by Tom Trott
It burst at me. By luck I raised my hand near my face and then I felt a white-hot pain searing into my wrist. It was cheese wire. It cut into my wrist like it was cheddar, crushing it against my throat. But at least it wasn’t cutting into my throat. I saw a flash of manic eyes in the mirror, mine then his. I could hear his puffing breath in my ear. I groped with my hand at his head, tried to grab his hair but of course he was bald, pulled at his ear instead. I thumped and elbowed. He pushed his knees into my back, pulling the wire tighter. I felt it slice through my flesh. It reached bone. I would have screamed if my hand wasn’t strangling me, instead it came out as a guttural moan. I felt the pink mist descending as before. But this time there was no gnome to reach for. He tried to pull me down onto the floor, I held onto the taps. I kicked with my legs, but I could barely land a blow. I grabbed at the cabinet, the door opened. Inside was the safety razor. It was the only chance I had. I took it, reached behind my head to where his ear had been, pulled it sideways across his face.
He yelped. The tension of the wire relaxed. I fell onto the floor. I heard him stumble, smash something. His hand was to his cheek. The wire was still embedded in my wrist. I pulled it out, screamed. He turned to me, I swung the wire at him. He pulled back, dodging it. I kept flailing it. Everything he touched was now smeared with blood. His wound was bleeding in the way that only a razor cut will. Without him seeing it it must have convinced him it was worse than it was. He looked panicked for once.
He pushed me backward into the bath, I was still weak. I jumped on his back, pulling the shower curtain over his face, smothering him. He pulled a flick knife from his pocket, slashed at the curtain, cut it. I fell off. He slashed at my belly. I just dodged it, and managed to loop the wire round his wrist, pulled it tight. He screamed, dropped the knife, I grabbed it. Now he was really panicked.
He was backed against the wall, but he was by the door. He touched his cheek, again his hand came away covered in blood. I slashed at him, he ran out the door. I jumped on his legs, dropped the knife, we fell into the bedroom. He kicked me in the face. I pushed the chest of drawers into his side, he fell on the mattress. I jumped on him again. He threw me across the room. He stood over me, tried to stamp on my foot. I pushed off the wall into him, barely moving him, punched him in the split cheek. He squealed. I picked up the knife again.
One side of his face and neck were now covered in blood. He could feel the heat of it on him. I chased him, barefoot and naked, to the door. I caught him as he had to open it, he kicked me in the groin. I stumbled after him. He could jump the two flights of stairs, I had to hop them slowly. I almost caught him again at the street door.
Bruised, bloody, naked, and knife-wielding, I chased him out into the circus. Crossing the cross-hatched junction he glanced back at me, his manic eyes flaring, then was slammed to the ground by a bus.
last chapter
Living with a Killing
The sky was turning a peach colour, which bled through the windows into Daye’s living room. I sat in one of his obscenely comfortable chairs, my foot and wrist now bandaged. I had had two cups of tea, five biscuits, and was now on coffee, but still I was fading.
‘What happened to him?’ he asked, hunched in his armchair.
‘I didn’t hang around to find out. I got dressed and climbed out the same way I climbed in. But it didn’t look good, the whole glass front of the bus was smashed in.’
He nodded, then took a puff of oxygen. I listened to the dawn chorus.
‘Do you think George will do the right thing?’ he asked after a minute.
‘I do.’
He didn’t ask why.
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for everything.’
He looked intrigued. ‘You make it sound like you’re the one who’s dying.’
I don’t think he knew how much that hurt. ‘Don’t joke,’ I told him, ‘the state I’m in, I really could cry.’
He smiled at me. I smiled back. A few tears escaped.
There was the sound of an engine pulling up, then a knock.
‘That’ll be them,’ he said, and padded to the door.
I heard him open it, then a surprised hello.
‘Is Joe here?’ It was Tidy’s voice.
I stepped gingerly to the door. With a wink, Daye disappeared back into the living room.
‘How did you find me?’
‘I am a detective,’ she answered.
I nodded, glancing at the road. ‘You got your bike back. That was fast.’
She smiled wickedly. ‘I have ways.’
She looked at my bruises and bandages, touched my face. ‘What happened to you, honey?’
I took her hand away. ‘I’ll tell you another time, but I think your friend’s book is going to do pretty well if he ever finishes it.’
‘You’re not still mad at me?’ she cooed.
I looked down.
She leant in, whispered in my ear, ‘Come with me.’
I stared at my feet in the pink morning light.
‘Come with me to London, we’ll go now.’
I pushed her away. ‘No.’
She smiled, confused.
‘No,’ I said firmly.
She huffed, folded her arms. ‘I’ll give you a day to think about it.’ She started to turn.
‘I don’t need it,’ I said.
She stopped, turned back, biting her tongue.
‘I don’t know who you are,’ I explained calmly. ‘What you are. Did you trick me? Did you not? Did you lie? Were you just working for that journalist, or were there others who asked you to break into Clarence’s office? Do you do it for money? Do you do it for thrills? Could you even tell me?’
Her eyebrows shot up, she put her hands on her hips. ‘You’re better than me, is that it?’
‘No, just older. Worn out.’
‘You’re not even forty.’
My cheeks twitched. ‘It’s not the years, honey...’ I trailed off.
She marched up close. ‘Why are you saying this? Why are you trying to get rid of me?’
‘I’m telling you why.’
She looked at me in disbelief, as though I was someone else. ‘What the hell is this!? I thought you were different to the rest of them. I thought you... got it.’
‘I think I finally have.’ I sighed. ‘Everyone has to get what they deserve. The problem is I don’t know what you deserve.’
She looked at me dead. ‘Fuck. You.’ Then turned. ‘I can’t talk to you like this.’
‘I don’t want to see you again,’ I said to her back.
‘No problem,’ she called over her shoulder, walking away.
She straddled her bike and shot off without giving me another look.
It had been brief. Horrible. The most unkindest cut of all. I sighed heavily. The air seemed to come from deep inside. It was cruel, but it was the kindest way.
‘Everything ok?’ Daye asked when I returned to the living room.
‘Peachy,’ I drawled.
It was half an hour before there was the sound of another engine, and another knock at the door. Daye opened it to two voices, who bounded in in good spirits, but then stopped dead when they saw me: Jerry Berlin and Dean Seamark.
Berlin’s sharp face scowled, then relaxed and sighed. ‘Mr Daye, I fear we’ve been lured here under false pretences.’
‘Take a seat,’ Daye said, ‘Joe’s got something to talk to you about.’
Berlin sat reluctantly. Seamark stayed standing.
‘I hope you know we’re never going to represent you pro bono,’ Berlin sneered.
‘I have a hundred and ten thousand pounds. That should cover your fees, take the rest as a donation to your firm.’
Berlin frowned.
‘We should leave,’ Seamark said.
Berlin nodded to him, but didn’t move. ‘Why us?’ he asked. ‘With that money you could get any lawyers.’
‘I don’t want “any lawyers”.’
‘Fine then, why us?’
&nb
sp; I thought about it. ‘You’re good people. You deserve the business.’
He smirked. ‘And what do you deserve?’
‘I’m the prime suspect for three murders, none of which I committed. But I know who did...’
‘Uh-huh,’ he mumbled, unconvinced.
‘One of the two people who killed the Almore family.’
Berlin took a notepad and pen from his pocket. ‘And you know who that is?’
‘I do.’ I took a breath. ‘I didn’t kill these people, and I intend to fight my case.’ I stumbled, almost choking on the next words. ‘But I am going to confess to killing someone else.’
I heard Daye shift in the corner behind me. I didn’t have the courage to look at him.
Berlin’s head cocked, interested now. ‘Connected to the others?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Name?’
‘Robert Coward.’
Berlin looked at Seamark, but Seamark was busy studying me. He looked back, all trace of amusement gone. ‘Why now? If you don’t mind me asking.’
I glanced at Seamark, then back at him. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’
Berlin considered for a moment, then looked at Seamark, who nodded.
✽✽✽
The sun had risen fully now as Daye drove me into town. The snow had melted and it was a clear day. By the racecourse I could see all the way down to the sea, where the sunlight glistened on the waves. The city was quiet, and the journey took less time then I’d anticipated; in five minutes we were almost there. I hadn’t even found the courage to speak yet.
‘Thank you again,’ I said as we turned off Albion Hill onto John Street.
I heard him breathe, but he didn’t say anything. He was disappointed in me, I knew. This was one more relationship I had destroyed. I deserved it though.
We pulled up by the main entrance, the blue Sussex Police shield above the doors. I stared at the glistening road, wet with melted snow. There was a salty breeze coming from the sea, chilling yet refreshing. Seagulls were screeching. Pigeons were fluttering. Builders were building. Bin men were bin-menning. People were walking into the road looking at their phones. Just another new day in Brighton.
I didn’t dare look at him as I spoke. ‘If you see her before I do, tell Thalia I’m sorry.’ I sighed. ‘Tell everyone I’m sorry.’ I popped the door handle, ‘I’m sorry,’ and started to climb out.
‘Joe...’ he started.
I stopped.
‘It’s a terrible thing that you did,’ he mumbled, then cleared his throat. ‘But for this,’ he nodded to the station, ‘I’m proud of you.’
I don’t think he knew how much that meant. I almost crumbled. Instead I climbed out of the car to hide the tears, but he climbed out too and helped me hobble in the morning sun toward the doors.
EPILOGUE
You and your bad deeds are one. You are not complete until they catch up with you.
The man crutched his way into what was to be his cell and rested his foot up on the mattress. Things were never going to be the same again, he knew that. He looked around at his seven square-metres. So this was what it was like, he thought. He had a window, he had a door, he had a chair, he had three shelves, a sink, a toilet, a table, a bed, and his imagination. What more did he need?
It was dark already because of that stupid delay transferring him, so he lay down on the thin mattress, one inch too short for him, head on the thin pillow, and had the best night’s sleep of his life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom Trott is 5’8” (173cm) tall, with a 32” waist, hazel eyes, thick brown hair, and is left-handed. He has eczema, poor eyesight, and frequently suffers from dry lips. He has hairy fingers and toes, hairy arms and legs, and yet an almost entirely hairless torso. He cannot grow a beard, but could grow a considerable moustache if motivated to do so. He has an aquiline nose, which doesn’t point straight, and no chin. He has man-boobs, a spare tyre/muffin top, small hands, small feet, and a tiny penis. Sometimes he has good ideas. This paragraph was not one of them.
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