I ran for my life.
As I ran, I wrestled with the fear that I would have to leave my home, leave Newcastle upon Tyne, maybe even leave England altogether and just keep on going. There didn’t seem to be any choice after what I’d done here tonight.
I gritted my teeth and held my left hand over the .45 automatic hand gun tucked inside my waistband, securing it so that it wouldn’t slip out as I sprinted harder. I felt the carving knife inside my right coat sleeve and the weight of the switchblade in my left pocket as it knocked against my hip. The carving knife was mine; the .45 and the switchblade belonged to the man I’d just killed.
The darkness on this side of the lake was enough to conceal my movements; the noise of the howling wind coupled with the explosions of fireworks being set off from the far side of the Lodge was enough to cover whatever sounds I made. No one could have seen or heard me out here, but I still ran. Call it blind panic. Call it whatever you want. The after-sound of the gunshots still reverberated in my ears. It mixed with the wind and the fireworks and created a loud cacophony in my mind, the birth-cry of my probable damnation. I bolted down the steep embankment that overlooked the croquet and bowling greens, moving away from the hill and the quarry beyond it, away from the scene of my crime. My pessimistic mind conspired against me and pushed me to run faster.
No one could have seen me. No one could have heard those shots over the noise of the wind, or the music inside the Lodge and the fireworks. But sound carries farther at night and all it takes is for just one person to hear it …just one person to look out and see … and then I’m caught! Done, finished and over with!
I looked across the lake, at the windows of the new Lodge. The Opening Night celebrations were still going full swing. The revellers inside, black silhouettes moving against flashing disco lights, seemed oblivious of me. I already knew that there were no die-hard fishermen out here, casting a rod from the edge of one of the jetties, braving the brutal December weather, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
The gusts of wind blew stronger around me, chaffing my face and robbing me of breath. It chopped the surface of the water, flattened the grass and swayed the trees. The sound of bare branches creaking and clashing was lost in the whoops and howls of the winter night.
To my left was a steeper railway embankment, lined with a thick wall of trees. An Intercity Express train thundered along the tracks that ran along the top. The lights from the train pierced through the gaps in the branches. I stood where I was and watched for any other sign of movement as the train passed above me. I was breathless and wheezing, my tonsils sore, my throat and gums aching. Sweat poured down my body. Whether my shivering was caused by the cold or shock, I couldn’t tell. I stepped slowly onto the narrow concrete footpath, straightened my back, cupped my hands together over my nose and mouth and shielded them from the wind so I could breath easier.
I remembered Lou Cottler’s voice – that deep, smoker’s rasp – and his advice from years ago that I had never forgotten:
Never go running in the cold air, Jack. Don’t do any kind of exercise outside during the winter, for that matter. It’s one of the worst things you can do. You’re out there running up a sweat and breathing all that freezing air into your lungs. You’re just asking for bronchitis.
The sounds from behind the hotel grew louder, the guests making the most of the occasion, their joy compounded by the cheer of the festive season, all of them completely unaware of the murder that had been committed just a few hundred yards away from them.
Would you call it a murder, Jack? Or would you prefer to call it an execution? Either way you cut it, you might as well call it exactly what it is: revenge!
I should have felt invigorated at this moment, that’s how I expected to feel the moment I killed that bastard; but instead I was frightened out of my wits. I turned and looked back up the embankment I had just ran down, barely able to make out the small white picket fence and the solitary tree at its peak. I thought about the dead man I had left lying in the quarry beyond it and wondered if I would ever be able to think of anything else again.
I broke into a sprint again and forced my legs to move faster, pounding the footpath like a track runner in sight of the victory tape. I turned right, left the curve of the path, and raced across the grass in the direction of the railway lines.
My left foot suddenly hit something solid. A moment later I was twisting through the air, thrashing hopelessly before I fell eight feet and landed face-first at the bottom of the flood ditch that ran like a moat along the edge of the railway embankment. Before I landed, my face scraped the soft wall and I got a mouthful of gritty, foul-tasting sludge. I gagged and coughed as I ran my right index finger and tongue around my teeth, clearing the filth out of my mouth, being careful not to swallow any of it. Fortunately, the fall didn’t hurt me; the few inches of freezing water and the muddy bed of the ditch had been soft enough to cushion the impact. I pulled myself up onto my feet. I was soaked through and chilled to the bone. The .45 now felt like a block of ice biting against my skin. It took all my effort, but I attacked the ditch wall and clambered back out of there. My hands, knees and shoes ripped and kicked chunks out of the dough-soft wall. My body weight and the softness of the rain-soaked earth made me slip from my hand and foot holds as quickly as I established them. Finally, I made it to the top and rolled onto the thick grass. I cursed again and imagined what I must have looked like as I plunged into the ditch, tumbling into the inky blackness like an unrepentant sinner cast into hell.
I got on my feet again, ran for the cover of the trees and then scrambled up the side of the embankment. My sodden clothes now hung on my body like weighted sacks and felt rough against my skin. I shielded my face with my crossed arms as I pushed my way through the wall of branches. The material of my coat snagged and tore, sharp branches dug into my arms and legs. When I reached the top, I paused to catch my breath again as I looked down the tracks before crossing the railway lines. As another rocket exploded over the Lodge, I stepped across the tracks, vaulted the wire fence and then jogged down the grassy slope. I paused at the roadside and hugged myself against the cold. My fingers and ears had gone numb and my thighs were quickly joining them in sympathy. There was no traffic on the roads and no people on the streets. It made me wonder if this was either a blessing or just the lure of false-security.
Miriam would have advised me to pray, so pray I did:
Dear God, shine down on me here in my hour of need, just let the rest of the human race turn a blind eye to me for the rest of this night! Keep everyone out of my way until I’m behind my own locked door and this is all over.
Luckily, my home was only a few minutes run from here. I was exhausted. The cold stiffened my movements. It made me feel light-headed and nauseous, my stomach muscles contracted, bile and acid rose in the back of my throat. I crossed the road and cut through the rows of houses, taking the shortest route possible, pausing in the shadows of buildings to watch and listen for sounds; I couldn’t afford any witnesses. A coughing fit hit me as I passed through Hob’s Way and into Mallen Road, where my block of flats stood. Mine was the second block on the right; flat number 39b.
Just my luck again. Why couldn’t I live in the nearest block; flat number 1?
I hurried to the communal entrance of my block, shivering uncontrollably as I unlocked the steel outer door. I stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind me. The council had repainted the interior two days ago, but the acrid smell of paint fumes still hung in the air. That was enough to tip me over and I puked a mouthful of bile at the foot of the stairwell. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and then leaped up the bare concrete steps three at a time. I didn’t stop again until I was back inside my own flat, with the front door locked and bolted.
Home – I made it! But ten minutes ago I wasn’t so sure.
I turned on the hallway light and pulled the .45 calibre Colt Remington from my waistband and the switchblade from my coat pocket. The gun was evidence, along with the switchblade, clothes, notebook and the dead man now lying in the quarry. I had to get rid of them all. My troubles were not over yet. Not by a long shot. In many ways they were just beginning. I slipped the switchblade and the .45 into the pocket of my black leather jacket, hanging on the peg next to the door.
I stripped naked and left my clothes in a pile on the doormat. I dumped the carving knife in the kitchen sink with the rest of the unwashed dishes and walked along the hallway to my bathroom. I ran the hot water and left the tub to fill. I went to the kitchen and took three industrial-strength black plastic rubbish bags from the cupboard under the sink and filled one of them with my wet clothes and shoes. I folded the other two bags and slipped them into my overcoat pocket, alongside the .45.
I had a steaming hot bath, the quickest bath of my life. This might have seemed stupid or careless to someone else; my taking a bath now when I still had so much to do, but I had time on my side now, the dead man in the quarry wasn’t going anywhere and the hot water took the chill out of me.
When this is over, I’ll have another very, very long bath and maybe I won’t ever get out of it.
Afterwards, I pulled the plug, quickly toweled myself dry, and then walked to my bedroom. I dressed in fresh, clean clothes; black jeans, vest and sweatshirt.
I walked back to the kitchen. My car keys were on the worktop by the cooker. I picked them up and jangled them in my right hand for a moment as I thought about what I had to do next. A second set of keys lay at the back of my cutlery drawer. I took them from the drawer and placed both sets into my pocket. This second set would allow me access to any part of the factory I worked at. I was a key-holder for the company; along with my normal job I also locked up the building for them. In the event of a break in, the company would telephone me. As I lived so close to the premises, I could get there in minutes by car and open it up for the police to inspect. I was never gladder of the extra responsibility the company had given me than I was at this moment. The factory did not run a night shift like most other firms and this was the holiday period anyway. The factory now stood empty and waiting …
It’s not just waiting – it’s beckoning! It’s calling out for me to make good use of it, providing me with the only real solution to my problem. There’s only one way forward now – it’s all so crystal clear.
I returned to the living room and glanced around. My weights were stacked neatly behind the drop-leaf dining table. I wasn’t a fitness fanatic, but I had been fond of the twice-weekly workouts I made part of my routine. On the small table by the window sat my computer with the mess of papers piled in organized disarray around it: the as-yet unfinished piece of obscure fiction that was slowly taking the form of a novel.
My novel! The only definite thing that has so far lasted in this hellhole of a life!
The weights exercised my body, but using the computer brought my imagination to life and exercised my mind. I glanced around the room, looking for the small black rubber ball Miriam had gave me. The ball I used to exercise my grip and work out the ache that had developed in my hands over the last couple of years. Miriam had said that I might have RSI: Repetitive Strain Injury, probably caused through years of typing.
Sweet Miriam.
I was thinking that I might have left it in Miriam’s flat when another memory suddenly flashed into my mind:
The way that naked, mutilated corpse had looked in that bathtub: blood that had sprayed with arterial force, all over the taps and the tiled wall; blood that had beaded and clotted as it ran down the inside walls of the tub; old blood, dried in thick rivulets, darkened, stinking … knife-nicks and cigarette burns on the arms, legs and chest – indicating torture prior to the castration, sightless eyes and distorted features, rigor mortis, head arched back, frozen grimace, jaws set in a bite on the gag, the echo of muffled screams …
The memory caused a wave of nausea to rise inside me. I wondered how I was ever going to get over this mess.
Or is this the way it’s always going to be?
I walked out into the hallway, pulled on my black Dr. Martin boots and laced them up before removing my leather jacket from the peg. I slipped it on and patted my pockets, going down the checklist in my head: I had my keys; the .45 and switchblade were in my pockets. I placed the dead man’s notebook back into his briefcase. I picked up the knotted bin liner containing my wet clothes and that was all I needed from here. The only thing left was the body and I would collect that on my way to the factory.
I’ll pick it up on the way to work, dear …
I turned off the lights and left my flat for the second time that night. I hurried down the concrete steps and jogged across the green towards the six cars that were parked in line next to the curb. My blue Cortina was the second car from the left.
I put the bag of clothes and the briefcase into the boot before I got behind the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition. Then I was out of the street and on my way in seconds.
The journey back to where I had killed that man seemed longer by car; but it couldn’t be helped. I had to stick to the roads, detour around the plantation and the golf course, then through the barriers at the level crossing. After that I had to watch carefully for the unlit and unmarked sharp turn-off that lead onto a winding dirt track. There I would have to reduce my speed and drive steadily until I reached the quarry.
I would find the body there.
I reached the level crossing at the top of Salter’s Avenue. The red light shone and the barriers began to descend. I reduced my speed and slowed to a gentle stop several feet from the boundary line painted on the road. I couldn’t hear the growing rumble of the approaching train, but I knew it wasn’t far away.
Take it easy. Slow and steady wins the race.
It began to rain, a steady downpour with a strong wind to drive it. It thrashed my car in heavy sheets. I turned on the wipers, took my hands off the steering wheel and relaxed back in the seat. It would be a short while before the barriers rose again, so I settled myself for the wait. I was used to waiting. Waiting was an art I had perfected. I allowed the stream of memories to flood my mind and torture me again, as if I were releasing pressure from a steam valve in my head as I watched the rain bounce off the outside of the windscreen. Seeing the heavy droplets hit the windscreen in steady succession, before being obliterated by the sweep of the wipers, prompted me to remember how it had been raining like this on the day of my ninth birthday. That was the day my parents had been driving me to a secret destination. I was excited, as any nine-year-old would have been, sitting in the backseat behind my parents, reading a comic. They had told me it was their secret and I had to wait and find out when we got there. It was meant as a special birthday surprise for me.
On the journey they had shared a joke that I had been too young to understand, but I remembered their laughter.
I hoped that they were taking me to the zoo; they knew how much I loved the wolves.
I would never find out.
The intended surprise would remain a secret forever. Whatever and wherever it was – we never got there. The day became a nightmare. A nightmare I would never really awake from. That day, my ninth birthday, had been the day of the accident; the day the car crashed and turned over on the motorway. It had happened over eighteen years ago, but it’s still as real to me now as the moment it happened: I visualized the road exchanging places with the sky, then becoming road again, as the car turned over and over across the motorway. I saw my own body being hurled around inside the car, unable to do anything except endure the knocks and bangs. Then the world outside stopped spinning and became an avalanche; the road seemed to come up under me in slow motion, until the car landed flat on its roof and shattered every window into a multitude of jagged, dice-shaped segments. They peppered my hair and clothing like a swarm of gleaming insects. Some of the shards stung and punctured my exposed skin. Buckling metal and screams of agonized terror have sounds all of their own. Nothing else compares to them. I still hear them after all these years. Some things – the worst things mostly – never fade. They always manage to slice a wound in the soul deeper than any shard of glass.