Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  The man turned towards George, but he was already sliding along the wall, mumbling how he was so sorry to have offended the lady, imagining how she'd look on his computer once he had whitened her skin to that of a corpse.

  As he let himself in through the back door, a voice called out, 'Is

  that you, George?'

  As he had done since he was a boy, he replied, 'Yes, mother.'

  Suit jacket and tie now removed, he stopped to put his briefcase on the bottom stair, then poked his head into the front room. She sat in her usual seat, knitting something for the charity shop, radio on in the corner. The scene hadn't changed in thirty years: the same lacework antimacassars over the backs of the chairs, the same sheepskin rug in front of the clumsy-looking gas fire, chunky brown tiles round the hearth. 'There's a package for you in the hall. It's got Mexican stamps on.'

  George felt a jolt of excitement.

  'Who's it from?' she asked.

  'Just work stuff,' he replied, stepping over to the table and picking it up. The wrapping hadn't been tampered with by customs. He turned around and hurried up the stairs to his bedroom.

  She emerged on spindly legs behind him, repeating the same question she'd been asking for years. 'When can I hoover your room? It hasn't been done for weeks.'

  He would never let her in. 'I'll do it this weekend, Mum.'

  She flapped a hand in disgust and went back into the front room. George took the key from his pocket and undid the padlock securing his bedroom door. Inside, he bolted it behind him, sat down at his desk and turned the anglepoise lamp on. The light spilled out, pushing the shadows back a little but not enough to properly illuminate the photos of women that plastered his walls. Taking a scalpel from his mini toolbox, he slit open the package and pulled the sheet of pills out. He really didn't believe they would ever show up. The website was American but it warned that, due to US narcotic laws, the pills would be sent from Mexico where regulations concerning that particular sedative were far more lax.

  He looked at them as if they were sacred things. Which, in a sense, they were: they had the power to make his dreams come true.

  Sly gazed down at the motionless spider crouched in the corner of its glass home. The way its legs were bunched up – knee joints higher than its body – reminded Sly of the eight roof struts encircling the newly completed Commonwealth Games stadium, Manchester City's new ground once the Games were over and the stupid running track had been ripped out so another tier of seats could be added. He clenched a fist in triumph – finally the Blues would have a stadium to match their status in the city. Something newer and better than those bastard Reds at Old Trafford.

  Slamming his front door shut behind him, he looked around the courtyard. The snotty couple were sitting in the sun on one of the benches at the side of the Zen garden, Sunday papers spread out across their laps. Next to the bench were two cups and a pot of fresh coffee, curls of steam catching in the sunlight.

  He yawned loudly to intrude on the peaceful atmosphere, snorted and then trudged over to them. They tried to ignore his presence, but once he was behind them he leaned over the girl's shoulder and remarked, 'Dirty slag. 'Manchester accent deliberately made heavier.

  Her head whipped round. 'I beg your pa—'

  'That bird.' He pointed to the photo of the reality game show hostess in the paper on her knee. 'You can just tell she is.' He looked at the man sitting on the bench. 'Bet you'd give her one, though you can't admit it. Not with your missus sat here, right?' He laughed loudly and carried on his way, imagining the couple shaking with suppressed anger.

  He slid into his car, put on a pair of sunglasses, lowered the windows and pressed play on the CD player. The Stone Roses started booming out and he smiled at memories of nights spent in the Hacienda, so out of his tree he could hardly speak.

  The drive to his grandma's little terraced house didn't take long. As he got out of his car he could see her in the front window waiting for him, coat already on. He walked her round to the passenger seat and helped her in, then they drove back into the centre of town, parking in the NCP near Affleck's Palace.

  With her arm linked through his, they walked to the top of Market Street, the old lady pausing to look across into Piccadilly Gardens.

  'It's all changed so much,' she said, with more wonder than regret in her voice. 'Lewis's has gone. 'She stared across the street at the art deco front of the old family-run department store. Now bright red TK Maxx signs were above the doors. 'Used to take you there as a little boy. Me and your grandad would go to the dances on the top floor.'

  'What dances were those?'

  'Ballroom dances. There's a sprung wooden floor up there, you know.'

  He shook his head, 'No Gran, I didn't.'

  'What's that bloody great thing?' she asked, pointing across the gardens to the grey concrete wall.

  'Some designer's idea, I think,' he said chirpily. 'It's meant to be Chinese style – they put it there to screen off the noise and stuff from the bus depot behind.'

  'Looks bloody awful to me,' she said. 'More like the Berlin Wall than a Chinese one.'

  He grinned, leading her down the pedestrianized street towards the new Marks & Spencer.

  'Oh, they've done a grand job with those hanging baskets,' she said, gazing appreciatively at the masses of flowers dotting the way ahead. 'And those banners add a nice splash of colour, too. Why can't they keep it this pretty all the time? Even the litter has disappeared,' she added, looking at the street in front. 'And these cobbles, when did they put them in?' she asked, nodding at the rustic brickettes at her feet.

  'Not long ago.'

  'The trams used to run up this street, you know. Right where we're walking.'

  'Well, things move on, don't they?'

  'They certainly do,' she replied, looking at the lines of mobile phone shops, leisure clothing stores and coffee bars.

  At the other end of the street they were confronted by the towering new Marks & Spencer with its overhead Perspex walkway leading into the Arndale Centre.

  'We'll have lunch at a place over here, Gran.' He led her along the smooth pavement, then across the plaza towards the upmarket Triangle shopping centre. As they passed the giant TV screen set up for the Commonwealth Games it blared a loud commentary down at them. Athletes were profiled, sporting venues reviewed. She hunched her shoulders slightly at the noise and they carried on to the tables arranged on the pavement in front of Zinc.

  'What's that thing?' She was looking at the Urbis museum as it reared straight up out of the concrete like some submarine surfacing in a future ocean.

  'Don't know.' He lit a cigarette. 'Some art gallery, probably.'

  Choosing a table where they could watch – and be seen by – everyone passing, he handed a menu to the old lady. She examined the list, mouthing the names of unfamiliar dishes: bruschetta, pappardelle, antipasto, arancini.

  When a waitress appeared Sly raised a hand, then watched her closely as she approached their table. He was keen for her to notice that he was taking his grandma out, wanting her to think he was a

  decent guy. Caring. Perhaps attractive. 'Coffee, Gran?'

  'Yes please.'

  The waitress looked down at her. 'Espresso, latte, cappuccino, mocha?'

  'Just normal, dear. And a glass of water please.'

  'Sparkling or still?'

  'Whatever comes out of your taps, thank you.'

  The waitress gave a tight smile and looked at Sly.

  'Tea with two sugars, cheers.'

  'And to eat?'

  'Gran?'

  'Oh, I don't know. You choose for me.' She shifted the shiny aluminium seat so the sun didn't shine in her eyes.

  Knowing he wouldn't be able to say the names of the foreign dishes properly, Sly ordered two smoked salmons with scrambled eggs, then sat back to look at the Sunday shoppers milling past.

  'One of your friends rang when I was round at your mum's the other day,' said his gran. 'I don't like it when they call
you Sly. Why do they do it? Your name is Ashley.'

  Believing it referred to his cleverness when it came to blagging things, he smiled as he stubbed out his cigarette. 'It's just a nickname. Like you get at school.'

  'Yes, but it isn't even part of your name, is it? Sly. It makes you sound all shifty. Anyway, your mum gave him your new number. Told him you'd moved into a flat of your own.'

  'Thanks.'

  'So how's your job?'

  It didn't exist, but Sly had his lie ready prepared. 'It's going great. I got this as part of a bonus.' He ran a hand along the sleeve of his Dolce and Gabbana jacket. 'My boss said I'm one of the best performers he's ever had.'

  She smiled back. 'And are you courting?'

  He almost laughed at her old-fashioned language. 'You mean seeing anyone?' Again he lied. 'There are a couple of girls I'm friendly with. But nothing too serious.'

  'A couple,' she tutted. 'What's wrong with one? It would give you a chance of getting to know her properly. All this flitting between people.' Sly picked a bit of tobacco off his slightly protruding upper teeth. 'Plenty of time for that later, Gran.'

  She did her best to eat the food when it arrived. But she found the eggs too runny and the fish seemed almost raw. Plus the bread was too crusty for her liking.

  Finally Sly asked, 'Do you want to get going?' He noticed how she was leaning to one side, trying to keep out of the sun's creeping rays.

  'Yes please,' she said without hesitation.

  Seeing the waitress standing nearby, he said loudly, 'Let's go to Marks & Spencer. I'll get you a new coat.'

  'Why? Is there something wrong with this one?' she demanded, looking down at her beige raincoat, lapels and pocket flaps straight out of the Seventies.

  'No, it's just you've had it for years.'

  She leaned forward. 'Then why change it if there's nothing wrong with it? You lot today, you buy something and throw it out after a few weeks.'

  'OK,you win,' he said, holding up his hands. 'Shall we go to the cafe at your local Co-op? A nice bit of cake and a brew?'

  'Lovely!'

  He beckoned to the waitress and flipped out a large wad of notes. Peeling off the top one he said casually, 'Keep the change.' He searched her face for any sign that his nonchalant use of money impressed her. But all he got was a bright and emotionless thank you.

  Chapter 16

  July 2002

  'Morning Sarah,' said Tom, trying to put a bounce in his step as he crossed reception, sunglasses on.

  'Good morning, Tom. Popular as ever,' she said, holding up the pile of letters and phone messages.

  Tom took it with a forced smile, went through to Ian's office, dropped them on the table and retreated straight to the single toilet on the ground floor. He locked the door behind him, then took the sunglasses off. Staring grimly at his ravaged face in the mirror, he reached into his pocket for the eye drops he'd just bought. He tipped his head back and, pulling his eyelids down, administered a drip of liquid into each. It was cold and tingled, making him blink rapidly. But the liquid closed up the spider's web of tiny veins, making his eyes look whiter and less hungover.

  Next he took out the tube of concealer he'd taken from Charlotte's enormous make-up bag and applied a smear to the dark smudges of skin below each eye. Checking the mirror again, he saw that he looked a whole lot better – not like someone who had been to bed the wrong side of midnight for weeks on end.

  Lastly he took the little bag of powder from his suit jacket. Holding it up, he noted that there was barely enough left to fill up its bottom corner and thought it was lucky he'd got the fresh bag from Brain. The moistened tip of his forefinger poked inside. He took a deep breath and dipped his finger in again: the drug seemed to be having less of an effect. Perhaps it lost its potency after a little while.

  Ready to face the day, he went back through to Ian's office and started trying to prioritize his tasks for that morning. But the sheer number of things to do prevented him from starting anything. Half the letters were marked 'urgent' and the phone on his desk was already flashing with unanswered messages. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he turned on the computer and went to his Cornwall link.

  Just a few days more to go, he told himself. The thought gave him enough strength to answer his ringing phone. 'Tom, hi. It's Sarah. There's a van here. A delivery of X-treme chewing gum, display cart and leaflets. Shall I get one of the boys in the studio to take it all upstairs?'

  Tom knew that he couldn't afford to have the items hanging around in the office for long. He would have to get rid of it all. 'No, don't worry about it. It's going straight back out. I'll help him take it through to the store room at the back.'

  He took his jacket off and walked through to reception. A man wearing green trousers, white polo shirt and a green baseball cap was placing several more boxes on to the stack piling up in front of Sarah's desk. Each one was labelled 'X-treme. Contents – 36 packets.'

  'Cheers, mate. Could you give me a hand humping it through to the back?' asked Tom.

  'Sorry pal,' he replied without a hint of apology in his voice. 'I'm a van driver, not a labourer. I just deliver the stuff to your premises.'

  There wasn't time to argue. Tom crouched down and picked up the outermost column of boxes. By the time he got back to reception Creepy George was standing there. 'Sarah said you needed a hand.'

  'Yeah, thanks,' said Tom, masking his irritation that someone else now knew about the delivery.

  'Right,' announced the driver, carrying in some large cardboard tubes. 'The promotional panels for the cart are in these. They fit on to your standard Cooper's Barrow.'

  'Right. We've got a couple out back, 'Tom replied.

  'And these,' the driver tapped two boxes that were slightly smaller than the rest,' are your competition entry forms.'

  Tom signed for everything and, with George's help, began ferrying them through to the back storage room.

  Later that night, once everyone else had left, George went back to the storage room. He had a whole pile of merchandise samples he'd skimmed from previous deliveries hidden in his bedroom. After picking up a box of chewing gum from the top of the pile, he examined it, in two minds whether to steal it or not. Citrus flavour with energy-giving guarana. It sounded a bit weird to him.

  But it always gave him a kick to put one over on the company, so through force of habit he put the box under his arm and set off for home.

  A few days later one of the directors from London called. Putting aside the delivery schedules for the printer in Dublin and praying he wasn't going to be asked for any status reports, Tom waited for Sarah to put him through. 'Hi, Andrew.' He was careful to sound upbeat. 'How can I help you?'

  'Hi there, Tom. Listen, Jim Morrell has finished his search of the computer system. There's some good news and some bad news.'

  There was silence as Tom sat back in his chair and shut his eyes. 'OK – perhaps the good news first?'

  'Good news is, he's found nothing amiss with the files on the main server. Tracking back through all the activity on Ian's computer, it's apparent he'd been accessing a lot of files and printing them off. But nothing more.'

  It was all too little too late – they'd had to struggle along with misfiled documents for the last month. If that was the good news, Tom wondered, what was the bad?

  'Now, the other news isn't so welcome. He found quite a few locked files – ones needing a password for access. Apart from the ones in finance, they shouldn't have been there.'

  'So who had created them?'

  'They were all on the computer of a George Norris.'

  'Creepy George?'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'Creepy George – it's what we call him up here.'

  'To his face?'

  'No, we're too childish for that.'

  'Well, the name isn't too far off the mark. Perhaps add on perverted and sick.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It took Jim a while to get into them – he treated it as a bit o
f a challenge eventually. And he thinks he's only found a fraction of the offending material. He suspects a lot more has been transferred on to a laptop to keep it clear of the main server.'

  'What offending material?'

  'You've heard of snuff movies?'

  'Oh God, you're not serious?'

  'Not movies. Photos. Lots of them. They're of women and they don't look asleep. More collapsed. Maybe dead, maybe unconscious. Clothed, semi-clothed, some naked. Indoors, outdoors. He's been downloading a lot from a US site called – you're not going to believe this – comatosex.com. It has information on date-rape drugs too – benefits and disadvantages of each type. Where you can order them from.'

  'Jesus Christ, how do these sites get away with it?'

  'God knows, but it gets worse. You know the staff photo gallery on our company web site?'

  'Yes.'

  'Was there a photo taken recently of Julie Bowers? Her one on the Manchester site is different from our one down here.'

  'Yes – George insisted on taking it a few weeks ago.'

  'Well, he's been using a shot of her face, eyes shut, and mounting it on the corpse of another female.'

  'Corpse?'

  'Well, you know, a torso. Someone sprawled out on the floor in a dressing gown against the same blue background cloth as the company mugshots. He's used Photoshop to comp the two images together. At first we actually thought it was Julie.'

  'Oh, Christ. So he's actually taking these shots himself?'

  'He appears to be. Tom, this isn't just a sackable offence. It's highly bloody illegal.'

  Tom thought for a few seconds. 'So what are we going to do?'

  'Get rid of him, fast as possible. Look at it this way: what if he's planning to attack Julie Bowers? Does he seem the sort?'

  'Seem the sort? How do I bloody know?' Tom felt himself getting angry. 'Did the Yorkshire Ripper's bloody wife think that he seemed the sort? Surely that's the point with these people – you can never really tell them apart from the rest of us.'