Felix Shill Deserves to Die

by Gareth Busson

  I feel as raw as a boxer’s eggs. The only people who are comfortable in this place are lying under six feet of shit and twigs. Surely no one in their right mind would follow me in here.

  Don’t you believe it, Sunshine.

  Soon I come to a small clearing. In the middle is an intersection. One path leads off to my right, parallel to the maintenance road and towards the main entrance, while the other continues straight ahead, deeper into the graveyard.

  There is a low block nearby. I lean against it and carefully light a cigarette. Eye the gaping hole that leads beyond the path. It’s not an option I savour, but when you’re going through hell, you keep going, right?

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, leave Churchill out of this and answer the question. Have you killed him or not?

  How the hell am I to know? There’s no way to be certain. I do know that being here is not helping my optimism. I can feel my grip loosening. The edges blotching again. I imagine the bodies lying only a few feet beneath me. Packed in like a submarine crew. Bloodless fingers curled tight.

  As tight as Carl’s grisly fishhooks.

  And the blood. So much blood. Black. Shiny. Spilt like a split onyx.

  I rub my eyes but that only makes the memory more vivid.

  Don’t worry; we got it. We captured every last little detail. The image of Carl’s cadaver is already framed and hanging above the television in your mind. The moment you think you’ve moved on, the very second you manage to forget about him, you’ll look up and BAM!!! There it will be. And there will be no escaping this one. No waiting behind in the cloakrooms before running home to Mummy. This will be the most relentless form of intimidation imaginable. The ultimate bullyboy.

  Carl would be proud of this.

  Don’t you believe it. Even prouder than he was about his kids.

  Shut up, don’t mention them.

  What? His little bullyboys?

  Shut up. Move on. Anyway he might not be dead.

  Who are you trying to kid? Oops, there I go again.

  No, he might not be. People survive worse injuries than that.

  Maybe they do, but those people deserve to live. Carl was long overdue his fate and you know it.

  He didn’t deserve to die. No one deserves to die.

  Listen to yours–

  They don’t. Anyway, I didn’t set out to hurt him. It was self-defence. Everyone in the club will testify to that. They’d support me. Maybe I should give myself up, set the record straight.

  Woah, woah, woah, are you out of your mind? There’s no need to overreact. This is just a blip. There’s still one more name left on your list. Remember? The last one. The most important one.

  Forget about that. This is no joke anymore. Someone’s probably dead.

  Someone’s already dead. You. You’re the last person they’ll suspect.

  No. I just need to be sure he’s OK. Is that such a bad thing?

  And what if he’s not? If you turn yourself in now they’ll throw the fucking key away. Think about it: you ridiculed, humiliated and then murdered the man who used to torture you as a child. Are you hearing that? You murdered someone.

  Murdered. You hear it in films and on TV but never use it yourself. There’s never a need to.

  I keep repeating it until it sounds strange. Meaningless. I shake my head in despair. Stare at a headstone.

  Do you know what yours will say if you get picked up now? “Here lies Felix Shill. Father. Husband. Murderer. “

  ‘Shut up.’

  I tuck my chin into the neck of my jumper and exhale a lungful of smoke through my nostrils. Hug myself. The nose-less face of a stone angel looks down at me. Her frosty hair sparkles.

  That’s right, what would Bebe say?

  ‘Shut the fuck up! That’s too damned cold,’ I mutter to myself.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ a dry voice answers.

  ‘What the fu-‘

  I shrink from the sound. Push myself away from the stone block.

  Bad idea.

  Decaying roots are the only things holding the slabs of the grave in place and when my weight shifts they give way. It collapses beneath me like a wet cardboard box, sending an unsettling amount of dust ballooning into the air. I try not to imagine who I might be inhaling.

  ‘Relax,’ the voice says again. It’s coming from a headstone to my right. ‘I’m not here for you.’

  ‘Wh- what are you here for, then?’

  The headstone sniggers. ‘The atmosphere, I suppose.’

  I should run. I know I should, but there is something in the coldness of his tone that convinces me I’m in no immediate danger. After all, it can’t be the authorities. A policeman would never be so casual. They would’ve jumped me when my back was turned. Even so, my eyes never leave that wedge of slate.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ. You really scared the shit out of me.’

  ‘I can see that. You’re a fresh face for a Friday night.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes, I expected one of the regulars.’

  ‘Regulars? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? What kind of person hangs around a graveyard at this hour?’ I regret the question as soon as I ask it. ‘What I mean is, what are you?’

  Bloody hellfire, Felix. Do not let him answer that.

  ‘I mean, are you… are you like the caretaker or something?’

  The man sniggers again. ‘Oh, I’ve taken a lot of things in my time, but care has never been one of them.’

  ‘So what are you doing in here?’

  ‘I’ve come to see someone. I lost an important part of my life here recently.’

  Recently? Judging from the state of the place, there hasn’t been a burial there in decades. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  The shadow starts to hum a tune I can’t place. A hymn maybe. It distracts me for a moment because the next thing I hear is a branch snap further to my left. I spin around and see a figure pass between two trees. Crane my neck to get a better view.

  ‘A little jumpy for midnight strolls, aren’t you?’ The shadow says playfully. The owner of the voice is circling me. Mocking me. ‘Don’t worry,’ he continues, ‘you’re perfectly safe, the bogeyman doesn’t clock in until two.’ Another chuckle. ‘So what have you been up to, then?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, mate, I don’t know what your game is, but just fucking do one, would you.’

  ‘Why, are you here to see someone, too?’ I ignore the question. He comes forwards slightly and now I can just make out his fuzzy silhouette. ‘Perhaps you’re waiting for those policemen that just pulled up at the gates?’

  ‘Police?’ I drop into a crouch and scan the overgrown landscape, like a neurotic meerkat. My voice is an urgent whisper. ‘They’re here? Where?’

  The shadow holds out a murky arm and points towards the path he has just walked across. ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ he says, ‘they’ll never find you down here. There’s about twenty acres on this side of the road.’

  ‘This side? What do you mean? What is this place?’

  ‘You’re in Highgate. Highgate cemetery? Did you not see the sign?’ I’m too on edge to reply. ‘Well, then, how did you get in here?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Don’t suppose it does.’ His shadow edges smoothly around to a nearby tomb. Then it darkens until he emerges into the clearing and I finally get a chance to look at him.

  The first thing I notice is his outfit. He’s got a dark full-length coat on, with high, thick, fur-lined collars and cuffs. It must be a woman’s. It has to be. He’s stolen it from his grandmother. The sharp tips of the belt have been embroidered with tiny plastic beads and they shine in the gloom. I would take him for a transvestite, were it not for the creased light-coloured shirt and fat knotted silk tie that sit behind the open breast. It’s the type of look that would be spurned by Liberace’s press manager as a tad too ostentatious.

  To make matters more bizarre, he has two long bloated sideburns spouting out of what I can only describe as a greasy afro mu
llet. It throws shade over his eyes, but try as they might the hair and burns cannot hide the man’s expression, set in a permanent grimace as though he’s in pain but finds it utterly amusing.

  ‘So it’s like that then, is it?’ he says with delight. ‘You really have upset the old bill. Don’t worry, I don’t care what you’ve done. Have you never heard?’ He sweeps a hand before him and laughs again. ‘Everyone’s equal in here.’

  Even in this fog I can see the broad gaps in his teeth.

  His relaxed manner amidst such austere surroundings is seriously unnerving me. I’m barely hinged as it is. I point along the path to my left. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘A way out, but hold on–’ I turn towards it. ‘I said, HOLD ON!’ His cry pierces the night like gunfire.

  I take cover behind the loving memory of Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright. ‘Fucking hellfire, pal. Why don’t you just send up a flare and be done with it?’

  ‘Well, if you refuse to listen.’ There’s an air of superiority all of a sudden. ‘Now, what I was trying to tell you is that it’s hidden, so you won’t find it on your own. You need my help. I’ll show it to you.’

  ‘That’s good of you. I can’t thank you enough. Now can we please just go?’

  ‘All in good time. First, you have to tell me what it is that you’ve done.’

  I look back at him incredulously.

  ‘Look, mate, I’m in no mood for games. I’ve taken about as much as I can stand today.’

  ‘Oh?’

  My disbelief turns into a glare. Things are about to get messy again.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the man says. His voice sounding camp for the first time. ‘I can see it now. You really have taken a lot, haven’t you?’

  The wind blows through the brittle leaves of the trees, making the world around us creak noisily. It makes him hard to hear.

  ‘…most precious… bet they stole from you first, though? Took what you valued the most… …you with nothing…’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But you said something.’

  ‘Yes, nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what you feel now, isn’t it? Like it’s all been taken away from you. You’ve no remorse, no guilt, no regret–’

  ‘Shut the hell up. Don’t presume to know what I feel; you don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’ve no room for a conscience, don’t tar me with the same brush.’

  ‘Conscience?’ He spits the word out with a venomous sneer. ‘A conscience is superfluous in this day and age; a luxury to the rich and poor alike, and nothing but a burden to the middle classes.’

  ‘Maybe, but I can only speak for myself and I’m telling you that I regret what happened.’

  He snorts. ‘I do believe that you wish it had never happened, because then you wouldn’t be hiding in a freezing graveyard, garbling away to yourself. However, I refuse to accept that you feel sorry. Not with that look in your eye.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘You know what look.’ He walks sure-footedly forwards. All the time I’m waiting for the moonlight to break through and show me his eyes. It doesn’t.

  ‘You look as though you’ve just killed someone.’

  That makes me start. I wonder how this guy ever developed such a keen understanding of killers. Maybe it was by looking in the mirror? I attempt to laugh his remark off.

  ‘I thought so,’ he says with the blunt tone of a doctor. ‘Well, I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it too much, if I were you. It’s not as though it’s worth much these days.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Life. I mean, in principle it’s more of a commodity now than it’s ever been.’

  ‘How do you work that one out?’

  ‘It’s a statistical fact; fifty years ago there were around two and a half billion people on this planet. It’s closer to six and a half now. Give it another fifty and it will be ten. Simple economics; the world has a surplus of human beings and when you have oversupply to that extent, a single unit is worth less and less. Eventually the human commodity will become almost disposable. Ironic really, the greater the civilisation is, the less civilised it becomes.’

  ‘Fascinating. Look, are you gonna show me the way out of here or not?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, fuck you then, I’ll find it myself.’ I turn to leave but he cuts me off. He’s standing sideways on at the edge of the path.

  ‘If you leave now I’ll lead them straight to you,’ he says nonchalantly.

  ‘Are you for fucking real? Are you really that hard up for conversation?’ He leaves that question where it is, but I hear something that sounds like “inevitable” blow past me. ‘What? What was that?’

  ‘It’s unavoidable, you do know that.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Your situation.’

  ‘What are you–’

  ‘And although you can take comfort in the knowledge that it’s not your fault, it’s doesn’t get away from the fact. It’s all so inevitable.’

  ‘What the hell do you know about my sit–’

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he sizzles. ‘The fruit’s rotting from within. It’s the worst it’s ever been, and it’s not going to get better any time soon.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, pal?’

  ‘Them out there.’ He thrashes an arm behind him. ‘Yours is not an isolated case. They’re sick. Diseased. Life and death is nothing but a distraction. Something that interrupts the home makeover programmes or slows them down on the motorway. I bet most of them have even forgotten about that plane crash yesterday.’

  He’s right. In all the confusion, it had even slipped my mind.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘It won’t ever be forgotten by the poor bastards who lost friends and family.’

  ‘You think not? Well, let’s give them a week or so, shall we. I’m sure something will come along to take their mind off it. Something bigger and better.’

  He lightens up again. ‘You never know, maybe their numbers will all come up at once.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, and I thought I was a cynic.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, but cynicism is just a symptom of middle age. It materializes when you lose the energy to hate. You reach my age and it gets diluted into a more practical affliction. Bitter experience teaches you that there is far more solace in apathy.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I won’t argue with the bitter part. Someone must’ve really let you down in the past.’

  The man sneers. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe–’

  I think I see something flicker to my right. Can’t be sure anymore. My nerves are too worn. A branch snaps somewhere along the path in front of us. I turn meerkat again.

  ‘This is all going to come to an end soon, you realise that, don’t you?’

  The man’s voice is threatening for the first time in the whole conversation. Still distracted by my lookout, it takes me a second to rewind the tape on the comment.

  ‘What? What are you on about this time?’

  ‘Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Truth be told, I think you’re rather looking forward to it.’

  ‘Look, mate, stop talking in riddles would you, you’re not making–’

  But my sentence is cut short. This time a light definitely penetrates the darkness just outside the clearing. Someone is on the path leading from the entrance, heading right towards us.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Right, follow me,’ the man says and starts in the direction of his exit. His urgency is out of character. Nevertheless, I tuck in behind him. The smell of stale cigarette smoke is overwhelming.

  We walk a short way, then he turns to the left. A car passes nearby but I can see no trace of its headlights. All the light in our world is coming from behind.

  ‘Can you not go any faster?’ I ask.

  The man ignores the question. He leads me to another track that runs along the border of the gr
aveyard. I know this because I can see a line of railings through the foliage. There’s a road on the other side. Another car passes by. However, rather than follow the boundary line, we seem to turn away from it.

  On and on, the track becoming narrower and narrower until it finally disappears and we start walking over the graves. It’s happening too quickly for me to worry about superstitious consequences.

  The man stops and points to a tiny break in a bush.

  ‘There, behind that.’

  ‘Are… are you sure?’

  When he doesn’t reply, I’m sceptical, but I have no other option than to hack my way through.

  It comes as no surprise when I emerge on the other side and find a set of cast iron railings, all lined up as pristine as an exercise book. Deep down I’ve been expected this all along. That’s why I’m close to tears.

  ‘Where the fuck is it?’

  What happens next shortens my life by about ten years.

  I look back, expecting some kind of explanation, but then, like some kind of grisly fish emerging from a crevasse at bottom of the ocean, the man thrusts his head through the shrubbery. I let out a scream. Seeing his face up close I can’t help myself. It’s little wonder I was having trouble seeing his eyes. They are sunk deep into his head, like penny rivets hammered too hard into place, and he has lines ploughed deep into his pale skin. They radiate from his nose, reminding me of a sheet of safety glass attacked with a blunt axe. I can’t stop staring at him.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ he says, studying the railings. ‘I’m sure it was here.’

  ‘It… it’s not.’ I back away as he steps through the foliage. I’m glad the police are not far away.

  ‘I can see that it’s not. Well it must be further down.’ He turns to walk out. ‘Shh. Listen.’

  Voices now. Close. If we go back on the other side of the hedge then I’m sure they’ll be able to see us.

  ‘Listen, forget about it, I haven’t got the time. Help me over would you?’

  The man disregards the plea and continues to look for the gap.

  ‘Look, they’re gonna be here any minute.’

  To my amazement, he tucks both hands into his pockets. Takes a step back.

  ‘Are you kidding me? You bring me all this way and now you’re not going to help me out?’