by Matt Shaw
He wanted me to kill him. That much was obvious. I don’t know why though. I don’t know what he was trying to prove. What? Maybe that we were one and the same? We’re not. I’m not a killer. I won’t kill a person - let alone a child.
“Get him out of here!” I snapped at him.
He laughed, “I’m going to leave the two of you alone for a while, okay? Give you time to come to terms with the situation.”
“What? Don’t you fucking leave us…Hello?”
Silence.
I called out again, “Hello?”
He was gone.
I turned back to the cellar. The thought of the boy down there. What must have been going through his head? What must he have been thinking? Not just because he was down there; snatched from his home…But what he saw in his house before he was taken. He saw his mum and dad murdered before his very eyes. Is there any come back from that for him - even if I can get him out of the house?
Slowly, nervously, I made my way back to the cellar’s stairs.
IV
I hesitated at the foot of the stairs. The little boy was looking at me, his eyes wide with fear - not that I expecting anything different. I smiled at him but remembered how I looked in the mirror’s reflection when I was testing my grin and quickly changed my expression to a more neutral look.
“Hi,” I said coyly. He didn’t reply. I’m not sure whether that was because he was scared or whether it was because of the gag. I walked over to him and he flinched. “It’s okay,” I reassured him, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Slowly, I reached down to him and removed his gag. He didn’t say anything but he seemed grateful; it was in his eyes. “Is that better?” I asked him. He nodded.
“Is the clown here?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
“I don’t like him,” the boy said. His voice was shaking. “He scares me.”
Of course the clown get-up scared him. Under the circumstances they met each other, it would have scared anyone. I felt bad for him but I also felt disappointment at his misguided fear. It wasn’t the clown he should be scared of. The clown is the entertainer. The clown is the fun one.
“He’s not here,” I reassured him again.
“Can I go home?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted the boy to be able to go home. Of course I did. But I knew he couldn’t. For one, his parents were dead, and for another, he’d tell the police of us, and our home. I knew there was no chance of his safe return.
“Please?” he continued.
“I’ll be right back.” I turned away from him and hurried from the cellar, back up to the kitchen. I slammed the door shut behind me. Out of sight, out of mind.
“I wouldn’t get too friendly with him,” he was back, speaking in my ear. “It will only make it harder when you kill him,” he continued.
“Please. I can’t do it. I can’t. I’m not like you…”
“…You are. You just don’t know it yet.”
“No. I’m not like you. I can’t do it.”
“Well you’re going to have to.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“You will.”
“Please. I need you to do it.”
He shrugged, “I’m not going to do it for you.”
“I can’t do it!” I yelled.
“Then you’d better find out what he likes to eat for dinner because you’ve got yourself another mouth to feed.” He laughed, “Good luck with that.”
9.
I was hiding in my bedroom, the broken furniture still lying around from where he’d thrown it last night. I was trying to pretend none of it had happened - last night, what he did whilst wearing my outfit and the boy. I was trying and failing. Hard really - even with the door shut and him in the cellar - I could still hear him crying for his parents. I wonder if he realises they’re dead? He must. He must know there is nowhere for him to go. Even if I didn’t care about the police taking me - taking us - and I did let him go…Where would he run to? His life is over in more ways than one.
“You going to hide up here all day?”
“I can’t just kill someone. I’m not like you.”
“You like this boy?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Just because I don’t know him, it doesn’t mean I want to kill him. He’s a person. A human.”
“He’s human? Of course he is. So you’re aware that - in time - he’s going to die anyway. What’s the problem with bringing that time forward a little?” he sneered.
“It’s not my place to do so.”
“Listen to him,” he said. He paused long enough for me to hear the young boy crying. “He’s upset. He’s in pain - mentally and physically…You kill him - you’re just putting him out of his misery. Keeping him alive, you’re just prolonging the inevitable.” He stopped talking. All I could hear was the boy’s wailing. It dawned on me - what he said about a child crying - that it was annoying. Perhaps children should be seen and not heard after all. The constant screams were driving me mad. “If anything,” he said, “keeping him down there, as you are, is actually crueller than killing him.”
Was it crueller? Was I just delaying the inevitable? Would it be nicer just to go down there and put him out of his misery? I hated him for making me doubt my own beliefs. I hated him more than words could describe.
“Would you rather I did it?” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“Well - okay. I’ll do it for you.”
“Thank you.” It was strange to say that I felt relief for his offer yet that was exactly the feeling I had. Relief. Relief that I didn’t have to kill the boy and relief that - soon - the boy would be with his mother and father, hopefully in a better place.
II
I walked over to the cupboard and pulled out one of the clown outfits hanging there. This one was red with big yellow buttons and a large white frilly collar. How the fuck he spent so much time in these things is beyond me! How did he not feel like a fucking retard?
“What are you doing?” he asked me. Jesus! Even knowing I’m the one who is going to go down and kill the boy for him, he is still talking to me in that irritating, snivelling tone of voice. I wish I could beat it out of him. Man up, for fuck’s sake, you pussy.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m getting myself dressed to go and do your dirty work.”
“My dirty work? This is all down to you. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for you, his parents would…”
“Shut the fuck up. You’re like a broken record. Take some fucking responsibility in your life once in a while.” I stepped into the clown suit and zipped myself in. There. I look like a fucking dick.
“Why the outfit?”
“You’d rather I go down and kill him without it? It’s no skin off my nose. I’m wearing this for you. You think I want to be wearing it? Because I don’t.”
“You’re wearing it for me?”
“This look is tainted - the whole clown outfit…After what happened last night. You know it is. You think you’ll ever be able to dress in it again? You know - without thinking of what happened? Because I don’t think you will. This way, the killings are confined to the clown outfit as far as you’re concerned and the look you have when you’re not dressed like a pillock…Well…That’s the good look, the safe look - the look where you haven’t actually witnessed anyone die. You see what I mean?” He looked confused - as though he didn’t understand how the ‘normal’ look (without all of the make-up) was suddenly the look which felt safe, and the one he’d hidden behind for all these years was the one he associated with murder and mayhem. I smiled. He’ll never be able to put this suit on again. He’ll never be able to hide me again. I have stolen his identity. I looked to the floor where I’d thrown the make-up table. Various make-up products and face paints were scattered around next to it. I walked over to them and picked it up. “You going to at least help me
put this shit on so it looks the part?”
III
We were standing in the upstairs bathroom, looking into the dirty mirror (part of the medicine cabinet hanging on the wall). I was applying the white face paint with one of the sponges he’d picked up for me. I was on auto-pilot, not really listening to what he was saying, a feeling of sadness that the outfit I had been hiding behind had forever been marred with what he’d done last night in his fit of rage or revenge, whatever the hell it was that drove him to do that.
“When you were a kid - did you ever have the tendency to wear make-up? I only ask because you’re pretty good at putting it on.”
When I was a ‘kid’ as he put it, I was living in relative peace. He hadn’t been a part of my life. Not when I was young. He only came to live with me when I hit my teens. He was relatively quiet to start off with. The occasional whisper in my ear after my pa had visited me in one of his many drunken (horny) states.
“You going to let him get away with that?” he’d ask me as I wept into my pillow, a trickle of father’s so-called love running down between my legs. “I wouldn’t. I’d fucking kill him. We can - if you want. We can do it together. I’ll take your hand, I’ll show you how.”
He only got louder when I ignored him. His hatred towards my dad turned to hatred towards me;,especially when I cried. He’d call me pathetic and worthless. He’d say I deserved everything I got. I tried to block him from my mind. I tried to make sure I didn’t hear any of his words but they only got louder. By the time I was in my late teens he was practically impossible to ignore - and soon it wasn’t just me that he was talking to.
“You fucking touch him again and I’ll kill you,” I heard him say to Dad once. Dad responded by hitting him. I screamed for Dad to stop but he carried on until his hands were too sore. Soon after, I moved out of the house I shared with Dad. I never spoke to him again. Soon after, he was dead - beaten in the back alley of a pub with no witnesses. I wasn’t alone. He went with me. At first I was glad for the company. He kept telling me that everything was going to be okay if I stuck with him. He said he’d look after the pair of us but he was always quick to temper.
I stopped applying the make-up and stared into the mirror. He stared back.
“What?”
“Did you kill him?”
“Who?”
“Did you kill Dad?”
He smiled at me. That was his answer. Words weren’t needed.
“Did he suffer?”
He gave me a wink, “It was about as uncomfortable as things were made for you when you were growing up.”
“What happened?”
“I hit him with a brick.” He said it so matter-of-fact that it made me nervous. There was no emotion there. No empathy, no guilt, nothing. Which is exactly what I felt too. He smiled at me. “He begged for his life as he lay there on the floor, shell-shocked. He stopped begging by the fourth hit.”
I realised then - when he was talking to me - that it wasn’t him who was smiling at me but, for the first time ever, I was smiling at him.
“Thank you,” I said. I went back to applying the various face paints. He didn’t say anything. I think the both of us were shocked at my gratitude. I know I was, but to know he did that for me - killed my dad, the man who made me suffer as I grew up behind locked doors…Maybe he had my back after all?
“I’m going to cut him,” he said after a few more minutes of blissful peace.
“What? Who?”
“The boy downstairs. That’s how I’m going to do it.”
I swallowed hard. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to hear the details. I wasn’t going to go in the room with him; I was going to leave him to it.
“I want to know how long it will take for someone to bleed out from their asshole.”
“What?”
“That’s where I’m putting the blade. Never done it before but always been curious about it.”
“You can’t. That’s cruel.”
“You think I’m nice to the people I’ve had down there?”
“Can’t you make it quick for him?” I begged.
“For all we know, it might be quick.”
“I meant - suffocate him or something? Something, I don’t know, a little more humane?”
He smiled at me and leaned in close to the mirror until we were practically touching, “You’re welcome to do it yourself?”
Any thanks I felt towards him - for what he did to my father - soon disappeared. I was backed into a corner. I didn’t have a choice but to do it myself. Not if I wanted the boy to die without unnecessarily suffering.
“I’ll do it,” I sighed.
“Attaboy!”
IV
I was standing in the kitchen staring ahead at the cellar door. The wig was in place, the outfit was on and I knew what had to be done, yet I wasn’t thinking about it. My mind was on how we had got to this stage. Everything had happened so fast. I was a children’s entertainer. I was doing okay with my job. I enjoyed it. No, I loved it. And now - I’m an accomplice to murders (God knows how many exactly), and I feel as though my personality has been pulled in the direction of his own. A darker and more uncomfortable path - one I wish I could turn away from but…Like I said, I don’t know how I have ended up here.
“You’re going to make it harder for yourself,” he said to me. His voice wasn’t snappy. If anything, he sounded as though he were trying to be genuinely helpful. Was he? Or was this another trick? Had he even been tricking me? Had he been pulling me in this direction or was I heading there anyway? “The longer you wait,” he continued, “the harder it will be to follow through with.”
“I’m not sure I can do this,” I told him. “I need to think about it.”
“Making it harder. Not just for you. For him too.”
“I…”
“You just need to get down there and do it. Trust me.”
I reached out for the handle and stopped myself from grabbing it. I pulled my hand away.
“Five minutes and it will all be over,” he pushed.
“I don’t want you to come down there with me,” I said. “I need to do this by myself.” By going down alone, it still left me the possibility to leave without hurting the boy. At least, not hurting him anymore than I’d already done so. Why am I blaming myself? It wasn’t me. It was him. Just because he was dressed like me. Wait…That’s it…I’ll explain to the boy what happened and then…I can let him go and if he does go to the police (and I’m sure he will), he’ll explain I’m the innocent one.
“I’ll give you your time,” he said.
“Thank you.” Another ‘thanks’? It was beginning to become a habit.
“Any ideas how you’re going to do it?” he asked.
I shook my head. He had spoken of cutting him but I knew I wouldn’t be able to do that. I didn’t have it in me to push a knife through someone’s skin, hard enough to penetrate organs. The mere thought of doing so repulsed me.
“I’ll think of something,” I said.
I waited by the stairs as he made himself scarce. When I was sure he’d gone, I stepped onto the first step and slowly made my way down. The kid screamed when he saw me; I’d made it halfway down the stairs before he did so. I continued down the stairs until I was on the same level with him. I turned to him and put my hands up to show I wasn’t carrying anything, “It’s okay,” I told him. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The boy burst into tears. I slowly walked over to where he was lay. He fidgeted on the mattress, straining to get away from me. “Please don’t,” I asked him. I was trying to keep my voice quiet, calm - soothing almost - but I don’t think the tone mattered. I don’t think he heard the tone. Looking at his panicked expression, I’m not sure if he is hearing the words either. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I told him. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”
To try and relax him a little, I stepped a little further back from him. Maybe my proximity was causing him more distress. I noticed some of the paintings w
ould have been visible from where he was lying on the bed. No wonder he was so upset; they probably scared the hell out of him. I turned them around so he couldn’t see them anymore.
“They’re not mine,” I told him as I turned the last of the paintings around. “They’re his.”
There was a chair standing in the corner of the room. I walked over to it and perched myself on it. The pair of us fell into an uncomfortable silence, neither of us knowing what to say for the best. For a brief moment I contemplated putting on a show for him. Not sure what exactly. According to his dad, he didn’t want a clown at his party. He wanted Iron Man. Did that mean he hated clowns and what we do? Or was it more to do with just preferring Iron Man? Maybe he loves clowns? Yes. He loves them but opted for Iron Man because he thought his friends would prefer that. An unselfish act on his part. He doesn’t deserve to die. I ran through the performance possibilities in my head wondering what he’d prefer: a balloon animal or a card trick? Maybe a few jokes? Jesus. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this kid. Other than the fact he saw his mum and dad stamped to death.
I broke the silence and cut straight to the chase, “Do you recognise me?” I asked.
He nodded.
“That’s good.” He realised I was the man who’d previously spoken to him down here, before going away and putting this costume on. That might mean he realises it wasn’t me standing in his house. It wasn’t me and - more importantly - that it was him pretending to be me.
“You were in my house.”
My heart sank.
“You hurt my mum and dad,” he started to cry again.
“No - you see - that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It wasn’t me. It was him. He was dressed as me.”
“No, it was you.”
“It wasn’t. I promise. I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You hurt my mum and dad,” he said again, tears streaming down his face.
“No. You’re not listening. It was him. He dressed up like me so I would get the blame for it but - and I promise - it wasn’t me at all. It wasn’t. I’m not like that. I’m on your side…”
