I want to kill someone.
It could be anyone.
I'm not holding a grudge.
I just feel like it.
Just feel like killing
someone.
Just do it.
Why not?
I could start small I realise. Just have a practice. Feel the warm blood
on my hands. See what it’s like…
Something small.
I can feel the warmth of my Jack Russell pup by my feet.
See if I like it.
I lie in bed thinking about it. Thinking about killing someone.
Taking. A. Life.
Becoming a murderer...
I roll that around my brain for a while.
Becoming a murderer...
A killer.
As if it’s a new career choice I'm considering. Something that's caught my
attention in the jobs section of my local paper.
I suppose it is if you think about it logically. I mean I'm about
as pissed off with my current job as a city banker is who's just seen
his Christmas bonus flushed down the tubes and needs a change of career.
I start thinking about the careers advisor at school. The one who sneered at my
ambitions? The ones who stifled me. I could murder them easily.
So choosing to become a murdering b*****d is clearly a choice. Not an obvious
first choice I’ll grant you, but a choice.
And I want to take it and take life. Any life. I don't particularly care at the
moment.
I mean it’s something to work on isn't it? A project.
The downside is it doesn't pay so well as what I'm doing now and
I’ve still got bills to pay.
I know I don't want to join the noble art of assassins and hit men and earn
wads of dollars that way and I'm way too old to join up for Queen and country,
to travel to distant lands, meet interesting people and kill them.
So that’s out then. I cross them off my mental list.
And I just don't have the expertise to become a mercenary or close protection
guy in Afghanistan or Iran or do I mean Iraq? I'm not sure, but they earn pots
of money. Neither do I want to be one of those creeps who cosy up to old
widows and knock them off for their money.
Creeps! Yes, you, you creep,
leave the little old ladies alone!
Now!
No I just want to kill someone. Not little old ladies that’s obvious.
I'm not a creep.
The dog stirs at the foot of my bed. She grrrs gently in its sleep. I could
kill Snooky now I realise.
Do the dog. And I'm not talking come dancing I'm talking come death!
How though?
It’s 1 o clock in the morning and this has all come upon me in something
of a rush.
This urge to kill.
I hadn't really planned on becoming a murderer like. I haven’t
been planning or considering it as a course of action. It just dawned on
me a bit earlier. As I was lying here in bed wondering what was the best option.
A wank? Some toast or a bit of a read? In the end I had a bit of a think and
just decided to kill someone - the wank and toast could wait for later.
I forget the dog for a bit and consider whether I've become a psychopathic manic
all of a sudden. Surely one has to work oneself into a psychopathic rage to
start killing people?
Start young by doing
things like burning ants with a magnifying glass and pulling wings off
flies, for fun. I never did any of that stuff. Well the ant thing once or twice.
But every boy did that when I was young - it was before colour telly and computers
and stuff I suppose and we were always outside with the magnifying glass
you got in the science kit for Christmas. And I never ever tied fireworks
to cats’ tails we just threw them at girls. Fair game.
But after thinking about it for a bit I realise I have no terms of
reference to decided whether or not I am a psychopath.
I'll Google it in the morning I decide.
Back to the hound snoring gently at by feet. Could I do the dawg I wonder,
probably undermining my shaky diagnosis of psychopathy as I’m sure if I was a
proper psychopath the dog would have been toast hours ago along with a
multitude of ants, spider’s flies and cats along the way.
But saying that, it could be a good start.
A test of my fortitude and competency of my new chosen career.
Snook Doggy Dog stirs and scratches an ear oblivious to the fact that she
has just minutes to live.
But how to do it?
I suddenly remember my knife is at hand. I reach across and switch on the
bedside lamp. Yes there it is. My trusty Swiss Army penknife is there
where I left it after pairing my toenails earlier this evening.
Perfect.
I reach across and take it into my hand.
The dog yawns and looks up at me. It wags its tail, a little bit
too half-heartedly I think given the circumstances. The doe
eyed trusting canine is sealing its fate by its lack of attention to me.
It should be afraid, very afraid.
I poke the dog with my foot in a sort of menacing way. Snooky rolls over
on her back, legs akimbo expecting a tummy rub.
I pull open the knife, remembering to be careful not to rip a nail, as the
blade is stiff. I know the blade is sharp because I still have a slight scar on
my finger from when I first got the knife.
I start thinking about my method. Shall it be a frenzied attack of stab stab
stab stab stabbing? Or the sly slash across the neck opening the throat and
across to the main artery?
This is when I realise that there's more to murdering than meets the eye.
There needs to be a modicum of planning and afore thought.
That’s it I realise.
That’s what they call it on the
tele, on the cop shows �" ‘premeditated murder’.
I better start meditating if I want to start to murder.
The dog farts silently unaware that while it has just been granted a short
reprieve, its end is nigh once I have sorted out the appropriate methodology.
While I meditate on my murderous intent I fall asleep.
*****
I wake up the next morning, my
first as a fully committed (as it were) murderer with Snook Doggy Dog licking
my face and gambolling across my quilt with a waggy tail. I tickle her
tummy for a bit and let her gnaw at my knuckles a little. At only eight
months she's still only a puppy and is still into bitey games. After a few
minutes of watching the dog playing with a stuffed elephant that is
gradually being disembowelled I suddenly remember that I am a hardhearted
killer and Snook is for the chop once I have got myself organised.
First things first though I need to sort out my wardrobe.
What does the well-dressed killer about town wear? I'll need to Google that
later.
Right now I need a pee and a shower. Ten minutes later I'm staring at myself in
the mirror as I shave. I try to work out if I'm looking into the eyes of a
stone cold killer, like what I am, or those of Charlie Simpson aged 42,
whose dark brown eyes stare back at me. I look at bit closer and touch the
laughter lines that radiate out from my eyes.
Laughter lines?
I look closer, crow’s feet more like it. I bet crow’s feet have little relationship
to laughter. All that perching on frosty branches. Their feet are probably
freezing all the time. I hate cold feet especially the ones the girlfriend
sticks on your arse when she gets into bed. And that’s all the year round mind
you. Not just in the winter.
I stop thinking about girlfriends...
I bet crows are really
miserable what with all that pecking out of eyeballs and cold feet. They never
sound too happy what with all that caw caw cawing. I look at myself and my
crow’s feet I think I'm a bit miserable too.
I'll Google crow’s feet later.
I try glaring at myself in a murderous fashion but it just looks like
I have some sort of palsy. I make slitty eyes and try to look mean like
whatshisface in those movies, Jason something. After a few minutes of gurning
at myself I start to worry that I don't have the requisite killers face. I need
hard plains, chiselled looks, high cheekbones, thin lips, strong jaw, sexy five
o’clock shadow not the slightly pasty, sandy haired plumpish, non-descript
face that looked back at me.
I sighed. Perhaps I'm just not cut out to be a killer. I don’t have the killer
look. I'm not mean enough. My girlfriend had often told me that I was just
too kind. I was never mean to people. She often said...
I stopped thinking about girlfriends and my girlfriend... my ex girlfriend
to be exact.
My ex girlfriend of exactly three days and then I caught my reflection in the
mirror. I was looking murderous...Oh!
*****
I take Snook Doggy Dog out for what probably is her last walk down the park.
She wags her tail and tugs at her lead as we head down the street. As
usual the puppy is full of joie de vivre. Sniffing along the pavements, barking
at the postman wheeling his trolley along the street, trying to chase
leaves but being choked by her collar. No doubt hoping to meet up with her
doggy friends for the early morning fun and games.
I had bought Snook about 6 months ago for Linda, my girlfriend, for her 40th
birthday. She was thrilled and the two girls bondedimmediately. Since Linda
left just three days ago...
...Three short days ago
...Left forever.
Final and non negotiable.
*****
I practiced my murderous face at a paperboy as he cycled past on his route.
I was slightly gratified that he wobbled a bit as he took the full force
of my glare, but this was mediated by the fact that he shouted at me
to 'f**k off you miserable tosser' as he cycled off.
I needed to start a list.
A kill list.
I took out my iPhone clicked on Notes and started my kill list. I remembered a
film I saw with Clint Eastwood recently.
With Linda.
I entitled my list 'The Dead Pool'. I'll Google it later to see if it’s
appropriate!
The Dead Pool
No. 1 Snook
No. 2 paperboy
This was working out well.
Start small then up the stakes
a little with the paperboy! This was the start of a spree I could tell. I felt
happier and started whistling a happy tune. I had two victims already
lined up and I’d only decided I wanted to kill someone at about 11 o clock last
night. Admittedly one was a very small dog and the other was a chavy
young boy with no manners and didn’t really count.
As Snooky bounded around the park with her doggie friends I sat
and thought about killing. I got my iPhone out and created another
list. This was going to be my killing pros and cons list.
PROS:
I want to kill someone.
I'm a mean mean killing
machine.
Was the first thing I wrote.
I'm not sure that these two sentences constituted pros. But 'hey' I told
myself 'it was a start'. It’s not like I could write a list that started ’I’m
going to kill someone because I want...
1 To steal their
money/wife/car/drugs (as if)/life
2. To stop them stealing my money/wife/car/drugs/life. (Not that I had any
of these that anyone could or want to steal).
3. To punish them for dissing my posse and me. Ok I don’t have a posse
but it strikes me that this is the clause under which the paperboy is going to
get his.
Great my PROS list just got bigger.
1. I want to kill someone
2. I'm a mean mean killing machine
3. To punish the paperboy for dissing me
4. To kill the b*****d who took my girlfriend
Oh!
I looked at the list I had just written. Someone, I realized, had added a
fourth.
‘To kill the b*****d that took
my girlfriend!’
Ah... That meant I'd just added revenge to my second list, or was that my first
list? I was getting confused already.
Was that a pro or a con? And who had written it? I was sure it wasn’t me. I'd
have known. That’s why I was surprised when I read it back.
'To kill the b*****d who took
my girlfriend'.
I read it again.
Could ghost writing happen on an iPhone I wondered. I'd have to Google it.
I looked at my notes again and
read
‘To kill that b*****d Ross that stole my girlfriend'
O MY GOD. Someone or something had changed my notes again. I looked frantically
around. No one, just me. I looked at my iPhone.
IT WAS STILL IN MY HAND!!!
I almost threw it in the lake. But stopped when I realized how much that would
cost me as I had refused the insurance deal at the phones4u warehouse where I
had bought the phone. Anyway I wasn't sure that throwing ones iPhone into the
lake because you thought it was possessed was a good enough reason for the
insurance to pay out.
I switched my phone off and did
a hard reboot. I watched the little white apple on my screen for what
seemed like hours. It was actually approximately fx seconds. I clicked on
my notes icon and scrolled to the end. There it was.
'To kill that b*****d Ross that
stole my girlfriend'
There it was in black and yellow - proof. Proof that my best friend Ross
had stolen my girlfriend AND DESERVED TO DIE.
Horribly.
It seems like the gods were on my side today. Well if not the gods some
informative poltergeist or some friendly spirit had used the medium of my notes
facility to break the bad news.
Or was it the good news? As it
was only late last night that I had decided, quite independently to kill
someone, anyone, my guardian angel had now focused my intent with this
horrible news. I now had a mission. The target was now clearly Ross my
erstwhile best mate, my buddy, my chum and confidante.
I couldn't quite believe it.
This was just like that scene in mission
impossible just before the tape machine explodes in a puff of smoke.
The bit where the guy with the gruff voice says 'Your mission should you
choose to accept it' is to f**k up Ross and kill him horribly.
I looked at the sentence that had appeared on my iPhone.
‘To kill that b*****d Ross that
stole my girlfriend’
I pecked at the virtual
keyboard with my thumb and typed
I accept.
*****
I rounded up Snooky and rushed home to get ready for work. Completely forgetting
in my rush that Snooky was due to meet her maker and that it was curtains for
her today. Instead I rounded up her cuddly toy, chewies, ball, bonio, made
sure she had food and water, switched the radio on to Radio 2 so she had
some company - the soothing voice and MOR sounds of Ken Bruce and the rest
of them and left her to ponder her close shave while I rushed to catch the
tube.
Work. Another eight hours in the same drab dreary office in the same drab
dreary building in the same drab and dreary part of the city. I say eight
hours but by being creative I had got this down to about five point five
or six hours a day actually 'at work' including lunch.
I don’t really know what I was
doing there. My life had held what I thought was a load of promise. I had
graduated with a first from a reasonable university and was thinking about
doing an MEng and then even a PHD before joining the family firm but this
great job had come along and so had Linda. Actually Linda had been around
for a while.
We were at the same Uni but she
was never in my clique always on the periphery. We were the boisterous rugby
boys always showing our arses, getting drunk, and attracting a certain
type of woman. Usually blond, wearing pearl necklaces and turned up
collars, their 19 year old arses stuffed into their tight skinny leg blue
jeans.
Ross and me rode rampant
through them. If it moved and was still breathing we fucked it. It was like
a never-ending rogering competition. Only of course it did end. I broke a
leg slipping over in the shower after some rigorous post game horseplay
and never played rugby again. Ross caught a particularly nasty STD from a female
prop forward from one of those lowly Welsh universities.
I had seen Linda once or twice in the union or the bars around town. She sat at
our table occasionally with a mutual friend when we were not so boisterous
and not so mob handed. She seemed to be the hippy type. Quiet, sensitive not my
type at all, reading English literature against my engineering background. My
family had always been engineers. We'd built bridges and dams all across the
world. If IKB hadn’t had a hand in it then my family had. Indeed Isambard
Kingdom Brunel himself had been godfather to my great grandfather
Isaiah Rennie. But it was Linda who had visited me in hospital every day.
It was Linda who bought me grapes and magazines and who read me poems
and snippets of the literature that she loved while I was in traction
for weeks.
The rugger buggers had visited once. They had terrorised the nurses,
showed their hairy arses to a bunch of visiting consultants and bigwigs
through the windows of the maternity unit and ate the carnations sent by
my mother. They were escorted out by security who advised them never to
come back, even if they had had their head ripped off in the scrum. I never saw
most of them again except for Ross who would turn up late at night charm the
nurses into letting him visit and smuggle in a curry and a couple of
bottles of Guinness which we would polish off chatting about this and that
as good friends do.
Linda and I had stuck together after that, we fell in love, moved in together.
She was gentle and wise, soft and fragrant, caring and my best friend and
lover. I had taken a job, rather than follow the academic route and the
so-called 'gravy train' of the family firm. This was Linda’s hippy influence. I
had a life mapped out. MEng, PhD, senior position in the family firm that was
now a multinational concern. We still built dams and bridges around the
world but if you wanted to build higher than 10 stories then you came to us.
But I was 21 I knew everything, I knew nothing. Linda had shown me
a different world. One where I could do without the patronage of SkywayRennie
Inc. We travelled. We worked for charities in Africa, Asia and South
America. I provided engineering expertise, Linda taught. In South Africa
the ANC smuggled us into Soweto and the other townships so that Linda
could teach English and I would fix things and show other people how to
fix things. In Asia I built schools, Linda taught in them, often teaching the
teachers after a long hot day in the classroom. My family contacts had
been a real boon then and I had prided myself that I had somehow changed
the culture of the company by getting it involved in these humanitarian
projects.
After 10 years in the field we
had needed a break and had returned to the UK. We were settling down, we were
talking about being a family. Having a child. Just the one. We had seen how the
world was overcrowded and how many many children were receiving the short end
of a s****y stick. We were not interested in getting married and all that
entails. We were happy together. What difference would a piece of paper make so
why bother?
I took a senior position in
SkywayRennie Inc, the one that my father, the Managing Director had kept
waiting for me for the last 10 years. That nobody had held this position
in all this time didn’t indicate to me that this post was redundant before
I had even started it. Linda took a teaching post at a local university
and was also a part time PHD student.
That’s where we hooked up with
Ross again. He'd become Dean of the Social Science faculty and when Linda
bumped into him in the cafeteria one day he was on the verge of being appointed
Professor. Professor of bastardry and backstabbing no doubt. Based upon
his groundbreaking thesis of how to steal other men’s girlfriends/ partners and
totally f**k their lives up.
But of course when we first got back together it was great. Here was Ross,
my best mate, my buddy. I hadn’t seen him for the best part of 10 years.
We had some drinks, caught up on what had been happening in our lives.
Ross had got over the STD and had gone on to marry the nurse he had charmed
all those years ago when I had a broken leg. But that had broken down when
the nurse had caught him in bed with two of his tutor group. Both 19, both
blonde, and both very naked.
He claimed it was bona fide research into the boundaries
of sexuality. A claim the divorce courts and her solicitors strongly
disputed. Oh how we laughed though into our pints when Ross told us about
the book contract, the international conferences and the acclaimed papers
that this initial episode had engendered. His divorce had given him
the freedom to pursue his 'research' (wink wink, nudge nudge know what
I mean) and the European Union had been funding it for the last
eight years hence the Professorship.
We even went to Twickenham together. Followed the English rugby team like we
used to through one failed campaign to the next. Comforting each other
with pies and Guinness and memories of cold days watching the steam
rise off the pack as we trudged towards the line on a muddy field
somewhere in the South West of England.
*****
Then the b*****d took off with
my girlfriend. I sat in my office looking at the message that had appeared like
magic on my iPhone in the park that morning.
‘To kill that b*****d Ross that stole my girlfriend as soon as
f*****g possible’.
My friendly spiritual grass had
added what can only be described as words of encouragement.
'as soon as f*****g possible'
Now not only did I have a project I had a timescale. And if I had learnt
anything in construction industry in the last ten years it was stick to your
deadlines or else it’s going to cost you big time or come back to bite you
in the butt.
I sat in my office and looked around. I could look across at the spires
and towers of London town to my right as bright and as beautiful as a Canaletto
painting. That was before, now all I saw were the great slashes of colour,
the dark and secret places. The places where for centuries plots and plans
had been hatched. The dark fetid places where murder stalked. The streets
of the ripper, the poisoner, the slashed. I watched the streets of London below
me with murderer’s eyes and with a killer’s heart.
At lunchtime I left. I had
shopping to do.
The kitchen shop was about 5 minutes away and I wanted to buy a big knife. A
BIG BLOODY CARVING KNIFE. I hadn’t forgotten that the dog Linda had loved
sooo much was toast. I was going to kill it, chop it, and cut its silky soft
little ears off, the stupid trusting dog that I had bought as a love gift.
The kitchen shop was full of
sharp and wicked looking knives. There was German steel, Japanese steel. Steel
from Sheffield (yeah right probably fashioned in Korea or Taiwan). There
was French design. There were Italian Ferrari branded knives. Knives
fashioned by fighting ninjas for cooking ninjas utilizing ancient and revered
samurai techniques. Knives for boning, filleting, shaving, peeling,
gutting, chopping, skinning and butter.
I was a bit lost to be honest.
Nothing amongst this sparkling display of sharp stainless steel leapt out
at me as the perfect murder weapon. I know I've got an engineering
degree and all and I know metal, but do I really need a Gordon Ramsey branded knife
forged in the white hot heat of Mount Doom, fettled by a samurai master and ticketed
at £149.99 just to hack someone’s ears off and dump down a drain?
God I'm not some sort of mad' eighties yuppie, some sort of American Psycho, so
self absorbed that only the best will do for me.
Or am I?
I only wanted to off the dawg,
I'm going to have to think more on my methodologies for the future killings,
for the paperboy...for Ross.
I left the shop empty handed (except for a handy groovy corkscrew, a set
of funky multi coloured utensils and a Jamie Oliver mug - for my secretary
you understand, she loves the lisping cockney gobs....Cook!). The assistant had
asked me if I'd needed any help as I stood toying with an electric carving
knife (£29. 99) debating the pros and cons of it - 'was the lead a
little too short?' Snooky was a fast little dog, very manoeuvrable. I'd
have to incapacitate her first. I couldn't very well ask the shop assistants
opinion of what did she consider to be the best tool for slaughtering ones
pet dog, now could I? Hence the handy kitchen implements. I felt just like
a schoolboy attempting to purchase his first condoms and coming away with
aspirin, ear buds and a tube of toothpaste.
I popped into Poundland on the
way back to the office and picked up a solid enough looking cooks knife
for just £1 - how do they do it? Now I was properly tooled up I was
feeling pretty darn mean and full of a killing rage. I exuded murder through my
pores; I could smell it on me. I was aware of the weight of the knife in my
pocket. My skin tingled. My fingers itched to touch it. Caress the cold steel.
Swish it through the air. Watch the light glance off the blade. Plunge
it deep into Snooks guts. Rip her open. Chop her to bits. Feel her
blood smearing my hands and arms, spurting over my face, the metallic
tang of blood hanging in the air as my rage dissipates. I'll Google
that later to see if it’s right.
I was so getting into this scenario, this fantasy, I hadn't noticed that I
had clasped my fist and was doing the stabbing motions as I walked. I
noticed that the Big Issue salesman blanched and stepped back as I passed him
not bothering even to wish me a patronising ‘ave a good day boss and God
bless'. I hate Big Issue muggers and I also hated running the High St gauntlet
of the charity highway men and women, all dreadlocks and teenage angst about
the conditions in Cameroon - even they looked the other way rather than try to
mug me for a donation for people in a country they probably didn’t even know
what continent it was on so concerned were they with their commission.
They and the Big Issue seller were lucky I was so involved with my killer mind
otherwise they could have ended up on my list. My kill list.
Back in my office I gave Clare her mug and retreated to my office. I couldn't
caress my knife there as everybody would see, curse these glass walls. I
retreated to the executive lavs, locked myself in a cubicle, sat down and
examined my purchase.
The knife had been sealed into that type of packaging that makes it impossible
for the happy purchaser to enjoy their purchase without recourse to a pair
of scissors or a sharp knife. Old people have been known to starve to death
because they didn’t have the strength or the wit to break into their food
packaging - that’s true you know �" Google it!
Ironically I had a sharp knife
with me but it was encased in a solid plastic jacket. I was in a toilet. There
were no other sharp implements available to me. I tried ripping at the
packaging with my teeth. No joy there, no doubt the pain of my loosened
tooth will reduce as time passes and I can neck a couple of aspirin.
I started to worry about the quality of the knife because obviously the
majority of the budget had been taken up by the intransigent packaging. I
shoved the knife back into my jacket and went back to my office for the
scissors.
As I shoved the scissors into
the other jacket pocket Clare knocked on the door to the office and came in.
She had seen me put the scissors in my pocket and I immediately felt
hugely guilty as if I had been caught red-handed. Well I had really. But I only
put the scissors in my pocket and after all my family does own the business so
technically the scissors were mine anyway.
'Er y…yes Clare' I stammered, 'can I help you?'
'Are you ok Charlie?' She asked
'you look a bit erm… flustered'
'No no... I'm fine' I slipped
my hand into my pocket so she wouldn’t see the knife.
'Are you sure Charlie?' she looked concerned and stepped towards me.
I stepped back, I was in danger of a hug. Clare knew that something was up
but I hadn’t told anyone about Linda. I mean it was only three days wasn't
it. Since she left me for... I don’t even want to think his name, I
was coping wasn't I?
‘Yes I'm sure why?' I took
another step back and found myself trapped against the desk.
'Well you have not been in your
office for three days Charlie and we couldn't get you on your phone and you
didn’t answer your emails we thought something had happened to you,
perhaps you were ill. Or you and Linda had been in an accident or something'.
She left the question hanging in the air.
THREE DAYS!!! I'd not been here
for THREE DAYS??? I was aware that my mouth was opening and closing like a
goldfish out of water.
'Charlie do you need some water?'
'Wha...water?' I mumbled not quite hearing what Clare was saying to me. I
seemed to have developed an acute case of tinnitus my ears were ringing I
could feel my armpits dripping. I executed an All Blacks perfect sidestep,
feinted left and dashed past Clare, crashing through the fire stair
door, I tripped and jumped and leapt down the stairs like Bruce Willis on crack
with a homicidal Nordic terrorist after him.
I burst into the foyer and sprinted for the door. On the street I ran blindly,
dodging cars, bumping into pedestrians, tripping over curbs, until at last
exhausted I found myself slumped on a bench head in hands sobbing. Hot
tears of hate, pity, and despair - I don’t know which poured down my face.
*****
When I got back to our, no, my
flat I opened the front door to be greeted by a wriggling, waddling,
tail wagging, jumping up and down bundle of joyfulness that was my puppy Snooky.
I sat down in the hall and let the little dog lick my face, gnaw at my
neck, nuzzle my ear, dribble wee over my trousers, beside herself with
excitement that I had come home. That I was there.
This little dog that I had
pledged to kill and planned to kill horribly and mutilate and perhaps
serve up its liver with a few fava beans, not that I knew what they were,
I'll Google them later. I had the knife in my pocket. I could feel its
hardness through the material. It was like an erection pushing at me. I imagine
this is what it feels like for a woman in the tube when some pervert with
a hard on presses up against them.
I pushed the still excited dog
off me and wrenched the knife out of my pocket. It now looked evil. It was
still encased on its plastic wrapping. The blade glinting at me. I didn’t
want it any more. I didn’t want to slash at this little animal tugging at
my laces. I flung the knife across the room out of my sight. The dog set
off after it and picking it up returned it to my feet. She dropped it and
looked at me expectantly, tongue lolling, bright eyes, ears akimbo,
wanting to make up for those long hours alone. I threw the knife even further
away, through the connecting door into the kitchen, holding the dog to me so she
wouldn't chase the evil tool. But she wriggled out of my grasp and was off
across the wooden floor, scrabbling for grip as she chased the knife. I tried
to call her back.
I lay exhausted on the hall floor as Snooky laid the
knife back at my feet. I remembered the story in the paper about the
Ukrainian deputy who threw a grenade at a police cadet after an argument
only to have his well trained dog bring it back to him, with a very messy
outcome. Snooky pushed the knife at me with her nose.
I giggled a bit.
She licked me on the nose and
jumped back expectantly.
I giggled some more, gave in
and spent the next twenty minutes playing throw and catch with the
dog until Snooky settled down and attempted to try what I had failed to
do, extricate the knife from its packaging.
I left her to it as I walked around the flat noticing the dirty plates,
the strewn clothing, the empty cans and bottles, the discarded fast food
cartons, I looked closer at one carton that seemed to have come from a Mongolian
restaurant.
A Mongolian restaurant that
delivered? I didn’t even know that there was a Mongolian restaurant in all of
London, let alone know the telephone number of one that delivered! I
sniffed the remains and recoiled a little bit. I don’t know what stir-fried yak
actually smells like but I'm pretty sure I now have a good idea.
Three days? They said I'd not been at work for three days. The red light
on my answer phone was flashing. I walked over and looked at the display. 35
messages.
That can't be right.
I would have heard
the phone wouldn't I?
I would have answered.
I looked again at the
grey figures blinking balefully at me. I was having trouble believing
what I was seeing.
It didn’t make sense.
Three days gone? Where? Why?
How?
I cleared some space on the
settee and sat down to have a think. Snooky ran over to me with the plastic
handle to the knife I had bought to slice her up. The blade lay glinting under
the table. Snooky jumped up next to me, dropped the plastic handle, licked
my face and settled down to gnaw away at the, let's face it, cheap
black plastic.
It was at that moment that
Snooks got her reprieve.
Her death sentence
commuted to life on condition she licked my face at least once a day and
was always ecstatic to see me when I arrived back.
I'm sure though that I still want to kill someone. I can feel the
urge still within me. I need to revisit my list. I pulled my iPhone out of
my pocket and switched it on. There were my notes.
The Dead Pool (this is starting
to sound a bit naff I think, a bit 1970’s)
1. Snooky
2. The paperboy
3. Ross (the b*****d)
4. Linda (the cheating lying
s**t)
OH. MY. GOD. My phone had been automatic writing again and had added Linda to
my list.
My kill list. (Is
this a better title…?)
And not only that had added
some quite rude things about Linda. I quickly erased her name and Snooky's and
I changed the name of the list so
now it looked like this.
The kill list
1 the paperboy
2. Ross (the f*****g b*****d)
I added the 'f*****g' bit because I didn’t think that my helpful spirit or
whatever was possessing my iPhone had gone far enough with the pejorative
description of Ross (the f*****g nobhead b*****d) (That was me again
calling Ross a nobhead not the ghost) (I’ll Google later to see if my
iPhone can be exorcised without having to send it back to Apple)
My experience in the kitchen
shop and with the Poundshop knife had convinced me that I needed to do a
bit more planning if I was going to carry off these killings successfully.
I scrolled to my Pros and
Cons list.
This iPhone is just so handy
for this type of project I thought as I settled back into the sofa.
This was my Pros list
1.
I want to
kill someone
2. I'm a mean mean killing machine
3. To punish the paperboy got dissing me
4. To kill that b*****d Ross for taking my
girlfriend
5.
To teach
Linda a lesson by hacking off Ross' balls in front of her before horribly
slaughtering her.
OMG! I'd turned into that American yuppie psycho bloke and my iPhone was haunted
and it was adding things to my list without my permission and was putting
(actually quite) good ideas in my head.
Of course, yes, Linda deserves
to be done. It’s only fair isn't it? I mean it’s not just Ross is it?
It takes two to tango, two to create the two backed beast, two to
create a cuckold, two to F**K MY LIFE UP, two to do the backseat mambo,
two to bump the uglies, two to clean the carpet, do the deed, play
hide the salami, get a belly full of marrow pudding...eh? Where did
that come from? This is like having a bad co-writer - SHUT UP IN THERE.
I needed to think about this. I needed a Cons list.
Cons.
1…………………………………………..
Erm, I couldn't think of any at this moment. Then I had an idea. I'd
switch my iPhone off, make a cup of tea and let my resident director
of murder fill in the blanks. When I came back there would surely
be something there.
Perhaps it’s a murder app I
downloaded by mistake.
I left the phone on the table
and went to the kitchen.
The milk was off. The fact that it was all over the wall
and floor didn’t seem to help either. Perhaps I had a poltergeist as well I
thought as I made black coffee. The kettle boiled and I poured the steaming
water over the instant granules. There seemed to be sugar all over the kitchen table
too. I dabbed a finger into it and tasted it. My tongue went numb.
No that’s cocaine.
Cocaine?
What was cocaine doing on my
kitchen table?
I don’t do cocaine.
Do I?
I wasn't precisely sure at
that precise moment. I dabbed again and thought about it a little
more.
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