning I got a phone call from Amber, Charlot
te’s flat mate. The former was hysterical as she tried to relate to me the events of the previous night. It took me a couple of minutes to calm her down sufficiently to be able to understand what she was saying, but eventually the tale emerged. Jake and Charlotte had returned to the flat just before midnight. They had been in the Student’s Union bar since about seven, and were both very drunk. They went straight to bed, and it seems Jake almost immediately found the condom. His reaction hadn’t been to storm out, vowing never to see Charlotte again. Instead he’d gone into the kitchen, picked up the biggest blade he could find, and stabbed his girlfriend to death. Amber and Charlotte’s flat was now a crime scene. Amber had gone home. Jake was in custody, having been charged with the murder of Charlotte.
This happened some nineteen years ago, and now Jake is very nearly a free man. I don’t know for a fact that he’s going to try anything stupid when he gets out, but it wouldn’t surprise me. It’s my own fault if he does. If I’d just kept my mouth shut he would just have hated Charlotte eternally, remaining convinced that she had been putting it about. My mistake was going to visit him in prison about three years after he was locked up, and letting my mouth run away with me. I’d been out the night before, and turned up at HMP Chelmsford hung-over. Jake and I had gotten into a stupid row over British foreign policy of all things, and in the heat of our argument I’d told him the truth about how the condom had ended up in Charlotte’s bed. Jake’s initial reaction had been to lunge at me, prison wardens having to intervene to keep us apart. That was the last time I’d seen Jake. About ten days after my prison visit I was interviewed by the police, Jake having passed on the information I had given him. I, of course, denied everything. I claimed I’d refused to lend him money, and that he was just making up these allegations as a way of getting back at me. With years having elapsed since the killing, and Jake’s assertion not changing the fact that he had killed Charlotte, that’s as far as the police’s involvement went. Jake hasn’t threatened me since, but I imagine he’s going to come out of prison a very angry man – an angry man who probably won’t feel he has much to lose.
The next day I go over to see my friend Joey LaMotta, the priest at St Joseph’s, which is about half a mile from my church. Joey is something of a curiousity, being an ex-Mafia street soldier from Atlantic City. His cover story is that he found God and decided to dedicate his life to the Church – a marvellous example of redemption, blah, blah, blah. He is ex-Mafia, and he is a bona fide priest, but his reasons for entering the service of God are not quite what they seem. He fled New Jersey after falling in love with a fellow wiseguy’s wife (crucially, before anything happened). On arriving in England – he had a cousin living here whom he initially stayed with – he considered his career options and quickly realised there were only two things he knew from his former life – the Church and crime. Having become disillusioned with the life of a gangster he decided to become a priest. Five years’ formation at a seminary in a Durham not only opened the way to ordination, but also meant that by the time he had completed his studies he was eligible to apply for permanent residency.
Recent developments that make Joey’s life even more bizarre are a resumption of his former Mafia ties. The wiseguy whose wife he fell for was killed some time back after being suspected of snitching, and Joey has recently reached out to his former boss, who has responded positively. Money motivates Mafiosi above all else, and if Joey can start a crew in England that will kick up to his old chief, this is considered a good outcome. Globalisation, it seems, evens applies to the Mafia. Staying in the Church is deemed crucial to this plan, providing the ideal cover for illegal activities.
I met Joey through our mutual attendance at a swinger’s club.
‘Joey!’ I give my friend a bear hug after he opens the door to me. Joey’s is the kind of guy who likes to be greeted enthusiastically.
‘Adam! Good to see you. Come in, come in. You must be psychic coming over this morning. I was going to ring you.’ I’m led into a large living room. ‘Adam, this is Tony.’ Tony, fortysomething, short and stocky, stands up and extends a hand. ‘Adam here is an old friend of mine.’
‘Good to meet you,’ Tony says, displaying his strong New Jersey accent.
We all sit down, before Joey abruptly stands up and says, ‘I’m forgetting my fucking manners. What can I get you guys? Coffee, whiskey?’
‘Coffee,’ I say.
‘Whiskey,’ Tony says.
‘You a relative of Joey’s?’ I ask when I’m alone with Tony.
‘Not blood family,’ he says. ‘We used to run together back in the day. I’m over from the States for a couple of days. On my way to Italy.’
I nod sagely. I’m being told that Tony is Mafia.
‘How do you know Joey?’ Tony wants to know.
‘Both men of the cloth. Men of the cloth that don’t always behave like men of the cloth.’
Tony laughs. ’As long as you don’t mess around with kids that’s fine by me.’
‘We were just talking about a little business opportunity,’ Joey says after presenting us with our drinks. ‘We’ve been talking to a couple of Albanians Tony knows who say they can provide us with top-grade ass for a good price.’
‘You’re going to run a brothel?’ I ask.
‘Nah. More like act as a wholesaler. Buy maybe fifty women at a time, then farm them out to different pimps and madams at a big mark-up. I don’t really want to be dealing with Johns myself.’
‘Who would?’ Tony mutters.
‘Where are you going to keep fifty women at a time?’ I want to know.
‘That’s where being in the Church could really pay off. Our parish has strong links with a convent in Surrey. It’s a huge old place, with hardly any nuns living there. In the past St Joseph’s has sent small groups of women there for a week or so on retreat. Well, I’m thinking, let’s start sending a whole bunch more people there. We can tell the nuns that these are disadvantaged girls from Romania or wherever. The girls won’t know what’s just around the corner for them, so there’s no chance of them spilling the beans.’
I laugh. ‘A brilliant idea.’
‘I think this could be great for you guys,’ Tony comments. ‘Demand for pussy will never die. The lady trade. Perfect.’
‘Yeah, I think so. I can even take a confession from any of the girls that are feeling bad about what they’re being made to do!’
‘And Adam here can take your confession if you ain’t feeling too happy about your sins.’
‘I’m Church of England,’ I point out. ‘We don’t do confession like you Catholics.’
‘Oh,’ Tony says. ‘Well I guess he’ll just have to find another priest.’
We all laugh.
‘Say, guys,’ Joey says. ‘All this talk of broads is making me horny. What don’t we all go and check out a massage parlour somewhere? We can think of it as research.’
I look at Tony, who looks at me. We both shrug. ‘Why not?’ I say. ‘You’d better bring me a whiskey though, Joey.’
‘You nervous?’ Joey asks, grinning.
‘Not at all. I just have to shift into clocked-off mode. Whiskey will trick me into thinking it’s after sundown.’
‘I’m going to grab a shower,’ Joey says. He takes a few steps towards the door, before stopping and turning to face us. ‘Hey, why are we bothering to leave the house when we can get a couple of girls to come here? We’ve got booze, coke. Why move?’
‘Don’t you want to keep the action away from here?’ Tony asks.
‘My ass, I do. If a couple of hookers try and blackmail me over this I’ll slit their throats. Who’d believe them, anyway? You know what? I’m going to be wearing my robes when they turn up.’
‘Way to go, Joey,’ Tony says. ‘You’d think you’d never been outta the game.’
Half an hour later we’ve each had had a couple of whiskeys and a couple of lines of coke, and we’re all feeling ready for some action. I ring a hospital I’m due to visit that day an
d cancel. I say I’m with a dying parishioner, and really can’t get away. My contact at the hospital says she totally understands, that we can reschedule for another time.
Joey walks into room having changed into his clerical robes. Instead of wearing normal shoes he has flip-flops on. ‘When did those hoowahs say they were turning up?’ he asks. His face is red from the booze and snuff.
‘Should be here any moment,’ Tony says. He had made the call.
Ten minutes later the doorbell rings. I open the door to two busty Brazilians who giggle and wave. Without waiting for me to say anything they walk past me into the hallway. I see a car parked directly outside the house with a big-looking guy at the wheel. He’s obviously the girls’ ride. I hope he’s got a book, because he’s going to sitting outside for a long time.
When I return to the living room I see that Tony has wasted no time in grabbing one of the girls. He has one hand on her arse and the other between her legs. Joey meanwhile has lifted up his robe to allow the other girl to start giving him head. I notice she’s not bothering to use a condom. I feel a bit stupid just gawking at the two couples, and am about to head for the kitchen to pour myself another drink, when a hand reaches out and grabs me by the belt. It’s the girl giving head, and while continuing to do fellatio on Tony she fumbles with my zipper with one hand. I help her out, then move in to share her mouth.
If only my parishioners could see me now. That’s the thought I have as the orgy moves into full swing. There follows about an hour of multi-position and partner humping, interrupted by brief breaks to top up on booze and coke. Finally Tony brings a halt to the proceedings by flopping on a sofa and announcing, ‘I’m done.’
‘Thanks girls,’ Joey says, his face glistening with sweat,
‘You’re welcome,’ the taller of the two hookers says. ‘Can we use shower?’
