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I watched him from my car. Parked in his road, I could see through his living room window. All his lights were on, his curtains open; he made no effort with privacy. Ease of access, simple to work out who he was. How much of a problem he’d be.
I’d seen him a few times. It wasn’t much, his life. He had few friends. He went to work, sat behind his computer. Had a fag at lunchtime with a girl he called “babe” and who did a wanker sign behind his back. He wolf-whistled at women as he walked home. Stared a little too long at their breasts. He had a dog: a small, white, yappy thing that barked incessantly when he went to work. His neighbors must have hated him. I hope they appreciate what I did.
I watched him: sitting on his sofa, shoveling Doritos into his mouth as he watched a serial killer movie on TV. Oh, the irony.
I went around to the back door and tried the handle. It was unlocked from where he let the horrible dog out into the garden. I opened the door, and the small scraggy thing rushed toward me, barking and nipping at my feet. I grabbed it, holding it up by its collar and it squirmed in my hand, trying to get at my fingers with its sharp teeth.
“Shut up!” I heard him shout from the living room. It was still barking, more frantic now. I carried it out into the garden and threw it across the lawn, where it landed, before angrily hurtling back to me as I closed the door in its face. It continued to bark, muted by double glazing.
I walked slowly into the kitchen. I listened, but there was nothing. Just the noise from the television, blaring at full volume. I looked around. I needed something heavy. Blunt. A large empty glass bottle of vodka waited on the side. I picked it up, weighed it in my hand. It would do the job.
I walked slowly toward him. He didn’t move, eyes still locked on the murder on the screen, unaware of the violence about to be unleashed in his own living room. I lifted the bottle above my head, then brought it down fast.
The glass didn’t break, but I felt something give. His skull splintering, skin splitting. Blood bubbled through the gash. I prepared myself for another hit, but it wasn’t required. He collapsed slowly to the side. Mouth open, unchewed crisps visible, crusting on his yellowed teeth.
I didn’t waste any time. I grabbed his hands, heaving him from the sofa. He fell ungracefully to the floor, leaving a trail of blood from his head wound as I dragged him into the kitchen. He wasn’t heavy. Scrawny, disgusting creature that he was. I see why he was chosen. Why he was so right.
With effort, I got him into the chair. His head slumped forward; his tongue lolled. There was no need to restrain him; this guy wasn’t going to wake up soon.
The dog was still barking outside his back door. I didn’t want anything to disturb me, so I opened it. The little terrier rushed back inside then stopped. It knew something was wrong, but it wasn’t fast enough: I grabbed it by the scruff, then hurled it with all my strength against the wall. It fell to the ground, stunned, then came to its senses and went for me. The next time I wasn’t messing around.
I reached for it, missed, and it bit my wrist, holding tight. The sudden pain, the surprise, enraged me—an influx of overwhelming hatred and anger. I felt my heart race, my head blur as I wrenched it from my arm and held it in front of my face by its collar. It quietened then, watching me with dark brown eyes. That was its saving grace.
I carried it, legs dangling, to the hallway cupboard, opened the door, and threw it in. It cowered in the darkness. It knew a fellow predator; it knew when it was beaten. I closed the door, shaking. Fear and panic threatened—I needed to get this done.
I crouched in front of the man, then took one of his hands in mine. I rolled it over, so his white, clean forearm was exposed. Ready and waiting.
In life he had no purpose. He was not worthy.
In death, he would form a part of something. Something big. Something worthwhile.
It excites me. For the rest that are still to come.
I will get it right. For you.
CHAPTER
19
ADAM WATCHES AS the bottle is photographed, then carefully placed in a clean, white evidence box and rushed off for processing. Maybe they’ll get lucky from the print. Maybe they won’t. But every shred of evidence brings them closer to finding this guy. He feels the thrill of the chase, a burn of optimism in his stomach. This is why he loves the job.
He moves out of the kitchen and stands in the doorway of the deceased man’s living room. He looks at the mess. Even from behind his protective mask, he can smell the old beer and fried food trodden into the carpet. An empty plastic tray that once contained a ready meal sits on the scratched coffee table, a fork inside. Two beer cans next to that. He feels a worrying churn, a jolt of connection to his own solitary life.
So, this guy had been having a night in. Dinner, beer, something on the telly. Adam looks back to the kitchen, then at the bloodstains on the sofa. Had the victim realized someone had broken in, or had he been blissfully unaware when the bottle cracked down on his skull? Was it a crime of opportunity rather than planning? Adam recognizes the bottle of vodka from similar ones in the empties outside. The offender comes to kill—needs to kill?—his normal routine disturbed by the police flooding his usual dump site. He grabs whatever’s at hand, leaves the victim to bleed out on his kitchen floor, then what? Calmly walks away?
Adam hears a figure join him in the room and turns. Jamie’s standing there.
“Any joy from next door?” he asks.
Jamie shakes his head. “Fuck all useful. Heard the dog barking, then silence. No screams for help. The sort of neighborhood that keeps to themselves.”
“Any strange cars in the road? How did he get away from here?” Adam’s mind goes back to Cara’s words: someone must have seen him. “He would have blood on him. Hardly inconspicuous.”
“There’s a network of alleyways down the back. We have the same at our place—it connects all the gardens. Easy to slip away, unnoticed. Especially last night.”
“Hmm.”
He pauses, and in the relative quiet he hears a noise. A soft whine, then a yelp. He stops, listens, turning his head this way and that to get a gauge on where it’s coming from. Then, there it is again, from the cupboard. He walks across and opens the door; the small white dog springs instantly from the darkness, a mess of indescribable stench on his fur. He must have been in there all night, nowhere else to soil. It leaps excitedly around Adam and Jamie until Adam bends down and gathers it, shit and all, into his arms. The dog licks his face; Adam recoils. But he notices something else in his fur. A trace of red.
