by Matt Shaw
“What the hell are you doing?” a harsh voice cut in making me jump.
“I told you not to come down here,” I hissed.
“I asked you a question. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? What are you saying?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t saying anything.”
The boy looked both confused and scared. I tried to give him a look - a quick glance to let him know I’m here and I’m on his side - just as I had promised to him only seconds earlier.
“Why are you trying to make fucking friends with the little cunt? You’re down here to kill him. Why the fuck are you making things complicated for yourself? No. Not just yourself…Complicated for both of us. What? You a selfish cunt, is that it?
“You’re being over the top. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick…”
“Have I fuck. I was here, listening. I heard it all. You’re trying to tell him you’re the innocent one…”
“No. I wasn’t saying…”
“Don’t you fucking lie to me.”
“I’m not!”
“Please stop it!” the boy cried out as he pulled against his restraints.
“I swear to God I’m not!” I said, ignoring the boy.
“Then prove it! Finish him!”
There was no way the boy was getting out of there alive. I should have just stormed over to him and done what was required but I couldn’t move. My feet were rooted to the spot. I couldn’t help but think of the boy as a life. It wasn’t mine to take, no matter what it meant if he got away. So what if I go to prison? Perhaps I deserve it? I should have just turned the pair of us in as soon as I realised what he was doing in his own time. Jesus - how could I have been so blind to it? All this time, right under my own nose - a fucking murderer!
“You’re fucking weak! You’re a disgrace. A fucking coward!” he screamed at me, a rage in his voice I’d not heard before. I could only watch as he stormed towards the boy. “If you want a job done…”
V
“…Do it yourself!” I yelled. The child screamed as I approached him. Quite right too; I’m not a pussy like that prick. I pulled the pillow out from under his head and promptly muffled his scream by placing it over his squirming face.
“Get off him!”
“Why? Are you going to finish this fucking thing?”
“Just get off him.”
I tried to pull him away but he shook me off.
“I will kill you!” he hissed. “As soon as I’m done with him, I will fucking kill you if you touch me again. Do you understand me?”
VI
The boy’s limbs were flailing around underneath his weight. I could only watch in horror as I became witness to another death. I started to gag. Soon, the boy’s limbs went limp and yet he still didn’t climb off from him. He waited there, on top of him, with the pillow over the boy’s face as though making sure he was definitely gone.
“Get off him,” I begged.
“Fine.”
He got off the boy and dropped the pillow to the floor. I saw the boy’s face - pale with lifeless eyes - and couldn’t hold in the sick anymore. I ran to the corner of the room and threw up on the floor.
“I know I keep saying it but - really - you are a fucking joke. An absolute joke.”
I started to weep; not because of what he was saying, but because there - in the corner of the room - was another dead boy.
“Get the fuck out of my sight whilst I finish up down here!”
I didn’t need him to ask me twice and promptly left.
10.
I kicked the clown outfit off and threw it towards the washing machine where the other one was already soaking, post-service. With the outfit off, I leaned into the sink and threw up again. I’m glad he was preoccupied so he didn’t witness that. He already thought badly of me. Badly? That was a joke. The way he was talking to me, I thought he was going to kill me as soon as the boy was disposed of. I’m still worried he may try.
I ran the tap water into the sink to wash the vomit down the plughole; whilst doing so, I looked towards the cellar. I’m not sure how to fix this. I’m not sure how to make all of this go away. All I know is that he’s tainted my way of living beyond repair. I feel as though he has destroyed me. Another bubble from my stomach. Hold it in. Hold it in. Don’t be a pussy. Am I being sick because of what I’ve witnessed these past few days or because of stress - worry about what he’s going to say (or do) to me? He might not be able to kill me but he has already proven he can make things awkward for me. And what if he does figure out a way to kill me? Would he? I know - if I could - I’d end his life.
“I think we need to talk!”
His voice made me jump. I caught sight of him in the kitchen window’s reflection, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. Wait. No. Is that hatred? It’s not. It’s not the same look I’ve seen on him before. It’s something else. What is that? That’s it. I know it. Disappointment. My dad used to look at me like that on nights I failed to please him.
“I thought we had reached an understanding?”
It didn’t matter if his tone did match his expression (definitely disappointment), I still found myself feeling nervous of him. For the first time ever, I realised I was actually scared of him. You can’t blame me; I had witnessed him murder people and I know there are more that he has killed.
“What? You not talking to me now? The silent treatment?” he pressed me further.
“I can’t understand you.”
“You can’t understand me? Why ever not? I’m probably the easiest person to understand…”
“No. I can’t understand how you can kill people.”
“It’s easy. Think about it.”
“I have thought about it. Ever since you showed me that bag…I can’t get my head around it. I can’t. It’s not the right thing to do.”
“Says who?”
“Society.”
“What if society is wrong and I am right? Have you ever thought of that?” He took a breath, “I want to show you something.”
“I don’t want to see it.” I had seen enough of what he wanted to show me. Whatever it was he had for me to see this time, I didn’t want to know.
“It’s not really an option,” he whispered.
Before I could answer, he dragged me back down to the cellar. I fought with him as he pulled me towards the bed where the small boy still lay. When we were close enough, he forced me to look upon it. The poor boy staring dead ahead - was he looking at me?
“Please let me go,” I begged him. I didn’t want to be seeing this. I wanted nothing to do with it. He knew this, so why was he forcing me to see it? He knows I’m not the same as him. I don’t have it in me.
“Look at him,” he whispered in my ear. He no longer sounded as though he was disappointed, nor angry. He sounded very ‘matter-of-fact’. “You remember how much pain he was in?” he asked. “You remember how upset he was?”
“Of course I do,” I said.
“Do you remember the pain in his eyes?”
“Yes.”
“How much pain was there?” he asked.
“A lot.”
“A lot. Yes. Now look.”
Again, he forced me to look the boy in his eyes.
“What do you see now?” he continued.
I tried to relax a little. I realised I wasn’t going to get away with not looking. I had to go along with whatever it was he was trying to show me. Besides, the sooner I went along with it, the sooner he might let me go about my own business (which was anything other than this). I looked at the boy more closely but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking at.
“Do you see it?” he pushed me for an answer.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be seeing,” I said.
“In his eyes.”
I shrugged, “I…don’t….”
“Peace. He looks peaceful.”
I looked in the boy’s eyes again. There was no pain, there was no fear, there was nothing - in that res
pect, I guess there was peace.
“He’s not crying anymore,” he said. “There’s no stress, there’s no worry, there’s nothing - just absolute peace. Now, do you remember a time when you’ve ever seen that much peace in someone’s eyes?”
I shook my head, “No.”
“That’s right. No.” He continued, “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
I wondered whether he believed any of what he was actually saying or whether it was just for my benefit. He walked over to one of the easels and slid a blank canvas onto it. Once in place, he reached for a small paint brush from a pot of various painting implements. I watched in silence as he started to outline what looked to be the boy.
“Don’t you wish you could feel peace like this?” he asked, with a nod of his head towards the boy.
“Yes.”
“Yes. Do you think any of us will ever feel peace like that?”
I shook my head.
“I can’t hear you.”
“No.”
“No,” he agreed. “You see those pictures over in the corner of the room as souvenirs from lives I have taken, but I see it differently. I see it as children I have given peace to.”
I didn’t say anything as he continued to paint the dead child. I just stood with him, in silence, as I contemplated what he had said, wondering whether he believed it or whether he was simply trying to turn me into his way of thinking - and the ‘peace’ theory just so happened to work in his favour.
He stopped painting, “Sorry - did you want to give this a go?” he asked. “It’s very therapeutic.”
“No. No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” he said as he resumed what he was doing.
I looked at the painting. At first, I thought he was going to draw everything in front of us but - with each little stroke of the brush - it was becoming apparent that this particular picture was going to be of the young boy’s eyes only.
II
The same thought kept racing through my mind as I sat in the living room, leaving him to whatever else he wanted to do; he is killing people because he believes he is giving them the peace they deserve, the peace they long for. I knew it was still wrong, regardless of how you dressed it up but - when you looked at it like that - it wasn’t as bad as I first believed it to be. I mean, he isn’t necessarily a cold-hearted murderer. He is a man on a mission of mercy. I wonder, would the police go easy on him if they knew the truth? What if I phoned them up and told them? Would they go easy on both of us? I looked across to the telephone which sat on a small coffee table next to the sofa. Whilst he’s busy, I should phone them. It’s the right thing to do. Surely he’ll see that when they come for him? Wait a minute, no. They won’t see it like that. They can’t. The boy is at peace now but they’ll argue he was at peace before he was taken from his home. He was at peace before he saw his mum and dad killed. Shit. What a tangled web we weave. As my mind raced with various thoughts it stuck on one in particular, something he’d said to me when he first showed me what he had done. Something about children being bastards, or cunts. I can’t remember the exact words he used. There was more. Something about children being seen and not heard…The child in the park - he said he was doing the mum a favour by getting rid of the kid. There was no mention of giving the child the peace he yearned for. Everything he’d said to me, in the cellar, was just bullshit and - again - I’d been suckered in by it. Fuck.
I reached my hand out but went past the phone. I grabbed the controller instead. Thoughts of the child in the park - I’d been so busy with what happened last night…Had they found the boy yet? Did they have any leads on what happened?
I flicked the television on via the controller and started hopping through the channels. So many channels. I’m sure the last time I paid any attention to the TV there were only four. When did there become so many? And, more to the point, why can’t I find what I’m looking for on any of them? Chat show, chat show, chat show (how many chat shows?), soap, some shitty made-for-television film with piss poor acting and a distinct lack of any serious direction…No news.
The clock on the front of my DVD player showed it to be coming up to midday. There must be something coming on the channels soon. I’ll just sit and wait. Ignoring the child in the park for a moment, I need to know if the bodies from last night have been discovered and, more to the point, whether there were any witnesses or not.
“Regardless,” his voice made me jump again. I wished he would stop jumping out on me. “You might want to hide the van, just to be safe…” A feeling of panic rushed through me. I hadn’t given much thought to the van. It was hardly the most inconspicuous vehicle out there. It wouldn’t have been hard for someone to spot it at the crime scene. Either crime scene.
“You realise they probably already know about us?” I said. My voice was quiet. Downbeat. “Someone would have seen the van. It’ll only be a matter of time before the police come knocking on the door, asking all sorts of questions.”
“Then you’d better think of an alibi,” he said, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t say you were with me.”
“What if they come here with search warrants?” I asked as I started to panic. Before the investigation for what happened last night was possibly even open, my brain was telling me it was already over for us. If they came here, with papers, they’d find the cellar (no hiding it) and they’d find not only the boy’s body but also the paintings of the other children. Even if I told them they weren’t real - just the product of a diseased mind - I doubt they’d believe me.
“You think I haven’t already thought about that?” he asked. “Do you take me for an amateur?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but all of this is kind of new to me.”
“Go back down to the cellar.”
“I don’t want to. I’ve seen the fucking cellar,” I snapped at him. Snapping was a mistake. It served no other purpose than to anger him and he barked - once again - for me to go down to the cellar before dragging me down there against my own will.
I couldn’t believe what I saw when we made it to the bottom of the stairs. The room was a mess, yes, but…There were no signs of anything untoward happening down here. The bed was leaning on its side against the far wall as though it had been abandoned by previous owners of the home - certainly easier than disposing of it themselves and certainly nothing to raise any suspicions. The cellar was clearly a dumping ground for junk just as attics were used for similar. I continued to look around. The paintings were missing too. Where they’d previously been leaning in a neat mile, there was nothing but dust on the floor. Even the damned easels were missing. Had they ever been here? Was it all just a figment of my imagination when I’d earlier seen it down here?
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he laughed.
“Am I losing my mind?” I asked him. If I were to drive to the boy’s house and knock on the door, would his mum and dad answer? The pair of them perfectly unharmed? Would the boy come to the top of the stairs to see who was calling on them? Maybe hopeful it was his one of his friends coming around to invite him out? Was everything that happened recently all in my damaged mind? I felt a piece of hope flow through me. That was, at least, until he opened his trap again.
“Look in the other corner,” he laughed. He turned my head towards the darkest corner of the room. “Look at the floor.”
There was a freshly dug (and re-covered) hole.
“The boy?”
“The boy.”
“And the pictures?”
“Of course not. You know what the rotting flesh will do to the paint? I need them hidden, not completely ruined.” He turned my head towards the wall opposite to where the bed leaned. Bricks. I looked closely in the dim light. They’d been disturbed too. Not all of them. Just enough of them. Enough of them to make a small hiding hole for, I’m guessing, the pictures.
“You’ve been busy,” I said. I’d so wished my mind was damaged beyond all boundaries of sanity. I’d rather that, if it meant the boy and h
is family (and the other children) were alive. My mind is damaged beyond all repair but not in a way which allowed me any peace. They were dead and he was very much in control as to what happened between us. All these years, I thought I was in the driving seat but no, it’s him. It has always been him.
“Like I said,” he continued, “you need to think about what you’re going to say should the police come. And, more importantly, you need to get rid of that van…I’ve done my bit. You do your bit. For once. Understand?”
He left me standing there in the cellar, so he could go and rest up, with so many thoughts buzzing through my head, only one really loud one though: the nagging doubt that I’ll have it in me to throw anyone off the scent of what we have done here. I’m not a good liar. I always go red. I squirm. It’s uncomfortable and I hate it. Even now I’m starting to feel my face burn up at the prospect of having to lie to someone, let alone someone as important as a police officer. I know I can’t. I’ll let us down. I’ll let him down. He’ll be angry with me. Again. He’ll never let me live it down if I ruin things for us. He’ll continue to plague me with his beliefs about what is right and what is wrong, always ignoring my own thoughts.
Something he’d said when forcing me to look the dead boy in the eyes popped into my thoughts, specifically a question he’d asked. He asked whether either of us would feel the peace the boy felt in his death. I’d said no. I didn’t feel we could feel the same level of peace he felt and it tore me apart inside. The knowledge that I’ll never be as happy as other people I bump into in my life. I’ll never have that feeling of satisfaction they have with their lives. I tried to think what I had done to deserve such a life. Why had I deserved such misery and pain and suffering? What had I done that was so bad? Even at a young age, when I was living with Dad, I was being seemingly punished and for what? Why? I was just a normal kid trying to live my life. I didn’t ask for what happened. And then he showed up in my life. I didn’t ask for him to come by and I certainly didn't ask for him to get involved with Dad. He simply took it upon himself to do so and now he expected me to be grateful for it? It was unfair.
