by Morton Bain
I run upstairs and grab both toothbrushes standing in a glass by the bathroom sink, before rummaging in one of the bedroom cupboards until I find a denim jacket that just about fits me. The jacket will cover my bloody torso. I run back downstairs and head straight for the kitchen, where I wash all traces of blood from my face and hands. I return to the hallway where the body lies and look for anything that might give me away. I’ve left bloody footprints on the wooden flooring, but I’m pleased to see the sole pattern is indistinct. I left everything but knife, keys, snooker ball and a ten pound note at home, so there aren’t any receipts or personal items that could have fallen from my pockets.
Leaving the house is going to present one of the greatest dangers. I’ve covered my bloody shirt, but it occurs to me that covering my head might be a good idea as well. I rush back upstairs and hunt around until I find a black baseball cap that bears the word ‘Mobil’ on the front. Donning this, I head back down to the front door. Looking through the peephole, I can’t see anyone outside. My view is restricted to quite a narrow field, however, so I walk through to the living room and peer out from its large bay windows. Being mid-morning it’s fairly quiet, but I can see an old man walking his dog on the other side of the road.
I decide I need to take further measures to protect my identity. I return to the kitchen, and remove a large black bin bag from the rubbish bin. It’s pretty much full, and if I walk out of the house holding it directly in front of me I should be able to shield my face from any passers-by. I go back to the living room and wait until I can’t see anyone in the vicinity of the house, then quickly rush out the front door, hat on head, bag in hands. As soon as I turn onto the pavement – heading away from the High Road – I see a woman with a small child bearing down on me. Luckily the child is kicking off about something and the woman too harried to pay me much attention. I raise the bin bag to obscure my face nonetheless. I keep the bag up to my face even after they have passed me, almost colliding with a dustbin as a result. When I’m a good twenty houses from the scene of my crime I dump the bag at the base of a plane tree. I take a quick look around – there’s no-one in sight. I head straight for my car.
When I get into my vehicle I take a deep breath and start to relax. Not too much, though; I still need to get rid of some of my kill garb. I drive to a row of recycling banks outside a nearby supermarket. Pulling on the spare set of shoes that have lain in the foot well of the front passenger’s seat, I stuff gloves, shoes, cap, knife, face mask and jacket into a plastic bag and get out of the car. I almost make the elementary mistake of shoving the bag in the clothes recycling unit. I don’t want a charity shop worker examining my bloody discards. Coming to my senses in time, I shove the bag in the dark glass recycling bin. I’m guessing everything it contains will be melted.
It’s only when I’ve arrived home, burnt the remainder of the clothes I’ve been wearing, and put the kettle on that I can finally savour my first kill. Like losing your virginity, where the novelty of the experience gets in the way of a full appreciation of the pleasure of the sex act, I can see that future murders will be more enjoyable; nevertheless, I still relish the memory of this first offing. The primal fear of the victim, the finality of the act that I committed. I mean, how can any sport compare to it? I can see now why people go parachuting, or climb mountains, but neither can be a patch on killing.
I talk a big sip of Earl Grey – milk, one sugar – and wonder what my victim’s soul or ghost is up to. Is she wafting over the scene of her death, desperately trying to communicate with police officers, trying to give them a description of me? Is she in Heaven, her earthly life totally forgotten as she finds herself reunited with long-lost loved ones? Or, as I think most likely, is she simply no more, an absence of thought and emotion? Who knows? Who, frankly, cares?
My thoughts turn to how long it will take for the woman’s murder to hit the news. Unless she lives alone – unlikely given her attractiveness and the fact that there were two toothbrushes in the bathroom – I’m guessing first reports will be tonight. It’ll be fascinating to listen to all the speculation as to the identity of the killer and his likely motivation. No doubt in due course there will be clinical psychologists spouting a load of bullshit about my likely character traits and habits. I’ll be described as a loner, someone who lives alone, a person who indulges obsessively in strange hobbies. And they’ll all be wrong. Because I’m a goddam married vicar.
Sure enough, my killing is the first story on the 7pm local news. Some little ratbag reporter stands outside the woman’s house. There’s the obligatory cordon, tent and forensic guys walking around in white suits. It occurs to me that wearing one of those suits might be the ideal way to dress for future murders. Apparently my victim was a Rebecca Paulson, twenty-seven, a local teacher who was engaged with a marriage date set for next week. Hearing this annoys me. This little twist will add to the media interest in the story, and make the police try that little bit harder to solve the case. I replay the sequence of events before and after the murder, trying to comfort myself that I didn’t make any elementary errors. I’m pleased to find that I can’t think of any.
‘Dreadful, just dreadful,’ my wife comments half way through the report. ‘I bet it’s the fiancé. It’s normally always someone the victim knows.’
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘A week away from her marriage date. Fancy that.’
You can imagine my surprise the next morning when I receive a telephone call from the dead girl’s parents. They want me to take her funeral. I almost drop the phone, before getting my shit together and saying, ‘Well of course. I’d be happy to take it.’
‘We’re not regular church attendees,’ the father explains. ‘But my mother Ethel was a member of your church before she passed away some years ago.’
‘If only regular church attendees had church funerals, then there wouldn’t be many church funerals at all,’ I say soothingly. ‘Now, when would you like to pop in for a chat so we can discuss your preferences for the service?’
A date is set for four days hence, and I’m able to return to my thoughts. I’m agitated, excited, and a little bit scared. I have an urge to tell someone about my murder, but know it’s the last thing I can do. I think about saying something to Joey. He’s Mafia with a lot more blood on his hands than I have, and he definitely wouldn’t go to the police. Well, he wouldn’t go to the police straight away; but there might come a time when he would. At any rate, by telling him about my murder it would give him power over me. I’d always have to factor him into any thoughts I have about my ongoing liberty. I can see now why so many serial killers engage in games with the police. Part of it is probably intellectual arrogance, but a bit of it can I’m sure be explained by a desire to be caught and feted as the badass the individual thinks he is.
That afternoon I’m acutely aware of any police sirens that I hear. I tense up straight away and wait anxiously to see if they are getting louder or fading away. There’s a knock at the door at about three o’clock and I jump up straight away and stare fiercely at my wife. I open the door nervously, my heart racing, sure I’m going to see a couple of uniformed policemen on my doorstep. Instead it’s my son’s friend, Jack. Never in my life have I been so pleased to see the kid. I have to control the urge to hug him before inviting him in.
Is this what I’m going to have to put up with for the rest of my life? I’ve only killed one person, and already I’m a bag of nerves. I tell myself that once I’ve seen the police fail in their attempt to solve this first murder I’ll probably start to relax, but I only half believe it.
A couple of days later I’m driving with Courtney in his car. Courtney needs to pick up some ammo for his handgun from a Czech living in Ilford, after which he wants me to show him one of my favourite whorehouses. I’m not needed for the ammo pick-up, and I could quite easily have just given the Jamaican the address for the knocking shop, but I get the impression he likes the company. As a crook without the daily banter most nine-to-fives in
volve, I guess I’m as close to a workmate as he has.
On the way to Ilford we don’t talk much, largely because Courtney’s stereo is outputting at a volume that makes my skull vibrate. After picking up his bullets he seems to forget to turn the stereo on, so the drive back to Hackney is blissfully quiet.
‘I got a funny email this morning,’ Courtney tells me as we wait at some lights.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I got one of them Google Alert things set up. Meant to send me an email every time there’s new information about Peyote cactus on the web. I love Peyote buttons – grow them at home and everything. Anyways, I get an email with a link to a site that has this story about a big cactus. Weren’t Peyote cactus, but sooo funny.’
‘What was the story?’
‘This is meant to be true. Some guys back about twenny years ago were out in the desert in Arizona, taking pot shots at big cactus. This guy fires so many shots at one that it topple over like he’d cut it down with an axe. He tries it again, with an even bigger cactus, but this time he stand too close to it, and when it topple it fall on him and kill him!’
I laugh. ‘You really think that happened?’
‘Article had a scan of the local paper reporting it. Looked pretty real to me . . .’
This tale gets me to thinking about the web generally, and how it’s changed our life so much in twenty years. I remember porn sites back in the early Nineties, when it took about two minutes for a single jpeg to load.
I find Google much more than a source of restaurant reviews and the way I look for dirt on members of my congregation. The facility whereby Google suggests a search query after no more than a word or two typed, and which is based on the popularity of past searches, seems to serve as a great insight into the collective mind of users of this search engine. I’ve noticed that if you type ‘why am I’ into Google, the site suggests searches such as ‘why am I so tired?’, ‘why do I feel sleepy?’, and ‘why do I keep putting on weight?’. Typing two words into Google tells you that a good proportion of its users are tired and fat, something a walk down a busy road in the United Kingdom or the United States readily confirms. Interestingly, if you type in the words ‘how can I tell’, top recommendations are ‘how can I tell if an egg is bad?’ and ‘how can I tell the sex of a goldfish?’. The human race, capable of putting a man on the moon and, yet, en masse, seemingly more interested in the freshness of eggs and the sex of goldfish than many other things. I feel justified in the killing spree I’m embarking on.
I share this insight with Courtney, but he doesn’t seem too interested, saying in reply, ‘You gonna take me to that slapper place?’
‘No problem,’ I reply. ‘Bottom of this road and do a left. Carry on until I tell you.’
It takes about five minutes to get to our destination. I tell Courtney to pull over opposite a parade of shops. ‘You see that little alleyway between the charity shop and the hairdresser’s?’ I say, pointing.
‘Yep.’
‘The second door – it’s a blue door – is the one you want. Whatever you do, don’t knock on the first door. I made that mistake once and a big homo answered.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, it was an awkward moment. I’ll give you the place’s number. I normally ring first to make sure there’s a girl free.’
‘Thanks, man.’
Just then Lucy calls, wanting to know where I am. ‘Just with a friend,’ I say.
‘Did you not think of telling me you were popping out?’
‘I know, sorry. Back soon.’
‘Who was that?’ Courtney asks after I finish the call.
‘Wife. Wants to know where I am,’ I tell Courtney. ‘Should probably head back.’
Nearing my home, we stop at some lights. Just as they’re flashing amber in anticipation of a change to green, we feel an enormous thud as another motorist crashes into the back of us. ‘What they fuck?’ I shout, turning around in my seat. For a fat man, Courtney shows amazing speed in getting out of the car. ‘Cho! A wha di bloodclaat di yuh?’ I hear him shout. A voice replies, but I can’t hear what is said. I’m about to get out of the car myself, when I hear two gunshots ring out in quick succession. A second later Courtney jumps into the car and we tear off.
‘Fucking jerk,’ Courtney says as he drives away.
‘What the hell just happened?’ I ask. I can’t be sure I’m not dreaming this whole sequence. I hope I am.
‘He called me a fat nigger and gave me the bird. Well, let me tell you, he said nigger for the last time. Got him once in the neck and once in the chest. Guy’s a gonner.’
‘And what about us?! You can’t just shoot people who piss you off in this country!’
‘You give the cops too much thought, man.’ Courtney corners with a squeal of tyres. ‘The only crimes they solve are the ones they can’t help solving. Look at what just happened now. No witnesses. I take this car and store it somewhere for a few weeks. They won’t catch us.’
‘Catch you. I didn’t have anything to do with it.’
‘Well yes and no. You didn’t pull the trigger, but you ain’t going to the police either, which makes you accessory.’
I decide not to argue this point.
Courtney is driving even faster now, trying to put as much distance as possible between the crime scene and us. Memories of past crime shows I’ve watched return to me. Shell casings. Shell casing can give away a murderer, and must at all costs not be left at a crime scene. ‘Shell casings!’ I shout.
‘What?’
‘Did you pick up the shell casings from the bullets you fired?’
‘Course I did. You think I’m an amateur?’
‘No, I’m just checking. What about CCTV? There might not have been anyone else around, but the police can probably track you with cameras. Use forensics to get DNA samples from both of us.’
‘Car isn’t registered to me.’
‘Yeah, but your DNA is registered to you.’
‘I’ve never been busted for a crime in this country, so they don’t have a sample from me.’
‘Yeah, well I do have a record and a sample of DNA on file . . .’
‘Maybe you got a point. We might need to burn this baby. I’ll stop at a gas station and get some fuel.’
‘You can’t do that! All petrol stations have got cameras! Find a petrol station and stop a couple of hundred yards beyond it. I’ll go back on foot and get the petrol.’
Courtney grins. ‘You know you’ve got some street smarts for a preacher man? You sure you’ve always been a Bible thumper?’
‘It’s called common sense.’
We near a Shell garage. We stop some distance from it as planned and I scamper back to the petrol station. I have no way of disguising myself, so want the transaction to go as smoothly and quickly as possible. Walking into the petrol station’s store I almost collide with Jennifer Patterson, a member of my congregation. Stifling the urge to swear, I arrange my features into as pleasant a mask as possible and greet her.
‘I can’t see your car,’ she comments, looking over my shoulder.
‘I’m just out for a walk,’ I reply. ‘Popped in for a bottle of water.’
‘You’re a long way from home. Can I give you a lift back?’
‘Well, thankyou, but I’m fine. Part of my new exercise regime to put in a couple of long walks a week.’ I laugh nervously. ‘You know how it is. Get to a certain age and the fat just seems to cling to you!’
‘Well, yes. I suppose you’re right. Anyway, enjoy your walk. I’ll see you on Sunday!’
I pretend to browse the shop’s shelves for five minutes – long enough to ensure Jennifer Patterson isn’t going to return – before picking up a plastic petrol container. I pay for it, before heading to the pumps to fill it up. Back to the cashier to pay for five litres of petrol, then I set off for Courtney and the car.
‘Man, I was beginning to think you’d run off to the police,’ Courtney says as I slide into my seat. ‘Thou
ght I was gonna have to come and shoot you as well.’
‘Just took a bit longer than expected,’ I explain. The smell of petrol fills the car.
Courtney starts the engine, and we set off. ‘We’re looking for somewhere hidden,’ he explains. ‘But not too far from places. I don’t want to be walking for hours to get back home.’
‘How about just up there?’ I say, pointing at a building site.
‘Could be worth a look.’ Courtney pulls the car onto a muddy track that leads between the shells of eight detached houses. The builders have got as far as constructing breezeblock inner skins, but judging by the lack of building materials on site and the rusted condition of the two skips present, it’s been a while since labourers last laboured on the buildings. The houses back onto a railway bridge.
‘Pull in behind,’ I say. ‘We won’t be overlooked.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Courtney agrees. A few moments later he’s sploshing petrol on the seats of the car. When the container is empty he throws it onto the back seat and pulls out a box of matches. ‘I should have trickled some gas away from the car,’ he comments. ‘I’m gonna get my eyebrows burned now.’
I stand well back as Courtney pulls a match from the match box. He lights it and throws it into the car, but the fuel fails to ignite.
