Persona - A Disturbing Psychological Thriller

by Horn, Marc

She leaned in closer, with a sardonic smile. ‘You know that kind of stuff scares girls off, don’t you?’

  ‘Not you,’ he said boldly. ‘You’ve heard too much bullshit. You need someone genuine who talks from the heart.’

  Jenny stared at him for a moment, until she felt her expression might reveal too much. ‘You seem to know me somehow. It’s weird and a bit alarming.’ She held his gaze again. ‘And quite flattering.’

  ‘You don’t need to be scared of me, Jenny. I’ll never hurt you. I’ll just protect you.’

  The longest gaze yet. Jenny had to break it. It was weakness. ‘I wonder how that bloke is from The Cube.’

  ‘He’s probably cut down on his drinking.’

  ‘Don’t you think you were a bit forceful?’

  ‘Listen Jenny, that loser’s probably spent his life taking advantage of girls. Maybe I put a stop to it. Next time he sees a girl alone and thinks about touching her up, he’ll remember what I did.’

  Jenny was staring into space. ‘He was a pervert, I suppose. He might have done more if you hadn’t been there.’

  ‘Exactly. I think I went too light on him, personally.’

  She lifted her drink and shuffled back in her seat. ‘I certainly feel safe with you, I’ll admit that.’

  ‘But you won’t admit how you feel about me yet?’

  She closed her eyes for a second. ‘Not on a first date.’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah, I’ll give you that. I’m a bit too honest.’

  ‘Honesty’s good, but you don’t really know me yet. Would you lend money to a bloke you’d met two or three times?’

  ‘If I knew where to find him.’

  Jenny laughed. ‘You think you’re so tough, don’t you? Just because you floored a drunk boy, that doesn’t prove you’re tough.’

  ‘True. So to you I might just be brave.’

  ‘Brave and aggressive.’

  ‘You have to be aggressive in a fight.’

  Jenny held his stare. ‘Fighting doesn’t impress me.’

  ‘I know. But it’s been a big part of my life.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘That’s another story for another time. This is the just the first date, remember?’

  15

  Ryan had always been a hard man. If anyone pushed him too far, they’d regret it for a long time. Sometimes, they’d regret it forever.

  One night, about eight years ago, Dave and him were in The Whiphand, an underground pub in a run-down part of north London. Dark enough to hide blemishes, the pub smelled damp and musty, and sawdust covered its floor. The bar staff wore black and purple colours and had silver studs pinned in their faces.

  Ryan and Dave had stumbled into three girls and two blokes. Ryan recalled the conversation…

  ‘What do you two do?’ the first bloke asked him.

  ‘I’m a warehouse manager.’ He winked at the girls and nodded towards Dave. ‘He’s a police constable!’

  Dave blushed. Ryan smirked - he couldn’t resist telling them. He knew Dave liked to conceal his profession from people when he went out. He’d told Ryan there were two reasons for this – First, he didn’t want to be volunteered to deal with any difficult situations because that would effectively place him on duty drunk, which was a disciplinary offence. Second, everyone had a grudge against the police, and he didn’t want to spend his evening off arguing with some slag about police procedure.

  The truth, Ryan decided, was that despite his position, Dave hated confrontation. He was a weedy man with no muscle mass - a physical joke. Furthermore, he had no aggression to assist him. And while he thought about it, although Dave would cite his tolerance and intellect as a defence, he was an irritating bastard at times, and these qualities served nothing more than to patronise and incite. Fuck, at times he felt like lamping Dave himself.

  ‘Yeah?’ grunted bloke two threateningly. He was over six feet, scrawny, unshaven, with greasy brown hair hanging by his shoulders. ‘Show Emma your truncheon, cunt-stubble.’

  Ryan tensed up. He’d called Dave a cunt. That was forbidden.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, heard it all before,’ Dave said. ‘Ten points for originality.’

  Ryan glared at Dave. ‘Yeah, you cunt,’ he shouted to him. ‘Let’s see your fucking truncheon.’ He clenched his fists. ‘I hate the police!’

  Dave looked at Ryan in disbelief. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Listen to him!’ Ryan shook his head at bloke two. ‘Typical pig – thinks he’s feared, thinks he’s tough. Looks at us like we’re all shit.’

  Full of Dutch courage, bloke two’s aggression escalated. ‘Ain’t got your back-up now, ’ave yer? It took ten of you fuckers to bring me down!’ He pointed his finger at Dave. ‘You’re all faggots. None of you can fucking fight!’

  Dave shook his head. ‘I presume the crack cocaine gave you strength?’

  Bloke two lunged towards Dave. Ryan immobilised him before he made contact by grabbing his arms and then whispered in his ear, ‘Come outside with me.’

  ‘Why?’ Bloke two broke free.

  Ryan leaned in. ‘Don’t do my mate in. I’ve got some gear.’

  Ryan headed for the steps. Bloke two followed him, staring at Dave’s shadowy form over his shoulder with hate-filled eyes. Outside, Ryan strolled along the dark and empty back street with bloke two beside him.

  ‘Let’s see it then,’ hissed bloke two.

  Ryan throbbed with rage. He bit his lip until blood trickled onto his shirt collar. The alley sunk into the night ten feet away to his left. He had to make it, just a few more steps. He dug his chin into his chest and closed his eyes. Blood rushed furiously behind his eyelids, drowning his self-restraint. ‘Get in the alley,’ he mumbled.

  Bloke two straightened up. ‘What?’

  Ryan opened his eyes. Grabbing thick clumps of bloke two’s hair, he frantically dragged him into the dark and quiet refuge, knocking empty bottles and cans against walls spaced about eight feet apart. Ryan’s nails pierced the palms of his own hands, but he felt nothing. Bloke two tried to hold Ryan’s legs together, but Ryan broke from the grip with ease, so then he threw punches at Ryan’s groin but his reach was too short to connect. When Ryan released his grip, bloke two managed to dive forwards and hit him in the leg, but it had no effect.

  Ryan glared down at him and screamed, ‘You wanna fuck my best mate up, yeah? You wanna do ’im in?’

  Bloke two twisted onto his back and spun round so he faced Ryan. Ryan grabbed his shirt and as he pulled him up, bloke two kicked out hard. Ryan collapsed to the ground. Bloke two sprang to his feet and towered over Ryan.

  ‘You fuckin’ arsehole!’ he roared. ‘Think you can ’ave me?’ He growled as he took penalty-kicks with Ryan’s head. ‘You’ll fucking die ’ere, you cunt!’

  Ryan felt intense pain in his testicles, then caught bloke two’s swinging foot and yanked him down with everything he had. Bloke two’s other knee crashed on the ground and he screamed out in pain. Ryan kept his vice-like grip on the foot as he leapt to his feet. His fingers penetrated to the bones of the foot as he swung around furiously, his arms outstretched, so that bloke two smashed into the wall. He threw him about like a pendulum for a while and then let him slump to the ground. Ryan thrust his hand into bloke two’s face and held it like a football as he picked him up. Smacking his other hand into the back of his head, he drove bloke two’s face into the brickwork. The legs went limp - he’d fallen unconscious - but Ryan wasn’t finished. He slapped his palm into the nose, then rammed the head into the wall twice and stroked his own fingers up over the bricks. He wanted to feel blood so thick that it ran over the tips of his fingers and nails and flowed down the back of his hand, flooding the ridges in his skin. He wasn’t there yet. He heard voices – people were running towards him. He tried once more. He retracted his arm like he was throwing a cricket ball and as he launched the head forward someone locked his elbows from behind.

  ‘Ryan! Ryan! It’s Dave. Stop wh
at you’re doing now! You’ve beaten him. We need to get out of here!’

  ‘What have you done to him, you fucking animal?’ a female voice cried out.

  Dave screamed at them: ‘Don’t wind him up! I warned you! He’ll do the same to you! Just keep quiet and we’ll go.’

  Ryan heard repeated bawls of: ‘Oh my God!’ ‘Is he dead?’ ‘Call a fucking ambulance!’ and felt satisfied. He let Dave escort him out of the alleyway.

  ‘Come on, Ryan, you have to run!’ Dave screamed as he navigated them along another seedy back street. ‘The police will be looking for you any second!’ He tugged at Ryan’s leather jacket and started to jog.

  Ryan broke into a run and nearly fell over as the pain in his groin resurfaced. ‘Fuck me!’ he yelled and limped forwards with his balls cupped in his hands. Desperate cries, fading into the distance, helped curtail his pain and he smiled. Dave’s terror only encouraged him, and as Ryan laughed weakly, Dave faced him and tried to show disgust, but was instead the spitting image of a rabbit fleeing from a fox. It wasn’t long before Dave’s breathing became laboured. As they ran along another alleyway he pulled at Ryan’s arm and slowed to a stop. Ryan looked at him expectantly. Dave leaned towards him, hands on hips, breathing hard. ‘Throw your jacket in this bin,’ he demanded, nodding towards a series of robust bins lining the walls.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Do it, Ryan,’ wheezed Dave. ‘The police will be looking for two guys, one wearing a black jacket, the other a dark blue bodywarmer.’ He let his breath go loudly. ‘They look for clothes.’

  ‘So you’ll be throwing yours away then?’

  Dave glared at him. ‘Yes I fucking will!’

  Ryan slipped his jacket off and threw it in the bin. He held the lid open for Dave, who pushed his bodywarmer over the rim.

  ‘Right, let’s go.’

  ‘We need to get a cab,’ Ryan said.

  ‘We’re not waiting around for a cab, we’ll be sitting targets.’ Dave walked off. ‘Just walk casually. We have to hide in a garden.’

  Ryan rubbed his groin. The pain was getting worse and the prospect of lying down was appealing. ‘Isn’t that a bit extreme?’

  ‘No, it’s totally crucial. Just do what I say, Ryan, you know I know my stuff. I want us to get out of this mess you’ve made.’

  Ryan followed him. They exited the alley and walked along a residential street. Dave listened for engines and scanned the gardens. About twenty doors down, he tapped Ryan’s leg and then climbed over a five-foot wall, where it adjoined the next garden. The garden perimeter displayed full-grown fir trees. Ryan propelled himself onto the wall and then lowered himself down the other side. He crouched in the darkness.

  ‘Follow me,’ Dave whispered, and thick branches brushed over his back as he crawled away. He stopped ten metres further on and lay flat on his stomach, beneath a tree. Ryan moved beside him. To his right was a fence, splitting the gardens. In front was a house, and to the left a lawn stretched to the fir trees. Everything was silent. Ryan waited for minutes before he spoke. ‘How long are we going to wait here, Special Agent Dave?’

  ‘Forty-five minutes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police will have given up searching by then.’

  ‘Isn’t this a bit dramatic?’

  ‘A bit dramatic?’ Dave used his fiercest whisper. ‘What’s dramatic is you beating someone to within an inch of his life when he did nothing to you!’

  ‘He was going to fill you in.’

  ‘Yeah, because you incited him.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m not going to discuss it now,’ Dave said. ‘If the residents hear us, we’re done for, so keep your voice down.’

  Ryan rolled over and lay on his back. He nursed his genitals, which were slowly recovering.

  ‘You’d better pray the dogs are tied up elsewhere,’ Dave said. ‘You left enough of your scent at the scene for them to find us. Believe me, that will be taped off as a critical incident, and if the dogs are free, they’ll be used.’ He felt for Ryan. ‘Wipe the blood off you while it’s moist. You’ll stand out a mile.’

  Ryan sighed and stroked his hands across the cold, damp dirt. This was an adventure for Dave in which he played the hero.

  Exactly forty-five minutes later, Dave told him to go. Ryan made his way to the wall and scaled it. Moments later, they both strolled along the street.

  ‘If we get away with this it’ll be a bloody miracle,’ Dave ranted.

  ‘Nice bit of work if you ask me.’

  ‘Nice bit of work?’ Dave cried. ‘Ryan, do you not understand the simple implications of what you’ve done? At the very least you’re guilty of GBH, at the most murder. Either way, you’re caught and you go inside. Previous good behaviour? Means nothing. This is a serious crime and they will throw the book at you. For the next few weeks, maybe months, you’re going to have to keep a very low profile. You live ten miles from that pub – if anyone from that crowd recognises you they’ll be straight on the blower. There’s enough forensics there to place you not just at the scene, but all over that bloke. You haven’t got a prayer. I can view the crime report when I go to work and check the bloke’s condition and any leads. Until I do that, don’t even get out of bed.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’

  It transpired through Dave that bloke two had sustained ligament and muscle damage to his ankle, a broken nose, broken jaw, fractured skull, dislocated shoulder, swelling beneath the kneecap and a sprained groin. Additionally, he was rushed into intensive care and regained consciousness after six hours. The fight was classified as attempted murder, but surprisingly no useful evidential traces had been recovered at the scene. Dave was ecstatic about this – apparently bloke two’s friends had contaminated any forensics when they’d tried to apply first aid. The four drunken witnesses had described him as a white male, large build, six foot five – he was six-two – with black hair, wearing jeans. Ryan burst into fits of laughter when he heard this. What they’d said was pretty accurate, but hardly distinguishing. What a hopeless fucking investigation! Then he slagged Dave off for insisting that they discard their coats. Dave, however, found the whole situation terrifying and avoided Ryan for a month.

  16

  Andre was forty years old and looked like a caveman. He had grey, close-shaven hair that had receded halfway across his scalp, cold, grey eyes, a solid jaw covered in grey whiskers and a mouth that hung open slightly, lending him an indifferent edge.

  Andre didn’t socialise. He knew he was disliked and didn’t care. He devoted his life to working, and was the most efficient, productive officer in the borough, if not the Metropolitan Police. He knew this and used his reputation to belittle everyone else. He would criticise officers’ handling of situations, their self-motivation, competence, courage, appearance, radio procedure - anything he could. It fed his ego. In his mind everyone else was inferior and aspired to be like him. Andre believed their attitude towards him was cultivated from a sense of failure. It was jealousy - they couldn’t be like him.

  John-Paul shared his understanding of Andre’s mentality with everyone else. He was not one to judge a person through others, his opinions were his own, but he’d reached the same conclusions – Andre was pig-ignorant and oblivious to the simple fact that he was resented because he was obnoxious.

  Every day, Andre would arrest at least two people, and spend the remainder of the shift completing paperwork in the station canteen.

  John-Paul waited patiently until his friends left him and he was alone. Sat three tables away, Andre ate a roll as he wrote, and occasionally glared in John-Paul’s direction. He did this to everyone. Pretending to read a magazine, John-Paul wondered how to state his case.

  Moments later he walked over to Andre, and sat opposite him.

  ‘Alright, Andre. I was hoping I could talk to you.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Andre asked, still writing.
>
  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of me. I’m John-Paul. I’m in B team.’

  Andre re-read his last couple of lines and then made a full stop. A couple of seconds later he continued writing his evidence. ‘Yeah, I know who you are,’ he said in a deep, gravelly voice. ‘You’re one of the more proactive officers. What happened last month?’

  John-Paul stared at him quizzically. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Your arrest rate dropped fifty percent over September. Were you on leave?’

  ‘You’ve been checking my figures?’ John-Paul asked, astonished.

  Andre stopped writing and looked up. ‘I check everyone’s figures. It tells me who grafts and who doesn’t.’

  He’s only a constable, thought John-Paul, not the superintendent. There were definite power issues here. ‘I’ve had problems at home,’ John-Paul told him. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ John-Paul watched as Andre scribbled away again.

  ‘I’m not the welfare officer,’ Andre said bluntly.

  John-Paul nodded. ‘I know that.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  John-Paul took a deep breath. ‘Because I need you to arrest someone.’

  Andre placed his pen on the table and stared at him for a long time. ‘We’ll talk about it in The Highwayman. 20.00.’

  Andre gathered his work together in his arms, stood up and left the canteen.

  The Highwayman was a cosy pub used by locals and police officers. Most of the customers were on first name terms with the staff. Though it was the twelfth of October, and cold outside, Andre had chosen to wear a light-blue polo shirt and white shorts. His huge muscles bulged beneath the cloth. He stared at John-Paul, unsmiling, as he approached.

  ‘Hello, Andre.’

  ‘I’ll have a pint of bitter.’

  John-Paul hovered for a second. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  While he ordered the drinks, Andre reached into a rucksack and pulled out a pocket-sized pad and a pencil.

  Seconds later John-Paul put the glass on the small mahogany table and sat down. Andre thanked him and then wiped the bottom of the glass with a beer mat.