Felix Shill Deserves to Die

by Gareth Busson

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, why me? Why me back then? Why did you pick on me as a kid? Why did you single me out for that much abuse?’

  He doesn’t even have to think about his answer.

  ‘Because there was no one around to stop me,’ he leers. ‘It was fucking easy. You were all alone. Just like now. You’ve always been a loud mouthed little cunt. Even the teachers used to encourage me to rough you up? What was his name, Mr. Hull? Yeah, that was him. He was that sick of your lip he used to let me leave ten minutes early so I could get a bead on you.’ Again there’s that hur-hur-hur.

  ‘Still, did his own dirty work in the end, didn’t he?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Let’s see who gets fucked, shall we? I’m gonna pull you apart.’ Then he starts forward again.

  A voice calls out. ‘This isn’t fair, this isn’t how it’s meant to be.’

  Better deal with it, Felix.

  I look around desperately in the hope of finding some kind of weapon with which to defend myself.

  There! A length of wood at my feet. It must have fallen from the gate. It doesn’t look particularly heavy but it’s better than nothing. I crouch to pick it up.

  ‘That won’t do you any good,’ Carl says. He’s a matter of feet away now.

  Stepping out of the shadow, I throw my clothes over him. He flaps for a second, then tosses them to the ground. It’s not much of a distraction but it’s enough. Before he can refocus I close my eyes, and swing the plank in his direction.

  Thwack!

  I feel the wood reverberate and then snap in two somewhere close to my knuckles. When I open my eyes I see I’ve knocked him sideways. It’s not very far, but it might allow me to squeeze past. I charge forward.

  Carl is weaker than I expect and he stumbles back. His heavy feet scuffle against the ground. There’s a strong odour of aftershave as one of his hands falls across my back. It grips at my t-shirt. Flick it loose. Drop my shoulder. And I’m free!

  Tear off back to the road. I make it down the opening without hearing any kind of growl or threat from Carl. I allow myself a quick glance behind.

  What’s that? He’s lying on the ground?

  I stop running and stare at him. All the time I’ve got one ear open for his cohorts.

  ‘Forget it, Carl.’ My voice is little more than a whisper. ‘Don’t think I’m falling for that one.’

  I wait a few seconds more. Still nothing. A doubt creeps into my mind. Is Carl really the kind of person who would play possum? Not likely.

  An arm twitches.

  Is he hurt? He can’t be, I didn’t hit him that hard, and this is Carl Green we’re talking about. Bastard is indestructible.

  Another twitch, only this time it’s the edge of a curtain just a few doors away. I jump into the driveway again and the safety of the darkness.

  Trying desperately not to make a sound, I tip-toe back through the dark entrance. I’m cocked, fully primed and ready to fly at the slightest movement. However, what I next see freezes me to the spot.

  Carl is lying off to the right side of the alleyway, the soles of his feet facing me. As I draw near, I see his left arm is stretched out at ninety degrees and his right is by his side. With his legs straight and tightly packed together, he looks like some kind of butch navy signalman. Every now and then his hands flick out as if they are brushing away an insect.

  Is he having some kind of seizure?

  Then I notice his head and the dark shadow growing around it, like a halo made of black silk.

  Is that really blood? How wonderful!

  Perfectly calm, I walk around to the other side so I can study him better.

  No, of course it isn’t. Carl’s putting me on.

  ‘I’m not falling for this one either,’ I say and kick out.

  Carl rolls over. In doing so, his head flops heavily back exposing two holes about an inch apart above his left ear. A rhythmical jet of burgundy squirts from them.

  This is all a dream. This is all a wonderful, wonderful dream.

  As I stagger back, my feet brush against one of the broken pieces of wood lying discarded on the ground. At one end of it, standing shiny and erect like the bristles of a primitive toothbrush, are two rusty nails.

  Would you just look at that.

  I pick the plank up. Examine it. Not sure how long that takes but it’s only when the puddle of blood gets too close to my boots that I step back. The movement brings me round. I need to get out of there.

  I hide the two sections underneath my jacket and make a quick sweep for electronic witnesses. None that I can see. No point in worrying about those I can’t.

  One last look at Carl’s body.

  You’re not sorry. Don’t try and kid yourself.

  A police siren pierces the night.

  8

  I run.

  For five minutes I run flat out. All the time I’m listening for signs. Raised voices. A revved engine. The calm before a siren. Anything to indicate they are onto me.

  Past Crouch End Hill and onto Hornsey Lane. Then there’s no other choice. I have to stop. My lungs are strained to the brink. To the brink of fusion. Spontaneous combustion is becoming a distinct possibility. One spark and I’ll be a skid mark and pile of ash. A bus shelter appears up ahead. I fall into it. Squat in the corner.

  Get the meltdown under control. Don’t pass out. Ignore the streetlights leaving traces. Fuck. Do not pass out.

  You fat murdering bastard, if you ever make it out of this then you're gonna get fit.

  I will. I will. I swear.

  It comes again. The shriek of the siren. Every part of me is on fire. Every ember telling me to stay where I am. But I ignore it. Have to. I dig deep and push off my knees. Hurts like hell. Have to keep moving though. I have to believe that Carl’s body has already been discovered. That’s important. I need to be disciplined about it. I need to assume that the whole world is chasing after me. Cover as much distance as I can. If I don’t, then I’ll become careless. Become careless and I’ll become caught.

  Sometimes running, mostly walking, I press on for the next twenty minutes, until at the Archway Road Bridge I stop. The noise from the busy dual carriageway below gives me an idea. I pull out both pieces of wood and stomp on the two nails with my boot. Then I clamber up onto the ornamental balustrade and peer over. When a gap appears in the traffic, I drop them down into the road. I lose sight of the small timber but the longer piece bounces around for a while before eventually settling on the white line.

  Shit!

  You bloody idiot. It’ll lie there all night now.

  It just might, as well. I stand there making up all kind of reasons why I shouldn’t go down and retrieve it. Then an articulated lorry approaches. As it passes underneath me, the driver seems to doze off for a moment and the edge of one of his tyres catches the plank, flicking it underneath the truck’s chassis. There’s a loud and satisfying crack followed by a series of sharp fractures, which results in a puddle of splinters being left on the tarmac.

  I step down a lighter man. The most vital piece of evidence connecting me to Carl is now destroyed beyond recognition.

  What, you think that gets you off the hook, Fatty? That doesn’t mean a damn thing. They don’t need to catch you holding a smoking gun nowadays. Better get moving again.

  I set off.

  At the top of Highgate Hill I reach a staggered crossroads. A busy road lies on either side. Directly opposite are the closed gates of Waterlow Park. It’s the perfect place to hole up for a while. Dark. Open. Safe. However, before I can think about hunkering down I need some kind of refreshment. My body is long unaccustomed to physical exertion and now my mouth is full of coppery blood. With the image of Carl’s body so fresh in my mind, the taste is disturbing me more than any thoughts of imprisonment.

  Don’t worry. You’re riding it well. You’ll be OK. Just ride it a little further. There’s probably an off-licence or late-night petrol station just along
one of these streets. Get some orange juice or water there.

  I scan the options. Of the five routes on offer, the one opposite – Dartmouth Park Hill – is the quietest and seems to provide the most tree cover. By my reckoning it will lead me back towards the city. Back towards the crowds. The police there have bigger fish to worry about. That’s my way forward.

  I’m a few hundred yards along the path when, lo and behold, the siren pipes up again. However, this time there is no distant build-up. It’s close. Frighteningly close. So close the immediacy of it actually makes me stop walking. For a second I imagine the squad car is right behind me, but when I turn, I see the sky flashing above a nearby house.

  They are at the crossroads I’ve just passed. A reprieve then, but it still means they are right on my tail.

  Run. Hide.

  Great idea, but where? With the long wall of a hospital running along this side of the road and a fenced hedgerow on the other, there’s nowhere to go. I’m trapped again, only this time I’m caught out in the open.

  There is only one choice available to me: continue along the path and hope a bolthole presents itself. I quicken my pace.

  Deep breaths, Felix.

  Then I hear the sound of feet beating on the pavement behind. Half expecting to see a policeman, I turn. To my relief I see a youth pelting towards me. His white feet are a blur. He’s wearing a dark hood pulled tight around his face and a black quilted jacket. It bulks out his athletic frame, making him look wider and older.

  Yes, and to the fleeting eye he might look as wide and as old as the lesser spotted Felix Shill. Better scarper.

  For a second I manage to ignore the voice. I know my reserves are almost depleted. But when the branches hanging over the lip of the hill start to flash blue, I give in.

  Running on the fumes of paranoia I pick up my stride and try to match the youth’s pace, but this is a non-contest. He’s like a gazelle and covers the ground at a phenomenal rate. Within a second he’s level with me. Then, while maintaining a safe distance, he slows right down. Once he’s satisfied I’m not a threat, a bewildered, impertinent expression crosses his face.

  ‘The fuck you bustin’, wasteman?’

  I don’t get the chance to reply. The police car comes screaming around the corner. Our world turns into a discotheque.

  The youth steals a quick shufti behind and drops it down a gear, leaving me to watch with envy as he pulls effortlessly away. A half a second later he reaches the end of the wall and, in the blink of an eye, he turns ninety degrees and vanishes. More than ever before, I’m exposed and alone.

  Now you’ve had it.

  Shut up.

  The police headlights fill the road with a brilliant light. I have to squint to see the road in front of me.

  They won’t even have to get out of the car to catch your flabby arse.

  Shut the fuck up.

  I see my shadow yawn towards the horizon.

  Any second now you’re gonna be splayed across their bonnet.

  Shut the fu-

  The hospital wall falls mercifully away to reveal a honeycombed complex of council flats.

  At last!

  A series of entrances separate the buildings. I can see the silhouette of the running youth in the first of them. For a moment I consider tracing his steps, but I know the angle is physically too severe. To follow him would mean losing too much momentum and I can’t afford that. I steer towards the next one along.

  Tyres gripe. Car doors slam. I disappear. A thousand footsteps reverberate around me. Then the entrance opens up into a long courtyard.

  It’s as I head past the overgrown lawn that the wider consequences of my actions dawn on me: innocent people do not flee from the law. My reaction is an admission of guilt. But of what? That is exactly what the occupants of that squad car would now be duty bound to find out, and since rozzers tends to hunt in pairs, the likelihood is they will split up.

  An army echoes in the entrance behind me.

  Ah yes, and there’s Dr. Marten himself. He’s beating a path straight to your back door.

  Blank it out.

  One of my laces comes loose. I can see it flapping out of the corner of my eye.

  Don’t you go and trip now.

  Blank it out. Blank it out.

  At the end of the courtyard is a set of steps leading down to an enclosed playground. I run around, hoping for a path that might lead me into the park.

  You should be so lucky.

  My heart sinks when I see the six-foot wall blocking my escape. As if the concrete panels are not enough of an obstruction, some civil servant has seen fit to extend the barrier with wire meshing.

  A pair of feet descends the steps.

  Get ready. Here they come. This is where the house of cards comes tumbling down.

  In desperation I follow the wall to the corner. I look up. It must be twenty feet easily. Fortunately the extension has been constructed from this side, which means that the triangulated girders holding it in place are accessible. There’s no barbed wire that I can see and as long as my legs hold out, I’m sure I can make it over. I crack on.

  My fashionable boots were not built for this kind of thing. They make the task twice as difficult, but before long I’m cocking an unsteady leg over the wavering mesh.

  Look down there.

  No, don’t–

  I almost let go when I see how far away the ground is. I’ve never liked heights. Can’t trust myself. They make me want to jump.

  ‘Police,’ a woman calls out. I can see her beam of light bouncing along the path. ‘Yes, you,’ she says with more venom. ‘Stop right where you are.’

  A bizarre question goes through my mind; does that approach ever work? Is just the mention of ‘police’ ever enough to make people acquiesce? Who knows? Maybe it is.

  I’m certainly not. I’m not stopping anywhere.

  I try to descend, but with the girders now gone, the wide toes of my boots are struggling to find footholds in the wire. The policewoman must see this because she aims the torchlight straight at me. It catches me full in the face and I instinctively raise a hand to try and protect my identity. In doing so, my torso peels away from the meshing and I fall slightly back. My feet lose their grip. I start to slide. I claw at the wire in an attempt to reattach my loose limpet, but it’s already too late. The fall wrenches the grip from my other hand. I catch a glimpse of the sky for a split second before I feel myself twisting in the air. Then the world becomes a streak of fearful anticipation.

  When I crash down it is into a pile of decaying grass cuttings and nettles. A pile of stones beneath them wrenches the wind out of me. I give the real pain a second to kick in, but when it doesn’t arrive I’m straight back to my feet. With my head down I run aimlessly. Like an embarrassed cat.

  The contrast between the two sides of the fence is stark and now a thick sea of mist covers the earth. It is so dense I almost expect to wade through it to reach cover.

  I feel the cushion of grass underfoot, the broken gravel of a track, then more grass. My foot catches something heavy lying on the ground. It gets wedged underneath, sending me sprawling forwards. My loose boot stays put.

  That’s when the pain breaks through. With my eyes and teeth clenched, I roll onto my back and listen for someone climbing over the fence.

  Nothing.

  Wind rattles the trees.

  What are they playing at? Bloody pussies. Why aren’t they following?

  Suddenly the fog above me is illuminated. Steam is rising from me, turning the air into whey. I try to breathe silently through my nose but it’s impossible. I wind up sounding more like a knackered horse. My breath mingles with the mist like a dirty paintbrush dipped into spring water.

  The searchlight continues to explore the area for a good thirty seconds more. Each time it passes over my resting place I’m braced for the command to ‘Stay where you are!’ But it never arrives.

  At last I hear the electronic bleep of a radio, then the
light snicks off and the darkness returns.

  So was he dead?

  Stow those thoughts. They’re not helping.

  Never. Not until you answer the question.

  My lungs deepen. The ground is spongy and apart from the wet grass pressed against my head, I am perfectly comfortable. I lie there a while longer until the glow of exercise dies away. Soon after, the cold cuts through the layer of sweat and grease. I need to make a move. Before I seize up.

  I sit up and grab my boot and rest a hand on one of the nearby blocks. There’s a small groove etched into it. Closer inspection reveals I’ve been lying among a cluster of collapsed headstones. I look around and see countless others, all in various stages of decrepitude. Different shapes tumbled this way and that like a dead sultan’s dominoes.

  A graveyard?

  What, you think this is coincidence?

  This is great. Just great. Because my nerves weren’t shredded enough already.

  I slide my boot back on and turn my back on the fence. Ivy suffocates everything and I slip and lurch across the graves, grateful that I only need watch the ground at my feet. I try my hardest to walk quietly but every step I take seems to cry out in the darkness.

  Before long I reach a path, which I follow until it picks up the gravel track again. The moonlight is brighter here and through the tumbling fog I can see the track rises uphill and curves around to my right. It’s an access route, presumably used by hearses and maintenance. If I follow it there is a good chance it will lead me to the main entrance. However, if the police are intent on catching me, this will most likely be where they will pick up their search.

  I’m better off sticking to the dirt paths. The graves might be disturbing, but at least they provide some cover. I cross over and continue hesitantly along.

  After only a few steps the vegetation becomes much denser. It draws the shadows in tight. I close my eyes for a few seconds to help them adjust but when I open them again I wish I hadn’t bothered. It’s every horror movie cliché made real. Tombs with ominous corners chipped away, gravestones tugged at by creeping vines, and every imaginable shape hiding among the slowly shifting vapour.