Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  Two men dressed as giant kangaroos jumped out of his way, one shouting, 'Easy mate!'Tom raced past, the safety of the lawns now less than fifty metres away. Swerving to avoid a bench he finally lost his footing, shoulder connecting heavily with the pavement, rolling over, knees and elbows bouncing off the paving stones.

  The stilt walkers had stopped and were looking down at him. The giant inflatable figures nodded and swayed as Tom, regaining his feet, saw the smear of fresh gum stuck to his knee. As the Samba drums continued in the background, he started to tear off his trousers, a hoarse scream coming from his throat. He had kicked one leg free when the first neon-jacketed police officer arrived. Grabbing Tom in a bear hug he began to repeat, 'Calm down sir, calm down sir, calm down sir,' like some religious mantra as his female colleague radioed for a police car.

  Stepping out of the Athenaeum, Sly thought there was something familiar about the forlorn-looking figure across the road. Not just the thin build and beaten up clothes that many Big Issue sellers seemed to have, but something about his stoop and the way he shifted his weight shyly from foot to foot. As he got nearer the man turned round and finally Sly recognized him: one of the beggars who used to hang around Piccadilly station.

  Sly's approach to life was simple – you got ahead by keeping other people down. He'd learned it at an extremely early age. The years of bullying and piss-taking he'd suffered through having ginger hair and goofy teeth only ended when he'd picked out a weaker boy amongst his tormentors and jammed a sharpened pencil into his upper arm.

  The action didn't gain him acceptance or friendship, just the respect people gave to the school nutter. It taught him the power of extreme and sudden violence and it was why he still carried a Stanley knife to this day.

  So now, as he got closer to the man whose beggings he used to tax, the thought of walking past simply didn't occur. A display of his superiority was needed – something to prove to himself that he was above the other person.

  The man had fully turned round now, and seeing someone in smart designer clothes approaching, had immediately begun to say, 'Help the homeless sir, copy of the Big Issue?'

  Sly stopped and with a sneering smile said, 'Moved up in the world, then?'

  His voice made the Big Issue seller freeze and, on recognizing Sly, his stoop seemed to become more exaggerated, the posture of someone used to being victimized. Knowing that wasn't the end of the encounter, he said nervously, 'Sly.' No trace of a smile.

  'I need some cigarettes; knock us some change, mate.' Sly held out a cupped hand and clamped his jaw on the lump of gum in his mouth. Its flavour was sharp and lemony, like every other packet he'd taken the other week from the garage in Didsbury. Although the taste was novel to begin with, he'd got tired of its sourness and had flogged most of it to a stallholder in the Arndale market. 'Here, I'll swap you for some chuddy.' He spat the lump out onto the other man's disintegrating trainers.

  The Big Issue seller cast his eyes downwards and said miserably, 'You don't control the pitches around here. Leave me alone.'

  Sly got his face up close to the other man's and cocked his head to one side. 'Do you want me to cut you?'

  The man stepped back. He was still avoiding eye contact, but defeat was written all over him. 'No.'

  'Then give me some money,' Sly hissed.

  Resignedly the man reached into an inner pocket and produced three pound coins.

  'Is that fucking it?'

  'I've only sold three copies. It's everything I've got.'

  Sly wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'Three copies? With these crowds? I know you're lying, but I'm not going through your stinking coat. I'd probably get fucking lice.'

  He plucked the three coins from the man's palm, then produced a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes from his pocket. The man looked at the money, face devoid of any expression.

  Slightly irked by the other man's failure to react to his cash, Sly said, 'I'll get the smokes after I've picked up my suit. 'With a mocking smile, he sauntered on down King Street and entered the Armani shop. When the assistant asked if he needed any help, Sly pointed straight to the pale green suit in the window.

  Chapter 18

  July 2002

  The sense of terror only began to subside once they'd fought through the traffic and made it onto the slightly less busy Oxford Road. Sitting in the back seat of the car, Tom shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and whispered, 'Could you turn the fan on, please? It's so hot in here.'

  The female officer in the passenger seat immediately did as he asked, then turned round in her seat. 'What's your name, sir?'

  The official note in her voice set his nerves off again and the muscles in his throat clamped up. A few minutes later they turned off into the grounds of the Manchester Royal Infirmary, the patrol car driving round to the Accident & Emergency entrance and parking in a bay marked 'Ambulances Only'.

  Again the female officer turned round. 'Sir, you're being detained under section 13B of the Mental Health Act. As police officers we're required to take you to a place of safety – which is here. We're going to find a psychiatric nurse to check you over and make sure you're OK. Is all of that clear?'

  His whole body trembling, Tom was only able to nod.

  'Good,' she continued. 'I'll go in first and my colleague, PC Garrett, will stay with you.'

  She got out of the car and walked through the sliding doors. A short while later she reappeared, walking back over to address her colleague first. 'Surprise surprise, no one is available.'

  As the driver shook his head, she turned to Tom. 'Sir, we're going to have to sit tight for a while. Are you OK back there?'

  Tom nodded, his heart still fluttering.

  After what seemed like an age, a nurse emerged through the doors and beckoned to the officers.

  'Right,' said the male officer, getting out of the car and opening up the rear door. 'Let's put that blanket around you again, shall we? We don't want the nurses getting all excited.' He grinned at Tom.

  Tom looked down at his bare legs and boxer shorts as the officer draped the blanket around him. Shakily, he got out of the car and allowed himself to be guided into the foyer. Acutely aware of the entire crowded waiting room watching, Tom felt himself growing embarrassed and knew it was a sure sign he was returning to normal.

  He was led quickly across into a room at the top of a corridor. Inside was a table and a few soft chairs. A children's mobile hung in the corner, garishly coloured tigers, giraffes and parrots stirred by the commotion as they entered the room. Sitting in one of the chairs was an overweight man in a white tunic, long hair tied back in a ponytail. He smiled at Tom and waved him to a seat. Turning his body so he wasn't directly facing Tom, he said, 'Hello, my name's Keith Pilkington. I'm the psychiatric nurse on duty this afternoon. PC Hines tells me they picked you up in Piccadilly Gardens. Can you tell me what was upsetting you so much?'

  Tom breathed deeply and when he spoke his voice quivered only slightly. 'I'm sorry to have caused such a fuss.'

  Apologetically, he glanced at each officer. PC Garrett smiled and said, 'Don't worry about it. By the way, these are your trousers. 'He placed them on the shelf near the door.

  The psychiatric nurse had been watching Tom carefully and now he said to the officers, 'I don't need to keep you two any longer, thanks.'

  The officers nodded in reply and quietly left the room. Once the door had shut, he looked at Tom. 'So what was it all about?'

  Tom could still feel the sheen of sweat coating his face. But he knew how to put that right. The remedy lay in the top drawer of his desk at work. Looking at his bare knees, he said, 'I've had them in the past. But that's the first for years.'

  The nurse was looking at his notepad. 'The first what?' he gently coaxed.

  'Panic attack.' He raised a hand to show how his fingertips trembled.' It suddenly hit me. I just had to run.'

  'Why did you feel the need to remove your trousers?'

  Tom shook his head. 'They had chewing g
um on them.'

  'Had chewing gum on them?' Tom took another deep breath. 'I think I've developed a bit of a phobia. It's a long story, but it started with rubbery things. The mouthpiece of a diving mask, in fact.' He let out a short and cheerless laugh. 'Then it somehow got to be anything rubbery that's been in someone's mouth. It makes me want to be sick – I get flooded with a kind of revulsion. 'He stopped and looked up. 'I sound mad, don't I?'

  The nurse's features were full of understanding. 'I've dealt with far worse. Could I ask your name?'

  'Tom. Tom Benwell.'

  'Are you using drugs, Tom? You look like you haven't been getting much sleep. And the sort of state the officers described... I assumed you were heavily under the influence of something.'

  Tom shook his head. 'I've just got so much on at work. I was having lunch with a client. God!' He turned his head, and looked at the door. 'I left him in Mr Thomas's Chop House. Just sprinted out of there.'

  'Well, your health is far more important than any contract,' said the nurse. 'Just think of it as a lunch he'll always remember.'

  Tom appreciated his attempt at making light of the situation and, taking advantage of the softening in the atmosphere, asked, 'So what happens now? I'm not under arrest, am I?'

  'No, not at all. Do you have any history of mental illness, Tom?'

  Now Tom wanted to get the interview over with as quickly as possible. 'No,' he lied, not mentioning his episode of a few years before. 'Apart from the panic attacks, of course.'

  'And this attitude you have towards,' he glanced at his notes and quoted,'“anything rubbery that's been in someone's mouth”. You called it a phobia. We'd refer to it as a neurosis. Are you familiar with the word?'

  'Like a weird habit?'

  'Compulsive or obsessive behaviour, usually provoked by an irrational fear or belief. It's amazingly common, so don't worry. Have you mentioned your concerns about rubbery things to your GP?'

  'No; I'm so busy at work. But I should do. I mean, will do.' Eager to please, eager to get out.

  'Yes, you should. Who is your GP?'

  Tom gave him the doctor's name and practice address.

  The nurse noted it down and said, 'Dr Goldspink can arrange for you to be referred to a counsellor; there are very effective forms of therapy available. You needn't let it have such a detrimental effect on your life and job.'

  Tom nodded. 'Fair enough. I will.'

  'Right. I'll let your doctor know what happened and recommend that he book you in to see a therapist. In the meantime, you'll need some trousers. Now, I can get you a pair of these.' He pointed to the thin green cotton pair he was wearing. 'Or there's a little trick I know about for removing chewing gum. We can freeze it off

  – there's a gas here that can do it.' Tom looked bemused. 'Freezing chewing gum turns it brittle, then we can scrape it off with a scalpel.' 'Option number two, please.'

  He had a ten-pound note ready for the taxi driver. As soon as the car pulled up outside his office he said, 'Here mate, keep the change.'

  The driver said, 'Cheers! You want a receipt with that?'

  But Tom was already half out of the car, keys to the office in his hand. 'No, you're all right,' he called over his shoulder.

  Reception was deserted and the door locked, but when the alarm didn't start buzzing as he opened up, he knew someone else was still in the building.

  Quickly he walked through to his office, shut the door and made straight for his desk. Two large dabs of powder later and he was sitting in his chair staring at the screensaver of the Cornish beach. Though it no longer gave him the same sense of exhilaration, the drug was working its way through his system, easing his nerves and smoothing the ruffles of his mind. He was just contemplating pulling out the bottom drawer and putting his feet up when there was a knock on the door.

  'Yeah?' he said, surprised at the dreamy way the word came out.

  The door opened halfway and Ges poked his head into the room. 'Where've you been? All hell's been breaking out here.'

  'Go on,' said Tom. For the moment, nothing really mattered but the relief coursing through him.

  'The guy from the chewing gum company called. Then his boss called from London. Then our bosses called from London. No one can get hold of you, so suddenly everyone's after you. Was there

  some sort of problem with the chewing gum promotion?'

  'Ges, I'll fill you in tomorrow.'

  Ges frowned, but didn't say anything. Without a word he stepped back out of the office and disappeared up the stairs.

  Tom went on the internet and checked that the cafe in Cornwall was still for sale. Seeing that it was, he gathered up his jacket and set off home. He hadn't even put his briefcase down in the hall when Charlotte called from the sitting room. 'Tom, your bloody mobile can't be turned on. One of the directors down in London has called here three times. He's left his home number for you.'

  Tom went up to their bedroom, climbed out of his suit and dumped it in the wardrobe. Pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, he went back down the stairs, preparing his speech to Charlotte. He'd use the beach location to persuade her – emphasize the prospect of fresh air and opportunities for exercise. He'd already enquired about membership at the best gym in the area.

  As he walked into the sitting room, he saw the TV was tuned into the build-up for the Opening Ceremony in the Commonwealth Games stadium. The place was already packed, every seat sold out. But his wife was sitting on the edge of the sofa, looking tense and uncomfortable.

  'Charlotte,' he began, 'don't worry about that knob down in London. What has he said, anyway?'

  'Nothing,' she said, biting on the edge of a thumbnail. 'Just for you to call him immediately.'

  Tom moved to the sofa and sat down. He put his arm around her. 'Charlotte, it's all going to be fine. I've got this plan—'

  She cut him off. 'I'm not bothered by some rude prick down in London. I'm bothered about this.'

  She held up a white plastic object the shape of an ice-lolly stick. Halfway up was a little window with a blue cross in it.

  'What's that?'

  'A pregnancy test. The cross means it's positive.'

  'You're pregnant?'

  She nodded.

  Tom stared at the top of her down-turned head, found himself focusing on the individual strands of hair poking through her scalp. He felt like he was looking through a microscope. 'But that's... that's perfect. It'll all work out brilliantly. I've got this plan, you see. We'll pack everything in and move to Cornwall. There's this cafe for sale. It's so beautiful – it's wooden, painted a pale blue. It's got this great big veranda. We can live by the beach, raise our child there, away from all this filth and pressure.'

  Charlotte looked up. 'Cornwall? What the hell are you on about Cornwall for? Cafe? I'm only a few weeks late for my period. What if this stupid test is wrong?'

  Tom realized he'd got ahead of himself. 'No there's more to it than that. I've had a disaster at work. Something serious. Resignation serious.'

  'Is that why that director has been ringing?'

  'Yeah, but it doesn't matter, 'Tom replied, brightening his voice. 'Charlotte, I'm desperate to pack it in. You know that. I'll work a settlement out with them and we can use the cash from it along with the money from selling this place to get out. Downsize. I've worked it all out.'

  Very slowly Charlotte began to shake her head. 'I knew you were desperate to get through the run-up to the Commonwealth Games. And you've done it – look. 'She waved a hand at the dancers on the TV. 'The Games are starting in ten minutes. What's all this stuff about Cornwall? You never mentioned about packing the job in completely.'

  'Well, I thought it was obvious. Sorry. It's been intense lately. But they've already begun to work out our next set of targets. It doesn't stop, Charlotte, it just goes on and on and fucking on. I feel so trapped.' He thought about the sensation of the spider's web around his head.

  Looking agitated, she reached for a cigarette.

  Tom placed
his hand over the pack. 'Charlotte, do you think you should?'

  Angrily she sat back and took a deep breath.

  'Don't look so sad.' He placed a reassuring hand on her stomach. 'This is such perfect timing. We can start a new life... a family. Everything.'

  She grabbed his hand and threw it back on his lap. 'I'm not having this thing!' she said, tears filling her eyes. 'How dare you presume that? I'm twenty-two for God's sake. I've got my life to live. Babies?' She let out a snort of disgust. 'You're bloody joking!' She leaned forwards, grabbed a cigarette and lit up.

  Tom stared at her. 'What do you mean? It's our child. Ours.' Bizarrely, an image of the diving instructor from the Seychelles flashed through his mind.

  She stood up and snarled, 'It's not a child. It's a blip, a few cells ... a cross on this thing.' She waved the pregnancy tester in his face. 'One pill and it's gone.'

  'Charlotte,' he moaned, hands thrust anxiously between his knees. 'You can't destroy it. It's our future.'

  She held up both palms to him. 'Slow the fuck down. What the hell were you thinking?' Her cheeks grew red as anger began to take hold. 'You plan all this without telling me a thing?'

  'I meant to. I was waiting for the right time, that was all. Charlotte, please – it could be so perfect.'

  'My future's here, in Manchester. Not in some windswept wooden shack serving cups of bloody tea.'

  Tom looked down at the carpet. 'What's this city got that's so great?'

  She put a finger on her lower lip and began counting with her other hand. 'Well, let me see. Restaurants, bars, delis, coffee shops, beauty salons.' She ran out of fingers and carried on anyway. 'Nightclubs, nightlife, life full stop! Selfridges has just opened and there's a Harvey Nichols opening next year.'

  Tom said very quietly, 'You'd destroy our baby because a Harvey fucking Nichols is opening next year?'