by Mark Timlin
I climbed the next flight of stairs to another landing containing two doors. Once again, one on my left, one facing me. I tried them both. Both were empty. Bare as caves. I went back on to the landing and looked up the final flight of stairs that now faced me. They were narrower than the rest, and darker. At the top were two more doors. Above them was a ceiling. After that there could only be attics.
I began to climb.
I opened the first door I came to. Inside was nothing but junk. A higgledy piggledy mess of cardboard boxes, old furniture, piles of dusty curtains. All sorts of crap stacked as high as the ceiling. I left that too. I’d come back if needs be.
So finally I opened the last door, and entered hell.
Sitting in the corner of the room, facing the door, Sophia was waiting.
39
I stood in the doorway and looked at her. The room was dim, illuminated by only one, small dormer window, but I could see clearly. I could see everything I needed to see clearly. Too clearly.
Apart from her still form, the room was empty.
It smelled even worse in there. Violent death is not a clean or pretty thing. It knows no dignity or pity for its victims.
She was still dressed in the clothes I’d watched her put on the morning she’d left me for the last time.
Blue suit, black blouse, black tights. Only her shoes were missing.
Her left hand rested on her lap. Her right was palm down on the floor. It was swollen, and the skin was black, mottled with grey. Dark blood crusted the cruel wound where her three fingers had been brutally severed from it. I wondered how long she’d taken to die. For dead she was. But I had to make sure. I could hardly bring myself to touch her, but I did. I had to.
I walked over, squatted down on my heels and found the pulse point on her left wrist. There was nothing, and her skin was cold and stiff.
The fingernails on that hand were ripped and broken too, where she must have fought her killer. I wondered what she had been thinking as she died, and whether she called on me for help. Or anybody. I didn’t even know if she believed in God, and if she’d prayed for his help in the last seconds of her life.
A fat lot of help he’d been if she had.
Her head was tilted forward and to one side, and her long, thick hair covered her face. I couldn’t bear to look at it. I didn’t want to see her as she’d been at the moment of her death. I would rather remember her as I had last seen her. Happy. Or at least as happy as I could make her.
Although her tights were torn at the knee and badly laddered, it didn’t look as if the rest of her clothes had been disturbed. That was something at least. But not much.
I looked down at her disfigured hand, and as I did, a cockroach crawled out from the sleeve of her jacket, over the back of her wrist, teetered, then dropped to the floor and scurried away in the direction of the door.
I couldn’t bear it. I moaned a long animal noise of disgust, stood up and mashed the thing into the floor. Grinding it with the sole of my shoe until it was paste.
Then I leant against the wall and slid down into a sitting position next to Sophia’s body.
This way madness lay. I knew that. Sitting there with her body. But I didn’t care. I was well on the way to insanity anyway, there in that terrible house where all humanity had been denied.
Then, and only then, as I sat there, did tears come. I put my head down to my knees, covered it with my arms and let them flow unchecked.
How long I sat there sobbing, as the earth turned, I don’t know. A few minutes? Hours? I couldn’t say.
But eventually, as all things must pass, first the sobs, and then the tears ceased.
I felt in Sophia’s handbag for tissues and wiped my face. The tissues smelt of her perfume, and for a moment I thought I was going to start crying again, but I didn’t.
I stood up, and with just one final backward glance I left that grim room and went downstairs. I didn’t touch her again. I couldn’t. I knew that if I did, it would be the end for me.
I picked up the phone that stood on the table by the front door and dialled the number of Brixton Police Station from memory. When I got to the last digit I stopped, shook my head, and gently replaced the receiver. It was no good. I couldn’t do it.
Instead I went back into the kitchen, took the largest, heaviest, sharpest-looking knife with the finest point from its rack, and went into the sitting room, sat in the armchair, facing the dead TV screen with the knife in my hand, and waited with the door to the hall open wide.
The noise in my ears was louder now. I was sure it was the cockroaches making it. Behind the walls and in the ceiling they scurried on God only knew what errand.
I saw one walking across the ceiling above me. It suddenly dropped and landed on the coffee table, and began a long, slow inexorable walk in my direction with its antennae feeling the air in front of it.
I hefted the knife in my fist as it got closer. It was long and black and horrible. One of the biggest I’d yet seen. A king of cockroaches. I’d read somewhere that they were the first living thing on the planet, and that they would probably be the last.
When it got within reach I slammed the knife down, through its hard black carapace, the yellow muck inside, and deep into the wood of the table, maybe three quarters of an inch, maybe more. The knife quivered there from the force of the blow and I watched as the life leaked out of the roach, its legs fluttering feebly as it died, and wondered who’d be the first to get to the house. Stephen Anthony Paulus or the police.
40
It wasn’t very long before I heard keys in the locks of the front door. It wasn’t Old Bill. They wouldn’t be that polite. I wondered if Piers had got hold of Chas, and if he had phoned the police or was hanging about, waiting for the exclusive of the year.
I tugged the knife out of the table and stood up at the sound of the tumblers turning. The body of the cockroach was impaled on the end of the blade, and I shook it off and it bounced off one of the walls and landed on the carpet. I knew that Paulus would see the letters I’d propped up against the phone, and wondered if he’d run. And whether or not I’d be able to catch him.
But he didn’t.
Instead he said in a soft voice, ‘Is anybody there?’
‘In here, Stephen,’ I replied. ‘In the living room.’
He came silently down the hall and stood in the doorway. It was the geezer who’d been outside Day’s flat and had got away on his motorbike. He was dressed the same and he held a black crash helmet in his right hand.
‘Hello again,’ I said. ‘How’s your bad luck?’
He put the helmet on the table. Right in the centre. ‘What are you doing here? This is private property,’ he asked, but his voice didn’t carry much conviction.
‘Sue me,’ I said.
He looked at the knife in my hand, but didn’t mention it.
‘So what are you doing here?’ he asked again.
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. But I do know you’re trespassing.’
‘Don’t fuck about, Stephen,’ I said. ‘I’ve been upstairs. I know who’s there. I haven’t been in the cellar yet, but I can guess what I’d find if I did.’
‘What?’
‘I said don’t fuck me about.’ I was holding the handle of the knife so hard I thought it might permanently graft itself to the skin of my hand.
I got the feeling that he was almost glad to see me. Relieved. As if keeping the secret had been too much for him. Like having a present in November, and not being able to open it till Christmas Day.
‘Do you want to see?’ he asked.
‘It can wait.’
‘Shall I tell you what’s down there, then?’
I hated him for saying that.
‘I told you,’ I said. ‘I can guess.’
He paused, and as I l
ooked at him, he reminded me of nothing so much as a naughty schoolboy being pulled up in front of the headmaster for smoking at the back of the toilets. ‘So you found me,’ he said, like he wanted to be found.
‘Looks like it,’ I said.
‘How?’ he asked.
‘It’s my job,’ I replied.
‘Where are the police?’ he asked.
‘Coming.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
He nodded.
‘You don’t seem too bothered,’ I said. I wanted him to be bothered. I wanted him to beg, or fight, or run, or anything. Anything rather than just stand there as if he was waiting for a hamburger to be cooked at the counter of Burger King.
He shrugged. ‘I knew you’d catch me sooner or later,’ he said.
‘So why do it?’
‘I had to.’
‘Is that it?’
He nodded.
‘And you expect me to leave it there?’
‘What’s it to you?’ he asked.
‘The woman upstairs. Your last victim. She meant a lot to me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Sorry. And he expected me to be satisfied with that.
‘Not good enough,’ I said.
He shrugged again.
I could feel my insides churning and sweat was running down my sides under my shirt and jacket, and my knees were shaking. And I was suddenly very cold.
‘Not good enough,’ I repeated. Just slightly louder.
He looked at me pityingly. ‘It’ll have to be,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Look,’ he explained patiently, as if to a small child, ‘I did it. I killed all those people. Now I’ve been caught, I’ll go on trial. Plead guilty, because I am. Then I’ll be sent to a maximum security mental facility like Broadmoor. I don’t mind. It’s what I expected. I’ve had a good run for my money. It’s OK in there. TV, books. I may even write one myself.’
You little cunt, I thought. You’ve got it all planned out.
‘Not necessarily,’ I said.
‘What then?’ he asked.
‘I could kill you myself, before the police arrive.’
‘No, you won’t.’
He was so sure. That’s what pissed me off.
I changed the subject.
‘What do you do, Stephen?’ I asked.
‘I work in a hospital. In the pharmacy.’
‘Lots of interesting drugs,’ I said.
He smiled a knowing smile.
‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘And access to all those toys you’ve got in the other room.’
He smiled again and nodded.
‘And I suppose you bring a few samples of your work home?’
He nodded again.
‘Show me,’ I said.
He turned and walked back down the hall to the room that was like a hospital ward. I followed him. When we got inside he went over and drew back the plastic curtain that covered the alcove, and opened a cupboard in the wall that was so cleverly concealed I hadn’t even noticed it when I’d looked before.
I went over and looked in it. Timothy White and Taylor’s, remember them? A chain of chemists. Big time. That’s what the inside of that cupboard reminded me of. It was full of boxes of prescription drugs. All sorts.
‘Got any sleeping pills?’ I asked.
‘That’s what you like, is it?’ he said.
It was my turn to shrug. ‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘I think I just might have some trouble sleeping for a while.’
He didn’t ask why, but reached in and pulled out a white cardboard packet.
‘Mandrax,’ he said. ‘Illegal over here now.’
I took the pack and put it in my jacket pocket.
‘Got any pain killers?’ I asked.
His smile turned into a beam.
‘My speciality,’ he said. ‘Why do you want pain killers?’
‘I might need them later,’ I replied.
He pulled a face and took a large plastic pill box from the top shelf of the cupboard. The printed label read ‘Ketalar’.
‘Ketamine,’ he said. ‘Ketalar’s the brand name. I can shift a lot of these. Stupid junkies love them. They call them Special-K or Kit-Kat. They’re good pain killers, but take too many and they do funny things to your head.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and took the box and put it in my pocket too.
I had an idea that I was going to need as much pain killer as I could use before I was much older.
‘The police are a long time coming,’ said Paulus, almost wistfully.
‘You can’t wait, can you?’ I said. ‘You’ve got it all worked out.’
Once again a fleeting smile crossed his lips. But he said not a word.
‘Stephen,’ I went on, ‘I can’t let it happen like that.’
His eyes flickered to the knife that I was still holding in my right hand.
‘You’d never get away with it,’ he said.
‘Don’t be so sure. I find you here. You grab a knife. We fight. I kill you in self-defence.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
I could see he still didn’t believe me. I had to make him. I had to do that before I could do anything else.
I took the knife and inserted the needle-sharp point into the leather of my jacket, just under my left shoulder. Sharp side down.
It slid through it easily, and the shirt beneath. Then into the meat of the muscle at the front of my arm. I dragged the knife down and it slit my jacket and shirt, and the skin and flesh too, as neatly as a scalpel. I pulled the knife down nearly to the crook of my elbow, and as I did, I watched Paulus’s face.
I felt hot blood bubble from the wound and soak my shirt and run down my arm, and I felt momentarily dizzy. For a split second it occurred to me how funny it would be if I passed out. But I didn’t. Then I pulled the knife out.
Half of the blade was tinged bright red.
I kept my eyes fixed on Paulus’s as I held the knife up for him to see.
‘Fingerprints,’ he said.
‘I’ll wipe them off with your blood,’ I replied.
And then he knew I’d do it. I saw it in his eyes. He knew, just like Sophia must have known, and all his other victims, when he was about to kill them. He knew I’d do it.
I felt a surge of triumph run through me as it finally sunk in that I’d do it.
So I did it.
I stuck him like a pig. Or like the cockroach I’d stuck earlier. Because that’s what he was. A cockroach.
I stabbed the knife in just beneath his breastbone. His face showed surprise but no pain, and he clamped both his hands on to my wrist. It was no good. I twisted the knife, and pulled it upwards, and heard bone and cartilage pop, then I dragged it further up through his ribs until I could drag it no further.
I let go of the handle and shook his hands off mine.
He staggered back and fell into the hallway.
I watched as he lay there, the dreadful chest wound I’d inflicted sucking and spraying blood all over him and the floor around him as he tried to breathe.
I watched as he lay there, as the flow of blood diminished as he died.
I looked at my arm. Blood had soaked the edge of the cut in my leather jacket and all at once it began to hurt. Badly.
I took the box of pain killers out of my pocket, levered the top off with my teeth and swallowed one. Then I went and phoned the police to find out what the fuck was keeping them.
Copyright
This ebook published in 2015
by No Exit Press,
an imprint of Oldcastle Books Ltd,
PO Box 394, Harpenden,
Herts, AL5 1XJ, UK
noexit.co.uk
@NoExitPress
All rights reserved
© Mark Timlin, 1993
The right of Mark Timlin to be identified as author of this
work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced,
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and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses,
companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN
978-1-84344-480-0 (print)
978-1-84344-481-7 (epub)
978-1-84344-482-4 (kindle)
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