Klaus stepped into view and almost lazily stopped it forearm to forearm, then snapped his blocking arm straight, propelling his fist perfectly into the man’s nose. If I thought my nose had been damaged, my assailant’s nose practically exploded in a burst of red. Klaus then swung his arm over the man’s, locking out the elbow of his “opponent”—Klaus had done all of this with one arm—and then made a sort of thrusting movement with his shoulder. There was an audible crack and the man began to scream. Klaus let go and stepped back, and the man’s arm fell in a way that it wasn’t designed to. He screeched and dropped to his knees holding his broken limb, looking up at Klaus with desperate eyes. Klaus’ impenetrable sunglasses and expressionless face looked back. Seeing nothing in Klaus’ face—to my total amazement—the man then looked at me.
“That’s it,” he gasped breathlessly, his voice high-pitched with pain. “That’s enough, that’s it.” I stared back at him, more stunned than ever. Klaus moved in around behind the man and wrapped his jacketed arm around his neck, his other hand going behind the man’s head. In his huge black coat, Klaus looked like a beast, my assailant his prey. “Thasssit!” The man continued pointlessly, gurgling the words through gritted teeth as he began to run out of breath. “Thassenuff! Thassenuff, thassit!”
“Klaus!” I gasped, finding my voice. “Don’t kill him! I need… I need to…”
Klaus looked up at me and furrowed his brow, shaking his head briefly. He almost looked annoyed. Don’t be stupid. He looked back down at the man, watching him diminish.
“Thassy… thass…” the man mumbled, his struggles lessening, his eyes fluttering. Klaus was putting him out. What the hell was going on? Why had Klaus intervened? Was he allowed to do this? Was he setting the guy up for me or something, making it easy? The man’s fading eyes settled on me, and I knew he was, in a way, in the same boat as me. He was wondering what the fuck had just happened. A thought came to me:
You’ll never know, asshole.
I then remembered why he definitely wouldn’t know, and I felt even sicker. Where was my fucking anger? The man’s eyes fell shut and his cries diminished to nothing. Klaus held him a few more moments and then simply let him go, standing up as the man’s body slid limply off Klaus’ legs onto the crappy tiled floor of this racist fucking pub.
Klaus looked down at me and held out a gloved hand. Feeling as if I was made of feathers and that my head and balls were being beaten up from the inside, I struggled upright and took it. He pulled, lifting me pretty much straight up with very little effort, but as soon as I put weight on my bad foot I knew something was now a lot worse. The man’s stomp on my ankle had added significantly to the damage. Pain lanced up my leg, and I fell sideways against the cubicle wall, crying out slightly. Klaus’ brow furrowed again, but I could see that it wasn’t from concern. It was annoyance. Normally I would have yelled fuck off! He just stomped my ankle! But the wave of gratitude was washing over me as I began to fully realize what Klaus had done. He had absolutely saved my ass. Despite my shame and shock, I was desperate to thank him.
“Klaus… how come you… thank you,” I said, wincing at the throb from my ankle. “I can’t believe… I didn’t think you could, y’know… interfere…” Klaus shook his head slightly and held up a hand. It’s not like that. I didn’t know what he meant, but right then I didn’t care. Klaus took out a packet of something that looked like Wet Ones from his seemingly endless number of coat pockets and began to go around the surfaces in the room with them, wiping the walls, tiles and cubicles down with practiced speed and thoroughness. I watched, open-mouthed.
Jesus.
I wanted to look at my face. I hopped gingerly from my cubicle and around the unconscious man on the floor, and as I did so, Klaus moved into my former hiding place and began to wipe over every inch of it. He then came out and scooped up the racist under his armpits, dragging him into another cubicle and propping him up on the toilet seat. He then exited and pushed the door closed. Getting him out of the way, I thought. If some of the other guys came looking for their buddy, at least they might think he was taking a shit. Already, the only evidence of a fight was my blood-covered face. I needed to wash it.
Wash your face. Wash off what you let him do to you.
I couldn’t think about that right now. I only could think about what needed to be done next, and I knew the more I thought about that, the easier this whole nightmare would be. Plus, I realized how much blood was in my mouth, and I wanted to get rid of it. As I hopped over to the sink—feeling like I could collapse at any moment—I went to spit into it, but heard Klaus move hurriedly from behind me. I stopped and turned to see him leaning around me to run water from the tap. He then nodded at me. Now you can do it. He waited until I was done, the water catching and immediately washing away my bloody spit, but then I saw my face in the mirror. I gave a little cry of surprise.
The lower half of my face was a crimson mask. My nose, to my great surprise, wasn’t actually bent off to one side; I wasn’t even sure it was broken. But it was swollen hugely, the centre looking as if someone had managed to fill it with cotton pads. It ached and pulsed.
Sure. You’re not too bad on the inside. You remember how you tried to beg him to stop?
Just get on with the job.
I looked at Klaus and pointed to my nose with a shaking hand. My whole body was shaking, for that matter. Was this shock? This was nothing like the films. People got pistol-whipped and carried on fighting. A head-butt and a kick in the balls and a stomp on the ankle and I was trembling like a scared dog. Christ.
“Can you… you know how to check this, right?” I asked, turning to Klaus and pointing to my nose. “You know medical stuff? Like field medical stuff, right? Like in the army? Surely you must.” Klaus, of course, stared back for a moment, then lifted his hand to my face, pushing his gloved finger onto either side of my nose. I flinched, and my nose ached where he pushed, but there was no sharp pain. He then seemed to inspect my face, head slightly on one side. “Not broken?” I asked. Klaus shook his head. “Wait,” I said, thinking again. “Does that mean not, not broken, or not broken? Wait, ok, is my nose broken?” Klaus paused for a moment, and then—sarcastically—he shook his head.
“All right… don’t take the piss,” I snapped, turning to hold my still shaking hands under the running water. “You know, this would… uhhh… all be a lot easier if you dropped the vow of silence act. What’s that all about anyway?” I winced as I washed my face. The blood was still trickling from my nose, but less so now, and I thought I could stop it once I cleaned up and got some tissue to hold against my nostrils. My face, I’d been head-butted in the face…
Middle-class pussy.
“You can obviously understand English, so why not just…” A thought occurred to me, one that I’d pondered before now returning with so much weight behind it that I stopped what I was doing.
Klaus’ whole Russian secret service agent look. The Man in White’s Bond villain outfit. Klaus’ Odd Job routine too, come to think of it. Really… I mean really… wasn’t it all a bit… theatrical? Didn’t it seem so contrived?
Their employer has people killing for no other reason than to see what choices they make. Do you really think he’s above making his employees dress and act like something out of an ‘80s action movie?
This was true. I realized that Klaus was watching me, and I wiped the last of the blood from my face. He handed me a wad of tissue paper that he’d already taken from the cubicle.
“Thanks,” I said, pushing it against my nostrils before the blood flow could start again in earnest. Klaus didn’t respond, leaning around me again to turn off the tap and then give the bowl a good wiping. I moved out of his way, and looked from the closed cubicle door to Klaus.
The wiping. He’s pre-empting things. I told him the plan on the way here, so he knows that I’m going to get this guy later. He’s removing any physical evidence that I was here now, erasing any possible connections for later. When the guy turns up murdered toni
ght, you can bet the cops would be swabbing the room where he was knocked unconscious earlier in the day to find clues. Klaus is pre-empting it. Fuck me. Fuck ME. This is HAPPENING.
I leaned back against the sink, taking deep breaths, and watched as Klaus finished up. Once he was done, he stood in front of me and nodded.
“I didn’t know you were allowed to do that,” I said again. Klaus didn’t say anything. “Are you allowed to do that?” I asked. Again, no response. It was still annoying, but I was still strongly aware of how much of a beating he’d saved me from. As far as I was concerned—in that moment—he could have taken a shit in my hand, and I still would have said good man Klaus, please can I have another.
“Ok, whatever, but thank you,” I said.
Think about what’s next. Everything else will be easier that way.
“Listen,” I said, “we need to get out of here before people come in and start asking questions.” My voice sounded as if I had a cold and there was a tremor in it. “I think… I might have to lean on you, my ankle… I don’t know what he’s done to it, but if everyone in there sees me come limping out of the toilet this badly, they’re going to know what happened and wonder…” I sniffed on instinct and regretted it, my nose throbbing harder in response, “…wonder where the other guy is that followed me in here. I’ve cleaned my face up as best I can. How’s it look?”
Klaus gave a very little shrug in response. I took that as meaning whatever, it’s ok. “I’m not worried about them doing anything, not with you here. I’m worried about getting out of here before they find an unconscious man and then get my car’s plate,” I snapped. “They can take a passing interest in a huge guy looking like a spook supporting a limping black kid in a National Front bar, but if the kid has a clearly busted up face, they’re going to go looking for their mate when he doesn’t come out of the shitter, ok? The car has to be gone by the time this blows up. Now can I get away with hiding my face with my phone, as if I’m talking, like this?” I showed him. Another shrug in response, but this time with a little bottom lip sticking out in thought; yeah, that could work actually.
The difference between matters that Klaus responded to with an opinion and matters that he ignored seemed to be almost random. “If I walk on your other side,” I continued, “and you walk between me and them where they are down that end, then that should be ok. That should hide the limp a bit, too. Then we get in the car and burn off as quick as we can. Jesus, my foot. You’ll have to drive again. This time my foot’s way worse. I can barely put weight on it.” Klaus paused and nodded that he understood.
And what next? I thought. What about after that?
Then we wait and—
We had a problem. Sure, the plan had been to wait and follow whoever started something with me once they left the pub. But now we had to get out of here before this guy was eventually found—or before he could cause a stir himself—and people spotted us in our car watching the place.
Imagine if they got the car’s plate. Jesus.
But, if we had to get the car away, and we couldn’t risk getting caught hanging around outside—in case the cops showed up to investigate an assault on the man we would later murder—how were we going to follow this scumbag home?
The good news was that almost certainly they didn’t have CCTV, and even if they did, I felt confident that the Man in White’s people could do something about fixing that issue in a cheapo shithole like this. The bad news was being unable to wait for—
His wallet. Get his address.
Of course!
“Klaus, can you get the guy’s wallet please?” To my amazement, Klaus shook his head.
“What?” I barked. “You just beat the crap out of this guy, but now you can’t get his wallet? I’m not stealing from him. I just want his fucking address!” Again, Klaus shook his head. What was going on here? He wasn’t allowed to help me? Or just wouldn’t help me? Then what was all the business about him kicking the shit out of our racist chum? “You have got to be kidding. I can barely stand!” Klaus just stared at me. There was nothing else to say. Scowling, I half limped, half hopped over to the cubicle with the unconscious man in it. I closed the door behind me, in case anyone came in.
Getting the wallet was extremely difficult, but fortunately, Klaus had done enough of a number on the guy that he remained unconscious throughout. Standing on one leg and leaning against the cubicle wall, I tipped the guy’s body forward at the waist—he was spark out remember, still sitting on the toilet seat where Klaus had propped him—until his upper torso slumped against my outstretched thigh. Wincing and grimacing with the effort, with my jacket’s sleeve around my fingers acting as a makeshift glove to prevent leaving any prints, I managed to get my hand far enough under his backside to fish his wallet out.
I flipped it open. I became very still as two pairs of eyes stared back at me from behind a clear plastic window.
I did some impromptu and unwelcome detective work, putting the photo and the dim memory of earlier, overheard dialogue that had come from the other side of the cubicle door:
“I’ll be back in a little bit, so you behave yourself. All right? All right. Put Mummy back on.”
And I knew, again, that I couldn’t fucking do it. A rule had just been added to my list, one I should have thought of from the very start. I let out a moan of dismay that was almost a sob, and let the piece of walking human shit’s wallet drop to the floor. I slumped myself now, my head banging back against the cubicle’s partition wall. I felt like screaming.
“You lucky son of a bitch,” I said, almost in a whisper. “You fucking lucky scum.”
You couldn’t have done it anyway, the voice said in my head. Where was your anger? Wasn’t that the entire point?
I could have done this guy. I would have remembered what he did. I’ll show you. I’ll fucking show you.
Anger built in me out of nowhere, a sudden fury that was a good five minutes late in arriving. It was powerful, intoxicating, and to this day I wonder if it ever would have arrived if Klaus hadn’t been there in the room to back me up. I don’t know. All I do know is that in a moment of absolutely perfect timing, the racist began to wake up. He was blinking, but unmoving. His eyes hadn’t even focused on me yet. He was conscious, yet barely aware of anything.
It had all been too much, and this man, this vermin, was awake, and practically helpless. Looking back and writing this—feeling those feelings all over again—I’m amazed that I managed to wait until he saw me. I wanted him to see me. His brow furrowed and his mouth opened slightly. I then dove forward, my body weight entirely on my knee as it slammed into in his groin, and smashed my elbow down onto his forehead as hard as I could. He didn’t make a sound. I don’t even know if he stayed conscious after the first hit. I elbowed him again and again all over his face. His eye sockets swelled up like a baseballs made of meat and bone, and a small part of me left as they did. Some tiny but vital piece of my soul stayed in that filthy cubicle in a building that should have burned down a long time ago. I didn’t realise until afterwards that I had been crying as I hit him.
I leant against the wall when I was done, holding my throbbing elbow and noticing distantly that the sleeve of my jacket now had blood on it. Fortunately, it didn’t stand out against the darkness of the material. I tried to calm down, but the tears kept coming. I tried to stop as much as I could, jamming my other sleeve into my mouth to muffle the sobs, and it worked to an extent. I felt utterly wretched and sorry for myself, even as I knew I should really be feeling sorry for the girl who was about to have her arm cut from her body because I’d failed. Again.
I heard someone else come into the room and so I lifted my good foot onto the racist’s leg, pushing up so that whoever had come in wouldn’t see two pairs of feet under the cubicle door. I don’t know what this person made of Klaus or what Klaus was doing when the guy entered, but whoever it was went for a very quick piss indeed and left without even stopping to wash his hands.
When he
’d gone, I managed to get myself under control enough to hobble back out of the cubicle. If Klaus noticed my red eyes, he didn’t acknowledge them. I looked at my watch. 1:47 pm. One hour, thirteen minutes to go until the first amputation. I needed a rethink and a big one at that.
You have to be kidding, don’t you? You can barely think straight.
“Come on,” I said to Klaus, quiet and sniffling. “Like I said. You stand on their side of me. I’ll pretend to be on the phone. Let’s go. Come on, let’s go.” Klaus came and stood next to me, and I leant my weight on his shoulder. I tried to make my gait as normal as possible before we got to the toilet door, but it hurt so much. I wondered what the guy had done to my ankle. I tried not to think about it.
I could feel people watching as we made our way across the pub. I didn’t dare look, of course, instead staring straight at the exit making uh-huh, uh-huh noises into my phone as if I were listening to someone. As the door opened to the world outside, pushed by Klaus’ shovel of a hand, I felt as if I were emerging out of a dungeon. I wasn’t relieved—I felt too dirty for that, too smothered by my situation—but I felt like I could breathe. I could hobble more openly now that we were outside, and in that fashion, we made our way to the car.
“Can you at least drive?” I asked Klaus, scowling but not looking at him. “You can’t get a wallet, but you can drive us out of here, right? You’re not supposed to let me get caught. If you don’t drive us out of here, we’re going to get—” Klaus was already leading me around to the passenger side of the car and opening the door. “Right,” I said, feeling a little stupid, “good. I can’t drive like this, you see…” He moved away and around to the driver’s side of the car. I got into the passenger seat awkwardly. Klaus was already seated and belted and staring at me.
“What?” I asked after a moment or two of this, I realized I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Oh. We’re going home. To my home. I need to… let’s go home. Uh….”
What difference is it going to make? You can’t do this. You know you can’t do this.
Kill Someone Page 11
