by Matt Shaw
“Don’t you sometimes think you’re worth more than all of this?”
His question took me by surprise - not for the first time. A suggestion in his tone that what I did was lowly. I guess it was. I had certainly felt dirty the first time I slept with a client. At least I did after the initial joy of earning the money. A joy which lasted for about as long as it took to spend the cash which - with all my debt - wasn’t long.
“Sorry I didn’t mean how that sounded. It’s just…” he stopped himself from talking and I didn’t encourage him to continue. Some things were best left unsaid.
I changed the subject, “I’m not sure what I have in the cupboards. I definitely have ham and cheese. How does that sound?”
“Sounds lovely.”
I opened the fridge and took out the ham and cheese. I handed it to him and he put it on the side. I took out the butter and walked with it over to the bread bin and took that out too. I pulled out a handful of slices of bread and put them on the side. The lid off the butter, a knife from the cutlery drawer.
“Did you want me to do that?” Jon offered.
I shook my head.
“Won’t take me long.”
I took a second knife from the cutlery drawer and handed it to him. The first time I had ever offered a client a sharp object. Usually I try and keep them out of the way - just in case they’re damaged in the head. Jon took the knife from me and paused a moment - as did I. Had I made a mistake?
“I thought you said no.”
“What?”
“Buttering the bread. Thought you said it wouldn’t take you long? I mean it’s fine but… Just confused.”
“Oh. Sorry. No. I mean yes. I can do the bread. That’s for the cheese. If you could cut some thin slices. That’d be useful.”
“Sure.”
I watched as Jon started to slice through the cheese with the knife.
“Not too thick,” I told him.
He adjusted his technique resulting in thinner slices. I turned my attention back to the bread. Knife in hand, I started to butter it.
* *
I screamed out of both frustration and desperation. This fucking knife. It cut through the client’s skin with ease, struggled a little with the muscle and wasn’t making even a dent in his bones. I threw the bloodied knife across the room. It landed with a thud and slid into the corner of the tiled bathroom.
I burst into tears again as the weight of my actions landed heavily upon me. He came here alive and now he’s dead. He’s dead because of me. My reasons for killing him didn’t matter anymore. All I could think about was the fact he used to be a human. A man - of sorts. And now he was just a festering corpse who’d been stinking out my bathroom for the last couple of days.
I stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut. Out of sight out of mind. But he’s not though. He’s still there. I can’t leave him here. Need to accept more bookings on an incall basis and can’t do it with him stinking the house out. I hurried down the stairs - not a run but not a dawdle - and out into the garage. A few tools had been left in here. Not sure whether they belonged to another previous tenant or whether the owner of the house left them there to be helpful to people moving in. A hammer, a spanner, some blunted screwdrivers and a rusty saw. I pulled it from the shelf, knocking the screwdrivers crashing to the concrete floor, and touched the blade. It wasn’t razor sharp but hopefully it would do the job.
I took it back up to the bathroom. When I opened the door, he was there taunting me with his vacant stare. I could almost hear him laughing. Fuck you. I walked over to the bath and leaned in, saw in hand. I started on his arm. The combination of both the scent and sound of saw teeth grinding through bone made me gag. A second later and I threw up over the client. Some would have paid good money for that. I spat the remainder of the sick from my mouth and continued to saw with increased effort. I could feel it was having the desired effect and just wanted to get it over and done with before trying to think about what to do with the bits I’d cut away. Couldn’t help but think I should have thought this through properly before suffocating him. Thought this through properly? I hadn’t given it any thought. Stupid. I kept trying to force my mind back to why I had killed him, to try and make the act of disposal a little easier on myself. I did it for his wife. I did it for the lady at home who was unaware her husband was a cheating asshole. She’d just think he went missing. They’d find the car but not the body. Sure she might pine after him but at least he has died with her loving him. In time she will get over it. When a man cheats on a woman so badly though - it’s harder to get over. The feeling of abandonment. The feeling he doesn’t want you. My mother didn’t get over it. At least with him missing - she still gets to believe her vows meant something to him. She wouldn’t sit there feeling as though she’d wasted so many years of her life. I saved her. She just doesn’t know it. As the saw cut through the final piece of his bone the thought was clear in my head; I did this for her.
I wiped the sweat from my brow with a bloodied hand before taking a deep breath and starting on the next limb. I wish there were a quicker way.
* *
Jon layered the cheese into the sandwich, on top of the ham, and stepped to one side so that I could cut it with the knife I’d been using to spread the butter. Probably would have been better to use a sharper knife but I’m used to using substandard tools. You’d think I’d learn by now.
“Triangles!” Jon pointed out.
He laughed.
“Best way to make a sandwich. My mum taught me that. Somehow they taste better than when you cut them into rectangles…”
Jon smiled. I realised I had made a mistake by bringing her back into the conversation. It was only a matter of time before…
“So why don’t you talk to your family anymore?” he asked.
… And that was what I was afraid of. More personal questions.
I took a bite of my sandwich to buy myself a little time to think of a suitable reason why I wouldn’t be talking to my family, without the need to actually give him the truth.
B E F O R E
Young lady trapped in the small flat. Only allowed out with the monster by her side. A threat that if she spoke about that which took place behind closed doors she’d live to regret it. A promise that - if she played nice, he’d play nice. The knock at the door echoed around the small apartment but she didn’t dare move from where she lay. A state of undress she didn’t want others to see her in.
The monster stepped into a pair of trousers and pulled them up. Another knock at the door as he made his way down the hallway towards the front door. The young lady was curious as to who it was. They didn’t have guests come to the house, especially not those who were uninvited.
“What are you doing here?”
The young lady moved from bed to door, keeping out of sight, and strained to hear what was being discussed. She recognised the voice speaking to the monster, she knew she did, but she couldn’t place who it belonged to. Definitely someone she knew though. Words merged into nothing more than a sound. Too faint to make out properly although the tone was filled - at first - with regret and sorry before turning to one of anger and hostility. Shouting and swearing now, easy to make out what was going on.
“It’s not my fault!” the monster yelled back.
The young lady stepped into the hallway after wrapping a dressing gown around her naked form. Two men standing by the door; one was the monster and one was someone she thought she recognised from a party from years gone by. The man spotted the girl. A look of sadness on his face and then - as before - anger. He turned back to the monster.
“She’s with you? We’ve been looking for her!”
“Not very hard. Been with me since her mother kicked her out!”
“You sick son of a bitch!” he swung his fist at the monster and smiled when it connected with it’s face.
The monster turned with the force of the smack and noticed the young lady watching in fright.
&nbs
p; “Go back inside your bedroom, sweetie.”
He didn’t ask again. He turned back to the man who’d struck him.
“I suggest you leave.”
“Are you going to tell her?” the man demanded. A slight pause before he questioned him further, “What the fuck is the matter with you? You’re sick.”
“Fuck you.”
“She didn’t want us to call the police. Was scared of the neighbours and town gossips finding out but I guess it doesn’t matter what she wants anymore… “
“Fuck you!” the monster yelled again.
The young lady didn’t see anything from where she cowered in the room. She wanted to run to the stranger. She wanted him to take her away from it all; give her a new life. She didn’t dare run to him though and even if she had - had she been able to see down the hallway, she’d see the man shoved from the doorway and back into the hallway of the apartment block they were staying in.
She’d have seen the door slam shut as opposed to just hearing it.
As the monster’s footsteps walked down the hallway, back towards the room, the young lady jumped back onto the bed and curled herself into a little ball. The monster stepped into the room and walked over to the bed. He paused there. She didn’t look. She didn’t even look when he sat on the edge of the bed. Had she done so, she’d have seen the monster had it’s back to her.
“Your mother’s dead,” he said.
The young lady wanted to cry but didn’t dare.
Can’t anger the monster. It only makes it rougher.
P A R T F O U R
15 years later
A Two Way Conversation
I kept Jon’s answer short and sweet despite the urge to completely ignore the question about my lack of contact with my family. My family? They aren’t my family. They haven’t been for at least fifteen years, maybe longer. She’s dead. He’s… Gone. I don’t know where and, more to the point, I don’t care.
“Just lost contact with them,” I said.
“Do you miss them?” he asked.
“Do you mind if we talk about something else?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just interested.”
“I don’t mind answering your questions, if that’s what you really want from me, but let’s keep questions of that nature out of it, okay?”
He nodded and took a bite from his sandwich.
“You’re right,” he said with a mouthful, “it does taste better as triangles.”
I smiled before tipping my own sandwiches into the bin. Funny how talk of my lost family can snatch away my appetite. I shut the lid of the bin. Certainly easier than disposing of body parts.
* *
The toilet water flooded over the bowl and spilled its reddish colour over the floor.
“Shit!”
I backed up to avoid getting any of it onto my feet. Pointless really considering how much gore I have over myself after all the cutting. I gagged, a common occurrence now, as I reached my hand back into the toilet bowl and fished the man’s wrist from the u-bend.
Stupid.
* *
“You aren’t hungry?” he asked. His eyes fixed on the bin where I’d dropped my sandwiches.
“Must have gone past it,” I said. “Happens sometimes when I leave it too long.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you from eating.”
“My fault. I should have got myself some breakfast before you came. I don’t usually have lunch so late.”
He continued eating his sandwich. For the first time in his company, I found myself feeling uncomfortable. His eyes fixed upon me. I tried to avert his attention.
“What about you?” I asked him.
He frowned, “What about me?”
“What’s your story?” I asked.
“Well you already know about my parents,” he said, “and my foster parents were nice enough to me…”
“Not all of that. You today. Who you are today. You know what I do but I have no idea what you do.”
“What I do?”
“For a living?”
“Oh. Right. Yes. Banks.”
“You do banks?”
“Sorry. Banker. I’m a banker.”
“Oh? Very fancy.”
“I’m on the front desk. Help people with their withdrawals, transfers, complaints… That kind of things. Nothing fancy about it. Bottom rung of the ladder type of thing.”
“Oh. Well. Good place to start. Work your way up.”
He looked over my shoulder towards the garden outside. The perks of renting a house in the middle of nowhere; it afforded the privacy of a large garden. No neighbours beyond the trees lining it but - if there were any - they wouldn’t be able to see into my house. More importantly they wouldn’t be able to see into the garden either.
* *
I threw the shovel onto the grass. Sweat dripped from my forehead and had been doing so long before I started digging the hole. Carrying the bags down from the bathroom was enough to see to that.
I looked at the hole. I’m not sure how deep it should be but it looks plenty deep enough now. I hoped it was anyway. I dragged the first of the bags over to the hole and kicked it in. It landed with a thud. It wasn’t long before the rest of the bags were with it. Couldn’t believe I hadn’t done this from the start. I had no plans to move from the house anytime soon, if ever, and I hadn’t heard from the landlord for as long as I could remember. I kept the payments up on the rent and he left me to my own devices.
I reached down for the shovel and started to cover the bags with the freshly dug earth, the promise of a bath screaming to me. At least - screaming to me after I had cleaned it out.
* *
“It’s nice in the Summer,” I agreed. “So what else is there then? There must be more to you than working in a bank.”
“My life is pretty boring,” he said.
“So that’s why you came to see me? See how the other half live?”
He smiled.
“A little bit of excitement?” I pushed.
I walked over to him and stood close so that our bodies were almost touching.
“Could make it a lot more exciting for you,” I laughed.
He put his hands up, “Okay, okay, what else do you want to know?”
“Nothing in particular,” I said, “just be nice to get to know you. You know me. It’s only fair that I know you.”
“Well okay then. Worked at the bank for about…”
“Not the bank. You. Not what you do to make a living. What you do when you go home at night. That’s the person I want to know.”
“Really don’t know what to say,” he said.
I couldn’t believe how shy he was about talking about himself. I couldn’t decide whether it was a shyness or whether he was trying to hide something from me. Or was he just embarrassed and lacking in social skills? The fact he so easily blurted out that his parents were dead when I hadn’t really asked… Definitely lacking social skills.
“So I live at home with my girlfriend… Been living together for about a year now…”
“Girlfriend?”
He nodded.
“You have a girlfriend?”
* *
The man was screaming and pulling at the restraints that bound him to my bed. I couldn’t help but laugh at him. He looked pathetic, this supposedly powerful man who crossed over my threshold with such confidence. Now look at him. Pathetic.
“You won’t get away with this.”
He kept saying the same thing again and again. A sense of urgency about his voice no doubt brought about by the touch of garden shears against his balls.
“I will get away with it,” I told him. “I have got away with it. More than once. In fact, I think I’ve pretty much lost count the number of times I have got away with it….”
“Why? Why are you doing this? I brought you flowers!”
He did. Like so many clients before him - he did bring me flowers. And - like so ma
ny clients before him - they were purchased directly from the nearby petrol station. Cheap and most likely dead within the next twenty-four hours. A little like the client lying before me.
The appointment was going well enough. He was polite. He was a good lover. He paid without the need to be asked. But then it went downhill and fast. Shot his load and started to spill his guts like they usually did in a post-coital cuddle. He started telling me about his woes at home; his wife in particular. She was a moaning hag, apparently. Don’t think I’ve ever heard the word ‘hag’ before now. It just made him sound more pathetic. I told him I could make him forget all about his wife at home. He told me that I already had until I pointed out that he had been talking about her from the moment he ejaculated. I told him to lay back and close his eyes as I climbed from the bed to reach for the trusty restraints that I’d used so many times before.
“You have a wife,” I reminded him.
“Yeah? So?”
“You ever think how she would feel if she found out you were here fucking me? Did that ever cross your mind?”
“So what?”
“My dad was like you,” I hissed.
“Your dad fucked whores? So what? Loads of people do it…”
“And they can - but not whilst they’re supposed to be in a loving relationship… It’s not right…”
“You’re a whore with fucking morals?!”
Keeping one hand on the shears - pressed against his testicles - I used the other hand to slap him in the face.
“Have some respect.”
“For you? A fucking whore?”
I opened the shears up so that his bollocks were between the two blades.
“Do you want to say that again?”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please - just let me go…”
I continued with my story, “My dad cheated on my mum. It destroyed her world. The betrayal she felt - she never recovered from it. Do you know what she did?”
“Forgave him? Turned a blind eye? Realised which side her bread was buttered on?”
I sighed.
“She killed herself.”
“That’s not my fault!”
