Psychopath!

by Morton Bain

  The next person to come along is my wife. I know her body so well, not to mention her wardrobe, that even at fifty yards I’m in no doubt as to who I am looking at. Lucy is wearing a pale blue dress, and I was with her when she bought it the previous year in Marks and Spencer’s. On her head is a straw hat, one she wears when out throughout the summer months on account of her fair skin and a fear of skin cancer that even her Christian faith can’t overcome.

  What to do? I’m in no doubt that I have to kill her, but here and now? I accept immediately that this would be opening me up to risks that are wholly unnecessary. I’ve found my next victim; the key now is to despatch her without risking imprisonment. I pay and leave, checking when I step out onto the pavement that I’m not spotted by Lucy. I decide to take an unhurried walk home – it will give me time to think about how and when to kill my wife.

  In the end I get distracted by my dick on the way home, and end up calling on one of my favourite whorehouses. It’s not until I’m sitting over the dining table from Lucy that evening, tucking into pork chops and mashed potato, that I return to the question of how to despatch my wife. I marvel at how alive she is, as she lifts fork to mouth, and talks her normal inconsequential waffle, and how soon she could resemble my pork chop, should I choose to butcher and cook her after murdering her. I’ve heard human flesh tastes quite like pork, and wonder whether Lucy would be good eating.

  I could smother Lucy, I decide. In some ways this might be the best way of getting rid of her. It could be done in bed when she’s asleep, with minimal noise and no blood. Blood seems to get murderers into no end of trouble; avoiding its spillage could be a good move. How to explain her disappearance, though? She’s so gullible I could probably stage a creative writing exercise for her, wherein she has to write an imaginary ‘I’m leaving you’ note. That could work.

  I wonder how I will cope post-Lucy. I’d have to do housework for a change and pretend to be a father. That could be quite tedious. Then again, I could probably find another wife quite quickly. The ‘widowed father’ routine would probably be quite effective at snaring a new partner.

  Ben walks into the room, trailing a teddy bear to which he’s attached what looks like a dressing gown cord. ‘Gordon’s dead,’ he informs us, referring to the teddy bear by name.

  ‘Why is he dead?’ Lucy asks, feigning concern for the toy.

  ‘Someone killed him,’ Ben replies. ‘I think it might have been Dad.’

  I swallow uncomfortably. ‘How did I kill Gordon?’ I ask my son. ‘I bought you that teddy. Why would I want to kill him?’

  ‘You gave him one of those bad looks. Like you give mum sometimes.’

  I exchange a glance with Lucy. Her expression suggests this isn’t as strange a comment as I might have hoped.

  ‘Bear’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘He wasn’t alive to begin with, so I can’t really have killed it.’

  ‘Adam!’ Lucy rebukes me. ‘Try and remember what it is like to be five . . .’

  ‘I remember only too well. Plenty of beatings and no pocket money.’

  Ben screams and runs from the room. I turn my attention to my food, glad that the interruption is over.

  ‘Adam, I wish you’d be more human sometimes,’ Lucy says.

  Correction. The interruption isn’t over. ‘Leave me in peace, Lou. I’ve had a hard day.’

  ‘Hard day? I saw you come out of a café at about eleven. Don’t tell me, you were blessing the place?’

  I’m taken aback at having been spotted. ‘I was meeting Peter Simpkins,’ I lie. ‘Not able to meet my parishioners now?’

  ‘Course you are. Just don’t pretend you’re breaking rocks from dawn till dusk.’

  Suddenly Lucy’s despatch seems a much more straightforward proposition.

  The next day I decide to go and take a look at Jake’s residence, to see whether getting him on his home patch is viable. Before leaving I make sure my mobile phone isn’t on my person. I’ve just seen a crime programme which highlights how people can be tracked by their cell phones. Seems they should be a long way from an individual before he does anything the police might later take an interest in.

  I drive through dull suburban streets on my way to Jake’s place. The houses I pass seem to be sinking on their foundations with boredom, almost crying out for something to happen to enliven their neighbourhood. I promise them I’ll do my best.

  Jake’s house is a non-descript semi-detached Edwardian affair. Front lawn well, but not obsessively tended. Woodwork in good order. It could belong to anyone other than a gypsy or benefit trash. I park my car a hundred yards from the target property, then get out and give it a closer inspection by walking slowly past it. I rely on the passage of time and the flat cap I’m wearing to protect me from being recognised should Jake be at home and observing the footpath in front of his house.

  The good news: a flimsy gate guards a path that presumably leads to the rear garden. Getting into the property by kicking the back door in would be preferable to taking the front door route. Additionally, I can only see one doorbell by the door, indicating the property hasn’t been sub-divided. Less chance of near neighbours hearing me rumble. The bad news: there’s protected housing for the retired opposite Jake’s house, meaning plenty of snoopers who rarely leave their flats. Overall though, it’s definitely do-able. I return to my car to do a bit more driving around. I want to get a better feel for the area, and locate my best exit routes.

  As I drive I’m reminded of an incident that occurred when Jake and I were students. We’d gone into the West End to do some shopping. Jake had been supplementing his grant by donning rags and begging at tube stations – he reckoned that he made about eight pounds an hour, much more than a job in McDonalds would have paid back then. I hadn’t joined him in this endeavour, but had stolen some money from my sister the preceding weekend, so we both had dosh to spend. We spent a few hours browsing and buying in record and bookshops, before taking a side road off Oxford Street which Jake insisted led to a great but affordable Italian restaurant. We were both starving. A hundred yards down the road we saw what at first looked like a couple having a lover’s tiff, but which we quickly realised was a mugging in progress. A well built man wielding a knife was trying to grab a woman’s handbag, the latter holding grimly to the bag’s strap while her attacker held the bag by its base, flashing his knife at the woman as he did so. I was interested in the scene unfolding before us, in the same way that a zoo visitor might witness lions mauling each other in their cage. Jake, however, had other ideas. As soon as he became of what was happening he dropped the bag he was holding and ran to the imperilled woman’s aid. Although a good few inches shorter than the mugger, Jake barrelled into the man with such force that they both fell over. The woman took this opportunity to flee, without so much as a ‘thankyou’ to Jake.

  I strolled over to where the two men lay. Jake quickly got to his feet, but the other man seemed to have been concussed or worse – he lay motionless. ‘You haven’t killed him, have you?’ I asked my friend.

  ‘I hope not,’ Jake said. ‘Reckon we should call the police or ambulance?’

  ‘Could do. Or we could just walk on. He’s only a mugger.’

  At this point an elderly man walked up to us. ‘What’s happened here?’ he asked.

  ‘He was trying to mug a lady,’ Jake replied. ‘I knocked him over and now he seems to be unconscious.’

  ‘Oh,’ the old man said. ‘Well, good work. I hope you’re around when I’m next mugged.’ With that he walked on.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I insisted. ‘If we hang around we’ll probably get charged with assault. Fucked up way things work in this country.’

  I observed Jake wavering between following my suggestion and the impulse to see the man right. Before he had time to decide the attacker emitted a groan and shifted his legs. ‘Here we go,’ I said.

  The man slowly lifted himself to his feet. He looked at us strangely, as if he’d never seen fellow human beings be
fore. ‘Thanks a bundle,’ he said. ‘You just cost me fifty grand.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jake said.

  ‘That woman. She’s my ex-wife, and she stole fifty grand from my safe. By now she’ll be on her way to an airport. I’ll never see her or my money again.’

  ‘It looked like you were trying to mug her,’ Jake said.

  ‘Exactly right. Looked like.’ The man rubbed his face with both hands. By now we could both see indicators that he wasn’t a mugger. A Rolex watch. Expensive clothes.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ Jake said. ‘Why don’t you call the cops? They can get her before she gets on a plane.’

  The man batted away this suggestion with a lazy air slap. ‘Can’t be bothered. She’s going west. Like my old man used to say, if you go west far enough, you’ll end up east.’

  Jake and I soon moved on, but I’ve often wondered what the man meant by this remark. It’s stayed with me, for some reason.

  In the course of reliving this memory I have driven down several roads in the vicinity of Jake’s house. Nothing I see perturbs me – no likely traffic bottlenecks, police stations or Wanted posters with my face on them. It’s doable. It will be done.

  When I get home I get a call from Courtney. He sounds frantic, which is very unlike Courtney. ‘You need to come over now,’ he shouts down the phone. ‘Joey’s going crazy!’

  ‘Joey’s been crazy for a long time,’ I point out.

  ‘No, I mean really crazy. He’s smashing things up in his house. We don’t want the police coming over, but they will if he doesn’t shut up and calm his shit down.’

  ‘Has he been taking drugs?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s bangin’ on about that ghostie. Polterheist or whatever you call it.’

  ‘Poltergeist.’

  ‘Yeah. I . . .’ The rest of Courtney’s sentence goes unuttered as a huge cry and crashing sound come from somewhere in Joey’s house.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I say, putting the phone down before Courtney has a chance to reply.

  I pull up outside Joey’s house fifteen minutes later. As I walk up to the front door I see that it is open. I don’t bother knocking – I’m straight into the house. ‘Arrgh!’ a cry erupts. I follow the direction of the sound, entering the living room. In the centre of the room lies Joey, face down. Courtney is sitting on his back.

  ‘Thank the Lord you’re here,’ the Jamaican says when he sees me.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Look around you,’ Courtney replies, gesturing with a hand.

  I scan the room. The sofa is out of position, a couple of feet forward from where it would normally be. A ceramic vase lies smashed on the floor. Scatter cushions have been scattered all over the place.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ I ask.

  ‘The sofa moved on its own a while back. Joey freaked out. He said he could see something moving in the room. Started shouting so loud I thought neighbours would come to see what happening. After he been shouting for awhile he said he was gonna get his gun, shoot the ghost. That’s when I sit on him . . .’

  ‘Joey,’ I say, crouching by his head. ‘Are you okay, buddy? There’s no ghost.’

  ‘There fucking is. Tell that fucking oaf to get off my back, or I’ll shoot him as well as the poltergeist!’

  I struggle to keep a straight face. ‘We’re just looking out for you. You’ll thank us after you’ve calmed down.’

  ‘Lemme go!’

  I look at Courtney. He seems to know what I’m thinking: ‘If you want,’ he says. I nod, and Courtney releases Joey.

  Joey rises and stamps his feet. He walks over to a coffee table and opens its drawer, producing a handgun. Holding it with both hands he points it in the direction of the sofa. ‘Come on, you motherfucker!’ he shouts. ‘Show yourself you cowardly piece of shit.’

  ‘Joey,’ Courtney says. ‘If it’s a ghost you ain’t going to be able to shoot it. Put the gun down.’

  Joey swings around, and for a second I think he’s going to shoot Courtney. Whilst Joey’s back is turned to the sofa, the piece of furniture moves violently with a shriek. Joey swings back and lets off two quick shots. My ears ring, and the smell of burnt chemicals fills the room.

  ‘I think the sofa is dead,’ I say, risking Joey’s wrath. ‘Come on. Put the gun away.’

  Joey looks at the pistol as if he can’t explain its presence in his hands, then shakes his head and throws it on the sofa. ‘Fucking poltergeist . . .’

  ‘You need to get a priest in,’ Courtney says. ‘A proper one.’

  ‘You can laugh, you guys. I have to live with this thing everyday. How’s about I move into your house Adam, and you spend a week here?’

  ‘I’m not saying you haven’t got a problem, but if the worst this thing can do is move a piece of furniture around, what’s the big issue?’

  ‘You think anyone heard the shots?’ Joey asks.

  Before anyone has a chance to answer, the doorbell rings. ‘Fuck!’ Joey exclaims. ‘That’s probably the cops . . .’

  ‘They wouldn’t have got here that quickly,’ Courtney whispers. ‘Not unless they was just walking past when you fired.’

  Joey places the handgun under the sofa and opens a window to try and remove the smell of cordite from the room. ‘If they ring again I’ll have to answer,’ Joey explains. ‘I don’t want the door kicked in.’ No sooner has the man uttered these words than the doorbell rings for a second time, this time a long, insistent burst.

  Joey walks to the front door. Courtney and I stay in the living room, looking at each other ominously.

  ‘Mrs Jones!’ we hear Joey exclaim loudly, the relief evident in his voice. ‘Come on in. Come on in.’

  A few moments later Joey walks into the living room, followed by an attractive blonde woman in her mid-forties. ‘This is Mrs Jones, one of my parishioners,’ Joey says by way of introduction. ‘Mrs Jones, meet Jim and John, two homeless men I’m currently helping.’

  Mrs Jones looks me up and down, obviously impressed at how well turned-out I am for someone sleeping rough. Courtney has his mouth open, apparently about to correct Joey, but Joey is too quick for him. ‘Why don’t you two go upstairs and help yourselves to some of the clothes I’ve laid out in the spare bedroom? I’ll drive you over to that hostel in half an hour or so.’

  Courtney isn’t standing for this. ‘I don’t need no clothes,’ he says, before plonking himself down on the shot sofa. I decide to follow suit, sitting beside the Jamaican.

  Joey glares at us but doesn’t comment. Turning to Mrs Jones he says, ‘Take a seat over here.’ He gestures towards an armchair. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  Mrs Jones sits before saying, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea – if you’ll join me.’

  ‘Back in a second,’ Joey says and leaves the room without offering either Courtney or myself a drink.

  Mrs Jones smiles at us when we’re alone. ‘How are you chaps getting on?’ she asks. ‘Homelessness must be a truly horrible experience. I find camping for a weekend pretty traumatic, and that’s with on-site toilets and showers.’

  ‘Yes, we’re pleased Joey could escape that life, and now he’s helping us do the same,’ I reply. Courtney chuckles.

  ‘Joey was homeless?’ Mrs Jones asks, her face lighting up with curiousity.

  ‘Yes, shortly after he came over from the States his mother died. He hit the bottle pretty hard, and his life started to unravel.’ I can sense Courtney shaking with restrained giggles as I talk. ‘But his faith in God helped him back onto his feet, and look at him now!’

  Mrs Jones opens her mouth to say something, but before she can the sofa Courtney and I are sitting on jerks violently in her direction. ‘What the hell?’ she exclaims. ‘How did that happen?’

  I jump off the sofa, quickly followed by Courtney. Seconds after we’re on our feet the sofa shifts left, colliding with a side table and sending the magazines it’s holding tumbling to the floor. This movement also exposes the gun
that Joey has recently hidden.

  Mrs Jones starts gabbling – I can’t really make out what she’s saying. It’s at this point that Joey walks back in, and I take this opportunity to take my leave. ‘Seems your sofa’s playing up again,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about that lift to the hostel. I’ll walk.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll walk as well,’ Courtney says.

  We make our way to the front door, leaving Joey to explain homelessness, poltergeists and a handgun to Mrs Jones.

  On the way home I see a woman wearing a bright pink top. It sparks a memory from early childhood that is almost painful in its clarity. I think I had a bunch of plastic blocks, one of which was exactly the same colour as the woman’s clothing. I can’t figure out why this recollection occurs now, given I must have seen this colour many times before, but it does. The memory isn’t just of the toy, but of the whole emotional climate I was experiencing at the time. Excitement and fear both seem to feature prominently, but what either the excitement or fear relate to I can’t remember. The memory of the blocks triggers a memory of a childhood friend; I think his name was Charlie. I recall playing with him in my back garden, and the play leading to a squabble. Now I’m punching Charlie, and I really don’t care that he’s being hurt. He’s my friend, but I’m hurting him, and I acknowledge this fact without any sort of emotion. It’s just happening, and that’s the way things are.

  Was I born this way, I wonder? I have to acknowledge that my parents gave me a pretty good upbringing. I don’t think I was ever dropped on my head, or suffered an illness that might have messed with my mind. The only death in the family before my eighteenth birthday was of a grandfather who lived in Australia and whom I had only ever met two or three times. Strange. I sometimes wish I was like other people, but only out of curiousity as to what it would be like. I don’t feel a moral obligation to act in accordance with society’s expectations. Morals to me are like signs on a motorway. I have to behave in certain ways to avoid trouble, but not because I really want to.