And Then I Woke Up

A nasty little piece, brewed up when I was having one of my yearly musings on what to do with my particularly specialised skillset if I felt the need to change careers. Apply that thinking to a serial killer and, well, here you are then.

Blood in the bathroom sink again. Not mine. I think it might have something to do with the headless body in the bath. Hard to tell. I don’t really remember much about last night, and I certainly don’t remember bringing in any take away.

I rinse out the sink, quick wash, quicker shave. I hate shaving, not so much because of the blade and the potential for blood loss as for the fact that I have to spend time looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes have always been sunken back in my face, but recently it’s started to look like they’re trying to escape out of the back of my skull. And as for my skin… well, I’ve always been pale, but how long have I been pale green? I need sunlight. I need fresh air. I need… fuck it, I need a coffee.

Downstairs, tiptoeing past the blood tracks in the hall. My shoulders have started to ache, and I start to vaguely recall how heavy the guy in the bath was to drag upstairs. Hit the kitchen, Gold Blend and sugar in a mug, and I’m just reaching for the fridge door to get the milk when I remember where I put his head. Screw it, I decide. The cleaning can wait. I’m going out for breakfast.

***

The Mockney Diner on the High Street puffs a welcome fog of fragrant steam in my face as I open the door and step inside. It’s a Tuesday morning, so of course Rice is there, hunched in his corner, frowning at his tea. I keep warning him that doing the same caff on such a regular basis is coming a bit close to becoming a trackable behaviour trait, at which point he always reminds me that there are geezers from the market who’ve been coming here for breakfast every day for the last twenty years, and no-one accuses them of being a serial killer.

“Yes, Rice,” I always tell him, “but you are a serial killer”.

I love getting a rise out of Rice. My favourite is to call over one of the students who come in here for the cheap nosh, and point out the black crud under Rice’s chipped, heavy nails. Then I point out that the crud isn’t black at all, just really dark red.

“One of these days”, Rice grumbles, “we’re going to get thrown out of here, and then what do I do on a Tuesday morning?”

“There’s always McDonalds”, I sweetly remind him.

“There’s always cruel agonising death, and that’s not an option either. Sit down, for fucks sake. You’re scaring the waitresses. I’ve ordered you breakfast.”

Oh, great. I suddenly realise that I’ve been coming in here for breakfast almost as long as Rice. Yet another routine. I sit down with a thud, and just to blacken my mood further one of the waitresses comes over and wordlessly pours me a white coffee, one sugar. Just the way I like it, the bitch.

“Where were you last night? I was looking for you at the trainyards, there’s a new bunch of homeless kids just come in. I thought that’d be right up your street.” Rice grins lasciviously, and I have to take a slug of coffee to keep the bile down. We’ve tag-teamed on a couple of scenarios, but to be honest with you our styles don’t really gel. Rice is nowhere near as precise as me, and he tends to get a little overenthusiastic with the playthings. Scuffs them up a little too much for my liking.

“I was in the Fleapit and Firkin”, I replied. “Picked up a drunk, took him home.”

“Had your wicked way with him?”

“If you mean by that did I tie him to a chair, take out his liver with a scalpel and munch on it while he watched, then yes I did. Like I seem to do every fucking Monday, then talk to you about it here on Tuesday morning.”

Rice looks at me curiously for a moment, takes a swill of his tea. “That’s not ennui I’m hearing, I hope.”

“Rice, don’t take the piss. It’s just…” I took a long breath, giving my self a second to gather my thoughts.  “Look, when I started doing this it was exciting, it was fun, it was almost a bit glamorous. I mean there were all these films and books about us. You remember coming to see “The Silence Of The Lambs” with me, and we spent the whole film in stitches?” Rice nods, grinning. “It was a laugh, it was something different, it wasn’t the nine-to-five. Now it’s just another routine. I’m bored, Rice.”

I let the pause build for a moment, and see the smile fade, see the dawning horror on Rice’s face. He realises what I’m about to say maybe a moment after I do.

“I’m thinking about getting out of the game, Rice.”

Rice stares at me, mute with shock. When he can finally get the words out, his voice is shaking.

“You’re taking the piss.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes. You are. You have to be. You can’t just walk away from this. It’s not just a fucking hobby.”

“I know that, Rice. That’s the whole point, though, isn’t it? It’s like … look, it feels like there isn’t room in my life for anything except this. It’s not exactly a broad and varied lifestyle, you know?”

Rice sighs, and swills his tea. “Like you said, that’s the whole point. If you’re in the game, you’re in the game, and that’s it. You’re apart from the rest of the world. You chose this. You can’t just unchoose it. Unless you’ve figured out a way to unmurder all those corpses in your cellar as well.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Oh, come on, of course it is. You’re so pathetic. This is all you’re fucking good for. What else are you going to do? You’ve got no history, no prospects…”

“I’ve got a degree.”

“Oh, God help us, the degree. I’d almost forgotten about your three years in Sheffield. Remind me, didn’t you spend most of your time stalking that poor girl doing the HND in Marketing?”

“Yes, fair enough, but…”

“And correct me if I’m wrong, but did the 2:1 in English literature only turn up in the end because you were holding your tutor’s daughter hostage?”

Say what you like about Rice, but he does his research. He knew things about me that I’d almost forgotten myself.

“OK, another valid point.”

“And you sometimes still see the father in tears in TV documentaries because…?”

I hang my head sheepishly, seriously regretting bringing up college in the first place. “Because I somehow neglected to give her back after I got the scroll.”

“Exactly. See, here’s my point. You pretend to be Mr. Laid-back, Mr. Worldly Weary-wise, like you could give up the game just like that. Whereas in reality, you’re a genocidal maniac with a vicious streak a mile wide, and an appetite for human flesh. That’s not the sort of thing you can stick on a CV. Normal people just don’t kill and eat their next door neighbours. You’ve been known to do that. Thanks, just pop them down there”, he continues to the wide-eyed waitress holding two sagging plates of Full English, who I suddenly realise has been standing over us while we’ve been talking for easily the last minute. She drops the plates and scarpers. “Oh, and some ketchup when you’ve got a minute”, Rice yells at her retreating back.

“You saw she was there, didn’t you, you shit?” Rice’s grin has never been wider.

“Again, to prove my point. If anyone in this place knew what we really get up to, they’d fucking stone us. The real world and our world don’t mix.” Still grinning, he grabs a bottle of Tom Ketch off the next table, sloshes a dollop over his fried egg, and starts shovelling the whole obscene mess into his face while he’s talking. “So, let me refer you back to my earlier question. What else are you going to do if you stop killing people?”

I don’t have an answer for that one. But then I didn’t expect to, bearing in mind that the very idea of moving on has only really struck me as I sat down in the caff. But my God, what a leap in the dark. Stop killing people. Stop looking at girls on the High Street, and wondering what they’d look like naked, and in pieces. A real life change. Walking home from the Mockney Diner, with Rice’s arguments ringing in my head, all I can think about is how much sense it all suddenly makes. Give up the game. Stop killing people. Be normal.

Back at the house, the coppery stench of last night’s activities hits me in the face like a year-old flannel soaked in blood. Honestly, you skip the washing up for just one day, and look at what you’re left with. I’d get a home help, but finding someone understanding might be a bit of a trick. I sigh, and resign myself to a mornings cleaning. Then groan as I realise I’m fresh out of soapy floor cleaner after the party last week. You’d be amazed at the mess six people can make when they lose control. So, a ten minute walk back the way I’ve just come to get to Sainsbury’s? Screw it, coffee first. Black. Black coffee. Clean the fridge later.

The front room is thankfully pretty much gore free. As I walk in, habit guides me towards The Diary. However, rather than pulling the latest volume off the top shelf to document the morning’s events, I pluck one off the fourth rack down, over to the left, by the picture window. A36. A quick burst of mental arithmetic gives me June to September 1990, one of the really early notebooks. The mottled blue-pink cover is worn, and slightly greasy under my fingers. I plump down on the Chesterfield I use specifically for Diary-related activities, take a slug of coffee, open a page at random, and begin to read.

and the last days are coming and there will be a reckining and I have seen the sines and I know now that I am the instrument of his rarf and there will be wailing and nashing of teef when I come amongst them and the first to go will be that girl in the papershop who looks at me funny and the next to go will be her mate who laughs at me and the next to go will be her shitface boyfriend who gave me a kicking in the park that time and the nxt to go wil be

Jesus. I flick forward a few more pages.

wil be Mrs McGregor hoo stuck me in dtenchun all them times nd th nxt t go wl be

I was seventeen, and I was still two months from my first killing. It showed, the desperation and frustration nearly oozed off the pages. I closed A36 with a thud. The frantic child in that frayed notebook isn’t me. I’m not even the man I was last night any more. Suddenly, I feel like a switch has been turned off in my head. The thought of what’s propped up in the fridge by the milk sends a faint twist of nausea through me. In an instant, the decision locks firmly.

Time to clean up the mess, put the books away, and move on. Time to get a job.

***

A month passes. I apply myself to my new task with the same vigour and single-mindedness that I used to apply to the stalking of a promising plaything. The back pages of the Evening Standard, Monster.com (how appropriate), the jobs supplement of the Guardian are all raided for opportunity. It doesn’t matter how unqualified I am for the job. If I like the look of something, I write off for it. It’s more like mail-order shopping than job application. The only difference being I might not get everything I want.

The hit rate turns out to be impressively high. One of my talents has always been the ability to tell a convincing lie. Believe me, once you’ve perfected the art of the blatant mistruth to someone’s face (social engineering being pretty much an essential in the gentle art of persuading someone that your intentions towards them include conversation and companionship and absolutely not anything to do with dismemberment or torture, dearie me no) then lying on paper is a breeze. Admittedly, trying out for the Chief Executive of British Gas might have been a little overambitious, but you won’t know if you don’t try. And I do get a very nice letter back that didn’t call me a lying bastard once.

But anyway. Fifty applications sent out, ten forms come back for more details. Now, this was the first time I’d ever filled one of these things out, seeing as I’d been effectively self-employed since I was seventeen. I employ a little more care in how economical I was being with the verite’, to quote one of my heroes. Especially after I reviewed the overblown pre-French revolution splendour of my CV. So, I calm things down a bit, sticking only to the usual precautions. False name, of course, and an address that routes automatically to one of my dead-letter drops.

A couple of points on the form give me pause for thought. The box headed “hobbies”, for example. I remember the last time I’d spoken to Rice. Then write “pubs, clubs and socialising”. As for the blank page with the little legend at the top about “any further information you think might help the selection panel with your application…” Let’s just say I make up something one hundred and eighty degrees away from the truth.

***

As I’m posting the last of my forms in the box at the top of the High Street, I bump into Rice. It’s about eight in the morning, stalls just setting up in the thin light, and it’s obvious he’s on his way to the Mockney for breakfast. He mooches past at first, pretending he hasn’t seen me, then saunters back.

“Haven’t seen you around for a bit. The trainyard’s been quiet without you.”

“Sorry, Rice. I’ve been busy.”

“Ah.” He looks nonplussed for a second. “Still kidding yourself about this job thing, then.”

“It’s going pretty well, actually. I should be getting a few interviews next week.”

“Really.” Rice looks at me with his head tilted to one side, and I suddenly realise that for the first time in a long time I have no idea what he’s thinking. “You seriously think you’re going to get anywhere with absolutely no workplace experience and a CV that’s the biggest work of fiction since the Bible?”

In the absence of a cutting reply, I just try staring him out. “Like I say, it’s going pretty well so far.” We ping-pong searing glances at each other for a few seconds, then Rice drops his gaze.

“OK, well, good luck. Look, I’m just off for breakfast if you fancy it…”

“I can’t, Rice, I’ve got things to do.” There’s another glance-duel, then he turns to go.

“Maybe next time, then.”

“Sure. See you, Rice.”

He doesn’t reply, waving his hand in what he thinks is an airy, non-committal gesture. He stalks off down the High Street, scattering shoppers as he goes.

I have a leisurely breakfast at home.

***

So. Ten applications go out, two interviews come back, which keeps the hit ratio constant at least. They’re both fairly junior positions, but on the whole I quite fancy the lack of responsibility and the chances for abusing the system that lie therein.

The first interview, for an Internet bank, is a disaster. The place is an airless pit. The air-conditioning dries your throat to a choking scratch in seconds. No natural light. The overhead florescents bleach the skin tones of everyone unfortunate to be there into a deathly pallor I’d been responsible for too many times in the past. After ninety seconds in the joint, I come to the conclusion that I’d sooner scoop out my eyes with a spoon than work there.

However, rather than just turning on my heel and walking out, I decide to have a little fun with the interview. My tone lurches wildly from blatant disinterest to an almost religious fervour when the conversation somehow gets onto photocopying. I divide the rest of my time either scratching brutally at the raw spot on my right forearm, or leering suggestively at the Personnel Director. Which surprised him no end. I’ve never heard the phrase “we’ll be in touch” uttered with so little conviction. I’m out the door ten minutes after I walk in. Sorted. Job jobbed. Or rather unjobbed.

Which brings me to my second interview. Associate account executive for a second-string advertising agency off Broadwick Street, in the dull bit of Soho. An old stomping ground of mine, back when my old pair of Docs used to get coated in brain on a regular basis. Sorry, old joke. I digress.

Light, airy building, beautiful, well-dressed people. I feel at home as soon as I walk in the door. This, I decide as a pretty blonde secretary shows me round, is it. I can do this. This will be mine. At no point do I think “all I have to do is get through the interview”. I have no doubt.

“This CV is too good to be true.” Jan … something, her last name escapes me, the Personnel Manager, plops down her sheaf of papers and smiles thinly at me across her littered desk. “We’ve had plenty of applications, but to be honest with you, as soon as this came through the door, I felt I had to meet you. I mean, if this…” as she waves my CV over her head like a flag, “if this isn’t completely made up, and believe me we will be checking, then the obvious question has to be…” Dramatic pause. Supposed to make me sweat. “What’s someone with a PhD in astrophysics and a directorship on the board of Spontax Industries, whatever the bugger that is, doing applying for a position that’s one step up from tea boy?”

I whittle my smile down to her razor sharpness, bump up my sincerity flow rate and swing my bullshit generator into overload. “Well, Jan, I’m sure you understand that astrophysics is not the growth industry it once was. Spontax, oh, please feel free to check the stock market listings, you’ll find we’ve been holding steady at 238 since the rumours of the Sony bid, but you know, the company pretty much runs itself these days.” Now, this is only stretching the truth in so far as drifting the decimal point of the actual stock price by a couple of decimal points to the right. Alright, the bid was actually by Sonny, one of Rice’s mates, but Spontax exists, and it’s very handy for filtering all the dodgy credit card transactions and surplus cash my playthings find they don’t need when I’ve finished with them. Well, how did you think I made a living? Who do you think I stole the PhD from?

“Now, I’m surprised you haven’t read between the lines here, Jan,” I continue. “Yes, I may seem overqualified. No, I don’t need the money. What I’m looking for is a challenge. I need something new to add to my personal skills portfolio. I think advertising in general, and your company in particular, can help me in achieving that goal. I’m thinking in the long, rather than the short term. Do you see?”

A bit of a gamble, this move. Being so full-on could have Jan thinking I’m just a chancer who’s pushed his luck that fraction too far. If, on the other hand, I’ve read her correctly (and don’t forget my peers have described me as the Isambard Kingdom Brunel of social engineering) then I’ve just told her exactly what she wants to hear. The deal turns to diamonds or dogfood in the next ten seconds.

“Yes, I see what you mean.” Good start, I’ve worn the edge off her smile at least. “But I need to make sure you understand – this is not a management job. It’s a fluff title. It’s like calling a bin man a waste disposal technician. At least at first, you’ll be making the tea, fielding the niggly phonecalls the creative team can’t be arsed to deal with…”

Bingo. She’s repeating herself. She can’t come up with any new arguments against me walking into the job right now. I knew I’d won as soon as I walked into the room. The sunken eyes, the bruised look… She’s looking for stability, reassurance. She’s desperate for it. All I have to do to take my place here is to tell her I’m not going to walk out on her all of a sudden.

“I’m not going to walk out on you all of a sudden, Jan. I want you to know that.” Bam. Her pupils dilate. I get a semi. “Believe me, abandoning you is the last thing I’m going to do. Remember I said there were skills I needed to develop. I’ve got a lot to learn. I’ll be starting at the bottom, and that’s the whole point. It’s not where I plan on finishing, but let me promise you something, Jan. If you invest a little time and effort in me, you can be sure I’ll pay it back tenfold. I won’t let you down. Let me in, and I’m here to stay.”

There is silence for a moment. Jan reaches for a sports bottle of Vittel and takes a swig. Her eyes are bright and wide. She smiles at me, a soft, round smile. “If you can sell Sunny D the way you just sold yourself, I’d be a fool not to take you on.”

I smile back. “You’re no fool, Jan.”

Ten minutes later and just before I leave, I excuse myself to visit the company washrooms. Locked in a stall, I take a deep, shuddering breath and finally let my hands unclench. They start trembling, furiously. I haven’t felt this way since I was seventeen. I may be the consummate interviewee, but there was another reason behind me playing the fragrant Jan like a harp. I’ve forgotten her last name, but I know her face. I’ve seen it on TV hundreds of times. In fact, it’s on tape, and I play it back sometimes, when I need to be reminded of my own omnipotence. I can see her now, at the press conference, flanked by neutrally sympathetic police officers, pleading for the safe return of her daughter, her precious Natalie, her sixteen year old, missing since a birthday trip to a nightclub in Bristol. Like I told her, Jan’s no fool. She’s a sad and desperate woman looking for an answer. She needs to know, she thirsts for reassurance, and she’ll take it in whatever form she can get it, even if it’s just a glorified office clerk pledging allegiance to her. It’ll do, it’s an answer, even if it’s not the answer.

Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’ve got that too. I know where Natalie is. I remember exactly where I put here. There’s even a map in The Diary somewhere. I always knew this job would be sweet. But gaining a mother’s trust… That makes even ending the killings worthwhile.

***

Two postscripts. Both happen on the same day, my first day at work. They serve as a counterpoint to the theme, of one life ending and another beginning.

The day is cold and damp, unlike my mood. I’m up like a shot at seven o’clock, cool shower, muesli and fruit for breakfast, fresh new Armani suit then out the door, aglow, no, fuck it, shining, ready for anything.

Except for Rice, who is waiting for me at the gate. He looks grey, unwell, somehow shrunken in his army surplus greatcoat. His eyes are livid-rimmed, the pupils pin-pricks. “Hello, Rice”, I manage. “You’re looking well.”

“You look fucking amazing.” His voice is slurred and scratchy, a sure sign of too many nights at the trainyards. “You look like an angel. You look like all the good things in the world wrapped up in gold leaf.” He takes a harsh shuddering breath. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. We all know what you’re up to.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Really. Reinventing yourself as a respectable member of society. You, a wage slave. I’d laugh if my colon wasn’t threatening to crawl out of my throat. I figured it out right from the start. It’s alright. You can tell me. You’re doing some suitkilling, aren’t you?”

“No, Rice, I’m trying to go to work.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, of course you’re not. You’re adopting protective camouflage so you can move undetected amongst your prey. It’s such a cliché. The wolf in sheep’s clothing. I really expected something more original from you.”

I let a pause drag out for a few seconds. “OK, that’s it. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, so just this once will have to do. I am going to leave here, catch a bus to the station, catch a train to the city, walk to my place of work, do my job and get paid for it. That’s all. Light data processing and control of the coffee machine. No seduction. No killing. That’s all behind me now. I’ve finished the game. I’m ready for something new.”

This time it’s Rice who controls the pause, and he rides it for far longer than I did. Before he speaks, he takes another long trembling breath, and I notice that his eyes are suddenly bright. “That’s what I thought. But I had to come and give you one last chance. You’ve just squandered it. You’re not one of us any more. Which makes you one of them. You’re fair game now. As soon as you put that suit on, you turned yourself into a target. Just pray that I get to you before anyone else does. I’ll make it quick, for old times sake. I don’t think the others will be so generous.”

A threat. That’s all he can come up with. Even as I stand in front of him, Rice becomes more powerless, more diminished. This greying, shrivelled little man can’t even come up with a decent reason to keep me down at his level, so he resorts to an ultimatum that neither of us finds convincing. It only takes three words for me to swat him away.

“Fuck off, Rice.”

And he’s gone. The last image I have is his hulking back lurching down towards the High Street, shoulders hunched. Off to the Mockney for breakfast, then a few hours sleep, waiting out the day until he can slip back to the trainyards under cover of darkness for the one thing that makes him feel alive. At least wage slaves get paid for a meaningless routine. I turn my back on him and sprint for the bus.

***

I make Broadwick Street for 8:58. Keen, but not too keen. Jan greets me with a wide smile, and parades me around the office like a prize, before leaving me in the care of Jason, account manager for some Lever Brothers affiliate, and therefore my immediate boss. Jason’s suit is as sharp as his haircut. He smells of Hugo Boss and week-old Thai food. He sniffs constantly as he talks. His pupils are trying to burst out of his eyeballs.

He directs me into his alcove, and looks at me with an expression usually accompanying the scraping of animal faeces from the sole of your shoe.

“I don’t have time to piss around this morning, so I’ll keep this simple. I own you. The fact that Jan thinks you’re God’s fucking gift means nothing to me. You’re here to answer the phones, and keep the coffee coming. Try to think for yourself and I will eat you for breakfast. Make any attempt to improve yourself without my direct authorisation, and I will crush you like a bug. Talk to clients without me supervising and I’ll have you out of here so fast your feet won’t touch. Now, do we understand each other?”

I nod, mutely.

“Good.” Jason allows himself a narrow smile. “Now, here is your first and most important piece of information. Do not, I repeat not, allow yourself to forget it. I take coffee black, strong, three sugars. Put that data into practice while I go for a slash.”

He strides away, shoulders back, the very picture of corporate confidence. I give him thirty seconds, then follow him into the toilet.

I find him straddling a urinal, peering intently at the stream. I have a sudden vision of him writing his name in the snow, and spelling it wrong.

“I thought you were making coffee. If I wanted you to help me piss, I’d tell you. Now fu…” That’s all he manages before I reach round and take a firm grip on his penis, tugging it upwards and squeezing, stopping him mid-flow. I lean forward, and whisper in his ear.

“You’re not the first man to threaten me today, and you’re not the most convincing either. So I suggest that we forget your earlier attempt at intimidation, and I’ll negotiate our future relationship.” I squeeze a little harder. “Now, I suggest a fast-track training process that should have me working with clients in the next…oh, say two weeks. Under your expert supervision, of course. Two weeks after that, I will expect to be running a small account or two. Once we are both satisfied that we can do your job, you will resign, and I’ll take over. With your blessing. Now, do we understand each other?”

Jason chokes and grunts, and tries forcing out a few one-syllable words with “f” and “c” in them. I lean in close, and wrench his penis hard to the left.

“No, sorry, I might not have been as clear as I should. Let me make it simple. You will do as you are told. If you do not, then we will be in this position again, and I will not resist the temptation to tear your penis out at the root. Then I will stand over you and watch you bleed to death. Then I will fuck you. Then I will eat you. Now, let me ask you again. Do we understand each other?”

I leave Jason in the stalls, wrapped round a toilet, sobbing. I stroll back to his alcove. Rummaging in his desk, I find a bottle of Hugo Boss. It smells great on me. I find the coffee machine, and make myself a cup. It’s the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. As I look around my office, I realise that Rice was wrong. I do have skills I can apply to the workplace after all. Across the room, a pretty brunette from Accounts smiles shyly at me. I smile back.