Psychopath!

by Morton Bain

  ‘The nunnery?’

  ‘They’re taking the first lot next week. It’s going to be interesting to see if we can get away with it. You can imagine the newspaper headlines if what we’re up to gets out.’

  I nod my agreement.

  I stay with Joey for a couple of hours, then drive over to see my drug dealer friend, Carson. Carson’s almost forty, but has lived the same dossy student lifestyle since – since he was actually a student. He lives in a shitty terraced house with Emma, his twenty-three year old girlfriend. Emma’s got lots of freckles and huge thighs. I fancy her for some fucked up reason.

  ‘Come in, man,’ Carson says after opening the door.

  The flat smells like stale socks and pizza as I walk through to the living room.

  ‘What can I do you for?’ Carson asks when we’re seated.

  ‘I’m after some hash oil.’

  ‘Hash oil?’ Carson’s tone suggests I might as well have been after ostrich claws. ‘Yeah. I’ve got some. But that’s so weird. I haven’t had any for years.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘You’ve got to be careful with it. Blow your head off if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Blowing heads off is just what I had in mind. Other people’s heads. How long does it take to work if you swallow hash oil?’

  ‘Most people smear it on a cigarette and smoke it. Swallow it? I dunno. Maybe half an hour?’

  Half an hour . . . that should just about work I decide as I pull away from Carson’s, narrowly avoiding a cat that darts out in front of my car. Me and cats just don’t get on. My plan is to put some of the hash oil in selected communion glasses the following Sunday. I want to see the spirit move amongst my congregation in a way it never has before. Luckily my church uses small individual glasses rather than a large chalice. I can’t have everyone having the special communion wine . . .

  My drive home takes me past a car boot sale. The decision to stop is made a few seconds too late, and I brake hard. Watching cop shows has convinced me that murderers often fuck up by using murder weapons that can be traced back to them, and I’m determined not to make this error. No-one will be finding my blades, but even if they do it won’t lead them to a store and CCTV footage. Mid-week car boot sales are pretty depressing affairs, with nothing like the crowds those at the weekend attract. The one I have stopped to visit is being held on waste ground between a laminate factory and a car lot. Two rows of sellers face each other, cars and vans parked behind their wares. Up the corridor thus created drift a handful of buyers. I walk past the guy selling second-hand fishing equipment, the guy flogging cheap batteries and electrical items, and the woman selling piles of children’s clothes. Just when I think I’m out of luck I see an old man who is surrounded by piles of tools. In a bucket he has an impressive selection of knives. I pull a bayonet out of the bucket, marvelling at the weight of the blade.

  ‘That’s taken care of a Jerry,’ the stall owner says. ‘So my father claimed. He was in the War. North Africa.’

  ‘They were still using bayonets in the Second World War?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Soldiers preferred to kill with bullets, but if you ran out of ammo and someone was almost on top of you . . . My father reckons he got a German in the neck with that. He might have been pulling my leg, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a true story.’

  ‘How much do you want for it?’

  ‘I don’t know whether to charge more or less for it as it’s claimed a life. How about a tenner?’

  ‘Done,’ I say, pulling a note from my pocket.

  As I walk back to the car I stab the air a couple of times with the bayonet. It needs sharpening, but otherwise I think I’ve got myself a good blade. Good for slicing and running a victim through. I’m aware that killing people isn’t like it’s portrayed in the movies. You don’t just stick someone and they fall down in front of you. Like strangulation. It takes a long time to choke a person, and apparently unless you’re strong your fingers are likely to cramp up before you’ve seen someone off. A big, strong blade should make despatching victims easier.

  The following day Lucy is bitching on about wanting to move to a bigger house.

  ‘Darling, that’s not the way it works. I’m the vicar of St. Michael’s, and as part of the package we live in this house. Do you have any idea how much it would cost to rent or buy a property the same size as this one, let alone a bigger one?’

  ‘But it’s not big enough! I had more room when I was a student.’

  I never get this kind of talk. ‘What do you mean not big enough? You can only occupy the space your body takes up. If we lived in Hong Kong we’d probably have a third of the space we’ve got here.’

  ‘If we lived in Hong Kong I’d be called Yip Dip Lip and know how to use chopsticks. But I don’t live in Hong Kong. I live here.’

  This is quite a good retort for my wife. ‘Listen darling,’ I reply. ‘It would be unthinkable for us to move from here. If you like we can have a clear out of junk at the weekend. If we get rid of unused stuff it might feel as if we’ve got more room.’

  ‘I’ll help!’ Ben exclaims. He’s been listening nervously to our conversation, expecting a full-blown argument to develop I imagine. He’ll do anything to soothe tension between his parents, and I’m guessing that urge is behind his eagerness to help.

  ‘That’s a deal,’ I say.

  Later as I’m in the living room watching some rubbish on television I think about my comment to Lucy about only being able to occupy the space our body takes up. A very basic way of looking at the murders I’m going to commit is to see them as the act of depriving people of the ability to take up space on this planet. This is obvious, and yet quite profound, I find. I won’t be able to deprive my victims of the ability to live on in people’s memories, I won’t be destroying letters they might have sent, or works of art they might have created, but they won’t be taking up anymore space on this planet. Once their bodies have rotted away, at any rate.

  I decided about three weeks ago that I wasn’t getting enough sex. I’m now forty-three, and am aware that in ten years or so I’m probably going to start getting visits from Mr Floppy. My looks are also on a slow but inexorable downward arc. I remember some old codger saying near the end of his life that his only real regret was not having more sex, and that there wasn’t any sex he’d had that he wished he hadn’t, including paid-for (hurrah!) and adulterous sex. In a bid not to have the regret of insufficient sex in later years – especially as there is a small but appreciable chance that I may at some point get locked up for the rest of my natural life – I have set myself the goal of having sex with a new partner every week, with only half of these shags being paid for. Some people resolve to lose weight; some people promise themselves they’ll ring their parents at least once a week. I prefer the goal I have set myself.

  I have managed to meet my challenge for each of the last three weeks, but with only two days to go, and unable to go the paid-for route this week, things are looking a little grim. I have a free afternoon, so jump in my car and let the vehicle take me where it will. When I was a student I got laid by walking up to an attractive girl at a bus stop and asking her if she wanted to join me for a meal at the restaurant directly behind the bus stop. Fifteen minutes after approaching her we were eating, and half an hour after that I was eating her pussy. We screwed for an hour or so and then I dropped her off at the home of the family she worked for – she was an au pair from Turkey. I remember driving home, wondering if I’d just dreamed the whole episode. It happened so quickly, and with a girl from a really conservative country.

  Could I try something similar this afternoon? I’m not quite as hot as I was twenty years ago, but I’m still not bad looking. Maybe if I target someone who’s just average-looking that will boost my chances. A slightly overweight single mum would be ideal. I head the car towards some shitty estates in Haggerston. I’m bound to see some losers pushing prams, I figure. If the bambino is young enough I can get it on with
the mother without the baby knowing what the hell is going on.

  I can’t remember exactly what I said to the Turkish girl all those years ago. I think it was something like ‘Would you like to join me for a meal?’ It helped that it was early evening when I approached her – suggesting supper wasn’t totally ludicrous, I guess. ‘Can I have a chat with your twat?’ I don’t think that would have worked.

  A later model of car parked on the streets and more rubbish on the pavement signals my arrival at the estate that is my destination. I slow down, scanning each side of the road for someone that might make a suitable target. All I see are a few old people, stooped with age, and a couple of hoodies, walking along with sticks in their hands. Fucking hoodies. Someone’s bound to show soon, I’m guessing; a woman’s going to need to go to the Post Office to collect her social, or the newsagent to pick up twenty Benson.

  It takes longer than I expected, but eventually I see a woman in her early thirties walking in my direction. She’s alluringly dressed in tracksuit bottoms and trainers, with a leather jacket over a pink t-shirt. She’s plain, but not ugly. Bit heavy around the legs and arse. When she’s only a few feet from my car I get out and approach her. I still haven’t got a clue what I’m going to say.

  ‘Hi there,’ I begin. The woman looks at me as if I’ve got shit smeared on my face. ‘Is there a Post Office around here?’

  ‘Yeah. Down this road. First left.’

  ‘Thanks.’ It’s now or never. ‘You know, you look just like an old girlfriend of mine. You’re not Laura Cassidy’s sister by any chance?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Laura Cassidy. An old girlfriend of mine. You look just like her.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  The woman tries to push past me, but I block her way. ‘Maybe you’re not Laura Cassidy’s sister, but can I buy you a coffee?’

  ‘Piss off!’ the woman says, stepping away from me.

  ‘Steady on! I’ve only asked you to join me for a coffee.’

  The woman looks behind her as if hoping to see someone she recognises. She turns back to face me and says, ‘Not interested. Now leave me alone.’

  I suddenly find my hand moving upwards, then down, hard, contacting the woman on the face. I can feel her cheekbones as the palm of my hand connects with her face. There’s a loud thwacking sound accompanying my blow.

  We both stare at each other, seemingly equally stunned at what has just happened. Then, as if a spell has been broken, the woman starts screaming at the top of her voice. Her shouts snap me out of my trance. I look around to see if anyone has observed me. I can’t see anyone. The woman has run off down the road, still hollering. I get into my car and start the engine. My car is facing the fleeing woman, and for a second I think about running her down. I see the folly of such an action – luckily – and instead drive away, past the woman, and away from the estate.

  When I’m a mile away from the scene of my attack I pull over and stop the car. What the fuck just happened there? I ask myself. Impetuous, amateurish behaviour, and not the sort of thing I can ever do again if I want to be a successful murderer. I doubt the woman would have had the presence of mind to memorise my registration number, but I can’t rule this out, and there’s always CCTV. I fervently hope that slapping strangers is a way of life for people living on the estate, and that my attack isn’t reported. For this week’s shag I think I’ll get back onto the dating websites.

  The following Sunday I put the hash oil I’ve bought to use during the Sunday morning service. In order to be able to witness the effects of my poisoning I announce after initial hymns and prayers that we will be moving straight to communion. ‘Let us let the blessing of this Holy Sacrament wash over us from the outset of today’s service,’ I tell my congregation.

  Before the service I beat Trevor, a church deacon, to pouring the wine into forty small communion glasses. To five of these I add what I consider to be a hefty amount of hash oil. Who will end up drinking from these cups I have no way of knowing. It’s even possible Lucy will end up getting high, something I could do without as I’ll have to babysit her all afternoon.

  ‘Draw near with faith. Receive the body of our Lord Jesus Christ . . .’ In ones, twos and threes, members of the congregation that are eligible and willing come up to the altar to drink wine and eat a small crouton (a little touch I added some years before). By this stage I have totally forgotten which glasses contain the hash oil. I try to judge by the appearance of a grimace on swallowing which people are getting the special doses, but everyone who drinks displays the same serene facial expression.

  In order to give the poison time to work I have prepared a real belter of a sermon, one that I’m going to drag on for an extra twenty minutes. A few roasts might get burned today, but no-one is leaving until I have seen the results of my narcotic lacing. The theme of my sermon is ‘The Salvation of Animals’, in which I argue for the possibility of animals going to Heaven. This is controversial, but I know my church has many animal lovers amongst its members, so I’m prepared to take the risk.

  ‘. . . I draw your attention to Isaiah Chapter Sixty Five, Verse Five: “The wolf and the lamb will feed together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox, but dust will be the serpent's food. They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain”. Here we clearly see that lions will be in Heaven, along with other animals, but that they will eschew meat, opting instead for a vegetarian diet. This is a clear indication that animals will be more evolved in Heaven, suggesting also that it may be more evolved pets and other animals that go to Heaven. If humans can go to either Heaven or Hell, it stands to reason that if some animals go to Heaven, some may also go to Hell. For this reason I would suggest basic morality lessons for your pets. Perhaps you could get them to watch children’s cartoons that contain simple messages about good citizenship. In addition to the commands “Sit” and “Stay” you should also add “Love” and “Respect”.

  ‘. . . I want you also to consider the following verse, from Ecclesiastes, Chapter Three: "For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a beast: for all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” Here we see animals being treated as the same class of being as humans, suggesting strongly that Heaven or Hell could be their final destination. If a man has ‘no pre-eminence above a beast’ why would our Heavenly Father have eternal life as a possible outcome for one and not the other?

  . . . the question then becomes, which beast from the animal kingdom is the most holy, the most deserving of a place in paradise? Well, we’ve all used the expression “Holy Cow”, and the Hindus as you all know venerate this animal . . .’

  A sudden snort of laughter from a member of my congregation interrupts my sermon. Looking into my audience I see that it is Mr Cross who has caught a dose of the giggles. Ah, good old Mr Cross. A widower in his mid-fifties, he’s needed cheering up for some time. I quickly scan faces to see if I can spot my other victims, but without immediate success.

  ‘. . . so as I was saying, I feel it would be appropriate to consider the cow to be the holiest beast. Which then is the most accursed, the creature we are least likely to see in Heaven? I think the answer is obvious – the serpent. As the creature that stays closest to the ground - and hence farthest from the heavens – and as the beast that most resembles a fanged male member, it is surely deserving of this status . . .’

  A scream from Mrs Jennings alerts me to the fact that someone else has succumbed to my poison. I’m surprised that we’re getting a strong reaction from this member of the congregation, though, as rumour has it that the forty-something has quite a wild background, with drugs a lot stronger than cannabis being consumed in huge quantities. Maybe it’s the shock of being reminded of her past life in a place which has come to symbolise her escape from it.

  Ten minutes later a
nd four of the cannabis imbibers have revealed themselves through behaviour I know is atypical of them – and certainly atypical of them in a church. The fifth person remains a mystery. Perhaps he or she just feels a bit closer to God during this particular service.

  Later that afternoon, after Sunday lunch, I’m sitting comfortably in the living room, watching footage of a civil war in some despotic North African state. Reporters seemed to be getting braver all the time, because they’re right there on the front line, bullets whizzing all around them. I see a ferocious barricade of AK-47 fire being directed into a building. You can really see the punch those guns pack by the way they kick around. It looks like attempting to wrestle an angry polecat trying to fire one of those things.

  My curiousity piqued, I check out YouTube to see if I can see any uncut footage of the same conflict. Sure enough, there’s plenty of it. I don’t have the patience for the grainy, shaky footage on offer, but after a few false starts I see some pretty gruesome stuff that’s been well shot – a bit like their subjects. In one a couple of men are hauling the corpse of a dead fighter into view. The guy’s obviously been dead for more than three hours but less than a day, as his limbs are frozen in rigor mortis. It’s as if he’s been in a freezer for a couple of days. I’m intrigued as to the details of his last seconds. It’s obvious that he’s been killed by gunfire, and he seems to have been in the middle of doing something just before he breathed his last, as one arm is outstretched and bent at the elbow, as if in his final moments he was trying to signal, or reach for something. The corpse drips blood onto dry sand. The men carrying it drop the body, and then begin to inspect it, using a stick to probe. They open the man’s tunic, revealing a blood-soaked torso. There is a large bullet wound to the man’s cheek, and when the camera moves around to the other side the exit wound is apparent, at the top and rear of the man’s skull. The back of his head is blood-matted and muddy, but I can see what looks like brain tissue beginning to ooze out. The man’s eyes are somewhere between open and closed – it looks like he’s squinting – but the pupils aren’t visible due to a build-up of blood. The camera moves around to focus on the hand that’s pointing skywards. Just to add insult to injury it looks like a bullet caught the top of his index and middle fingers. The top of the middle finger is missing, and the top of the index finger is crooked with a section of bone visible. It strikes me that this injury alone would be agony – if the man was alive to feel pain. Instead he’s got this gormless ‘I’m fucking dead, mate’ look on his face. His mouth is open, as if his last act was to try and curse his killers. Death really doesn’t do much for your image. You just become an immobile piece of meat.