Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  With the realization that they had chosen him to spread their word, Tom began to weep. And his tears were born of fear: fear at what they would ask him to do.

  In the front room he found his Sennheiser headphones, the type that clamped right over the ears. In the kitchen he searched through the drawers for foil, eventually finding the roll and tearing off great squares. Then he proceeded to wrap layer upon layer over each earpiece. By wearing the headphones at all times he intended to stop the Masters beaming their voices into his head.

  Now that he had no job, Creepy George spent a lot of time parked outside Sixteen Moorfield Road. At night he could see the flicker of the computer monitor in the front room, but it was only ever Tom in the house. She had disappeared.

  In frustration he started scouring the city centre. Guessing the types of places she'd visit, he wandered up and down King Street, glancing in the windows of Diesel, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY and Armani.

  At lunchtime he'd switch his search to nice restaurants: Zinc, Stock, Lime, Croma. Then, one day, he glimpsed her going into Selfridges. He broke into an ungainly trot, making it through the doors thirty metres behind her.

  She took the escalator down to the food hall and went across to the sushi bar in the corner. A man was already there and she took the seat next to him. As they kissed the bile rose in George's throat.

  They ordered fresh fruit juices, then, for the next half an hour, plucked morsels from the conveyor belt. Eventually the man flicked his credit card on to the counter.

  At the top of the escalator they kissed again and parted company. George followed her around Harvey Nichols for an hour, then trailed her across to Quay Street where she slipped into an expensive-looking health centre. Hesitating at the doors, George began to read the notices in the window.

  State-of-the-art, fully air-conditioned gymnasium, swimming pool and spa, aerobics studio with classes in yoga, pilates and boxercise, spinning studio, beauty salon and relaxation room.

  George stared at the photos of women in their leotards, determined expressions on their faces. He liked best the picture of the lady lying on a bed in the beauty salon. Her hair was tied up in a towel and her eyes were closed. Then he saw the notice inviting anyone in for a free tour and day pass. He walked into the reception area, its shiny wooden floors and halogen spotlights dazzling him. 'Hello, I would like a look around, if I may.'

  The young lady kept her face bright and welcoming. 'Of course, sir. I'll just give one of our assistants a call.'

  When the man appeared he had a glow of vitality that George knew contrasted all too obviously with his own pale face. As he was led around, George scanned each room for her. The pool was virtually empty, the aerobics studio deserted. At the gym he saw her, wearing a crop top and shorts, lifting a pair of pink plastic dumbbells up and down. He wanted to stand and drink in the sight of her, wanted the man's irritating prattle to stop. But after a cursory look at the remaining facilities, he was shown back down to reception.

  'I'd like to apply for membership, please,' he said to the receptionist.

  Taking the form and a brochure, he sat down in the cafe area and grudgingly ordered a cup of coffee. He took as long as he could to read the brochure, then pored over the small print about membership terms and conditions. Eventually he heard footsteps and she came down the stairs, blonde ponytail bouncing with each step. George looked down and, out of the corner of his eye, watched as she went over to the notice board and trailed a finger over the group exercise timetables.

  'Jules,' she called over to the receptionist. 'Could you book me in for your pilates class?'

  'Sure, which one?'

  'Oh, at seven o'clock on Thursday nights, please.'

  George scrawled the information down on the back of his brochure.

  *

  Tom heard nothing for three days. In that time he struggled with his newfound understanding. Rather than freeing him, the knowledge he now possessed was crushing him. He was unable to raise himself to his feet. Keeping the headphones on at all times, he dragged himself around the house, the powder his only source of comfort.

  He was lying at the bottom of the stairs when they began to say his name again. Immediately he reached his hands up, assuming the headphones had slipped off, only to find they were in place. One by one, they took turns to speak.

  Do not deny your destiny.

  You are the one.

  We have chosen you.

  Chosen you to spread our word.

  It is time to be strong.

  Time for the Golden Age to dawn.

  Stand up, Tom.

  The enormous power in their voices couldn't be denied. The Masters had selected him. Tentatively he tried to get up. He found that he could stand without problem, so he removed the headphones and climbed the stairs two at a time.

  Poking through the pile of clothes on his bedroom floor, he located a top and trousers that didn't seem too dirty. Downstairs he pulled on his coat and a pair of shoes. Pausing in the doorway to the dining room, he decided to leave the gun in its drawer. Instead he packed a spare pair of trainers and a towel into a small rucksack, then set off into Manchester.

  Walking along Portland Street he looked again at the message on the tower:'Bruntwood welcomes all 72 Commonwealth Nations'. He was certain that the Games had finished a few months before, and he couldn't understand why the message was still there.

  The city's few days of glory were long gone, and unemployment had crept back up as the hundreds of jobs created by the event had vanished with the end of the closing ceremony. The fountain in Piccadilly Gardens had been turned off several weeks ago for routine maintenance and had still not started working again. Tom walked slowly through the bare trees dotted around the gardens, carefully placing his steps until he made it on to the grass. He walked quickly across it, slowing down at the gum-marred pavement on the other side. The stuff had multiplied, like bacteria in a petri dish, spreading slowly across the stones, becoming ever more concentrated. With trepidation, he made his way to the top of Market Street, looking at the mass of humans crowding the area ahead. He told himself he was there to help them.

  He pulled the towel out of his rucksack and spread it out across the pavement so he didn't risk treading on any gum. Then he took the speech he'd prepared earlier and surveyed the shoppers passing by.

  He held up the piece of paper, but his hand was trembling so much he couldn't actually read the words. His mouth was dry and his legs felt weak as he watched the flow of people pass by, bags of shopping hanging from curled fingers. He lowered the sheet of paper and was accepting the fact that he could not address the crowd, when the voices took it in turns to speak to him again.

  Be strong!

  You must spread our message!

  Speak!

  Wildly he looked about, but everyone was carrying on as they had before and he realized that only he, The Chosen One, could hear their words.

  'People of Manchester,' he tried to announce, but his voice came out as a croak. He looked up to the sky, prayed for strength and felt better that, somewhere above the clouds, the Masters were watching him. He walked to the edge of his towel, looked directly at the shoppers who stared curiously at him, and said, 'People of Manchester! You must end the errors of your ways. You must discard the bags that weigh you down, shake off the shackles of your consumerist ways. Only then will the Golden Age dawn and our happiness be ensured.'

  He paused to check his words were being registered. Numerous half-smiles and whispered comments told him that they were. The beginnings of the crowd were causing more people to stop.

  'I come to you with a message from the Masters. Through me they have chosen to speak; through me can their message be heard. You must change the way you live. No longer can we allow their sacred teachings to go unheeded.'

  'Shut up you weirdy-beard!' shouted a teenager, instantly ducking behind his giggling mates. Tom paused to look around him, taking in the expressions of mild amusement and smirking interest. '
Today we must show that we are ready for the Masters to return,' he continued, holding up his hands to the sky. 'Cast aside your purchases.' He reached out towards a young woman who, with a squeal of fright, shrank away. 'Can you not see how this desire to accumulate possessions is corrupting you? Rid yourselves of the baggage you carry so the Masters may return!'

  'That's a novel way for someone to get some free shopping,' a man with a Debenhams bag said, addressing the crowd more than Tom. Laughter broke out and heads were shaking at him. Women held fingers up to their temples and whirled them round in circular motions.

  'Do not walk away. You must hear my message. I have been chosen!'

  But more backs were turning. The crowd began to disperse, some tutting sadly.

  Soon only the group of teenagers remained. 'Who the fuck are you, anyway?' demanded the lad who had spoken earlier.

  'I am the Chosen One,' repeated Tom. 'Through me the Masters, who have circled in the sky since time immemorial, have chosen to act. You,' he pointed to a girl, 'do not allow the temptations of this materialistic world to sway you from your sacred ability.'

  'What ability? Shoplifting?' said another lad.

  'Shut up,' she said, pretending to be outraged at the accusation. 'I never nicked anything. It was you who went into Boots and—'

  Tom's voice rose above her. 'I mean your ability to reproduce. That which you were placed on Earth for.'

  'You what, you dirty bastard?' she said, aggressively placing her hands on her hips.

  'To be a mother is to fulfil the most sacred of roles. Do not reject that blessing.'

  'Is he wanting to shag you?' said another in the group, looking at her with a grin.

  The girl balled up the gum in her mouth and spat it towards Tom. It rolled across the paving stones, stopping abruptly when it came into contact with the edge of his towel. Immediately he retched loudly. He heard laughter.

  'What was that about?' said a voice. 'Hey, weirdy-beardy, what was that about?' But Tom was staring with horror at the wet lump.

  Another plucked the gum from his mouth and threw it in Tom's direction. He started backing away towards the other end of the towel. Another lump flew. Turning round, he ran, hopping from paving stone to paving stone, laughter ringing in his ears.

  He was afraid after he fled the city centre, afraid the Masters would be angry with him for failing to spread their message. He stayed in his house and awaited their judgement.

  He heard nothing for five days and was beginning to imagine that they had chosen someone else. Someone more able than him. One evening he was watching television with the sound turned down low. He sat through a news bulletin about climate change – the hurricanes ravaging the American Midwest with increasing frequency, the floods hitting Europe throughout the year. Switching channels, he looked at a documentary detailing the plight of Indonesia's Orang-utans, explaining how their habitat was being felled to meet the West's insatiable demands for timber. Turning over again, he watched a scientist standing on a rocky shoreline that, a few years before, was covered by a glacier.

  Tom! Tom! Tom!

  He fell to the floor and crawled under the coffee table whispering,' I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

  Once again, they took it in turns to speak.

  Do not be afraid, we are not angry with you.

  It is the gum chewers who have angered us.

  Of all the acts we see, theirs cannot be forgiven.

  It symbolizes the frenzy consuming the planet.

  They aren't satisfied collecting more and more goods.

  Instead they work their jaws in a gross parody of consumption.

  They disgust us.

  'Yes,' Tom agreed, relieved not to be the focus of their wrath. 'And what do they do with the lumps?' he dared to ask. 'They spit them on to the streets, ruining the world.'

  He said that he hated all gum chewers, too. Thinking of the youngsters who had driven him from his preaching, he looked towards the window and told the Masters that he wished they could all be destroyed. The chorus of approval stopped, and a wheedling voice asked if he was sincere.

  'Yes,' he whispered, meaning it with all his heart.

  So they told him how to fulfil his destiny. By following their instructions to the letter, the Golden Age would be allowed to dawn.

  The next day he looked out of his French windows, across the garden at the smouldering remains of his armchair. On it sat the television, its screen blackened and cracked from the smoke and heat, the plastic casing melted along the bottom.

  The sofa had burned itself out earlier. The telephone, answer machine, hi-fi system, computer, keyboard, food blender, DVD player, coffee percolator, alarm-clock radio, camcorder, video, toaster, personal stereo, cameras and golf clubs, forming a charred sculpture that had partially sunk into the exposed frame and springs. Next to the remains was a pile of ash that had once been his jackets, coats, jeans, T-shirts and most of his trainers. Only a few items of clothing remained in his wardrobe upstairs.

  He had faithfully followed their commands and rid himself of his worldly possessions in preparation for his mission. Now they spoke to him again. Tom listened calmly to the words, nodding in understanding.

  He went to his garage and assembled the Cooper's Barrow, pinning the X-treme panel banners to its frame, bolts of lightning striking the lemons and infusing them with electricity.

  Next he found the box with all the entry forms for the competition to win a year's supply of X-treme gum and a luxury holiday for two in Malaysia. He opened it up and surveyed the form. The whole competition was really a data-capturing exercise for the chewing gum manufacturer; a way of collecting demographical information about the type of people who purchased their gum.

  Examining the glossy front of the form, Tom saw questions asking for the person's name, address, home phone number, mobile phone number, email address, age, marital status and, finally, a convenient time to call to inform them if they were the lucky winner. The wording was carefully couched so the person would think it was necessary to complete all the boxes in order to stand a chance of winning. Tom looked at the pile of boxes. It appeared that he had enough packets of gum to hand out to half the population of Manchester.

  George tried the number again but the line was now dead. He'd been ringing Tom's house quite a lot over the last few weeks but Charlotte never answered. Listening to Tom's tortured breathing made him feel good. But the fact she was never there presented a problem. He needed to know where she lived if he was to carry out his plans for her.

  He tried the number again but there was still no tone. Strange, he thought, wondering if it had anything to do with the fire he could see burning in the back garden the other evening.

  Glancing at his watch, he saw that her pilates class was in an hour. He set off towards the health centre so he could watch from across the road as she arrived. This time he'd keep track of her all night, right the way back to her front door.

  She emerged from the health centre at ten past eight and walked up to Albert Square, where she met another man. They went into some trendy-looking cafe bar and George sat on the benches in front of the town hall for another two hours. Finally they emerged and walked down to Deansgate. A few hundred yards on they disappeared into a place called The Living Room.

  George approached the doors but the bouncer waved him on before he could get near. 'Not tonight mate; we're full.'

  He crossed the road, stood in a dark side street and waited. A group of glamorous people arrived minutes later and walked straight in. Charlotte finally appeared at two o'clock in the morning, arms around the man she had arrived with. She seemed full of energy, laughing raucously and grabbing at the man's buttocks. George's eyes widened in alarm as they flagged down a passing cab. He was on the wrong side of the road. As they jumped in he emerged into the light, furiously waving at a cab as it approached on his side of the road. The driver pulled over and he jumped in the back. 'Turn around! Follow that taxi over there!'

  'You what, m
ate?' said the driver, twisting round in his seat to look at his passenger.

  George was staring out the back window as Charlotte's cab turned up a side street and disappeared from view. 'Do a U-turn, you imbecile! Hurry up!' The driver turned the keys and the diesel engine rattled to a halt. 'Get out, you fat prick.'

  George roared with frustration.

  Chapter 25

  October 2002

  Carefully Tom raised the nail scissors to his face. As he started cutting away clumps of beard, he felt better and better. Now he had accepted that he was merely an instrument of the Masters, courage and confidence flooded through him. His life had purpose once again.

  When the stubble was short enough, he filled the sink with water, then shaved off the remains with a razor that had lain unused for over a month. In his bedroom he kicked aside the pile of musty-smelling clothes that he had been wearing for weeks. He turned to the X-treme branded tracksuit and baseball cap laid out on the bed and put them on.

  In his garage he stocked the cart with boxes of gum and competition entry forms. The minivan he'd hired was parked on the drive and he wheeled the cart up the ramps and into the rear of the vehicle.

  Next he drove into Manchester, parking by the Student Union on Oxford Road. He hung about on the flight of steps leading up to the main entrance, waiting for a group of three students. Soon he spotted two lads and a girl. He walked over to them and asked if they'd each like to earn thirty pounds cash for an hour's work. Within seconds all three were in the van and he was heading towards the city centre.