Games, "Bored Games"

"Bored Games"

One

The idea, if there ever was one, was to soften the day. The air around
him was brittle and coarse, echoes of his teenaged cheek pressed up
against mint-green woodchip.

With a day like that only halfway through, the thing to do surely is to
have a few drinks, smooth out the day. Nothing wrong with that, Roger
himself had gone into work a bit giddy in the afternoons before. The
only difference this time was that he didn't know anyone else in this
pub, he wasn't with an office crowd celebrating a birthday or closing a
new account.

The meat pie that was his official reason for being in the pub (pub
lunch, pint of bitter shandy, an hour of quiet) was still on his plate,
uneaten. After he'd lifted off the pastry roof, the crawl of dark wet
meat within had made him softly queasy.

He knew that there would come a time in the pub when a girl would come
to pick up his plate and that he would feel guilty when she asked him
if he had enjoyed his meal. It was really this, as much as every other
little thing that pushed him over the edge, into lunchtime drinking as
anaesthetic rather than social lubrication.

He sought comfort and found it easily, sliding out of an upside down
bottle, tasting of peaches and heat. He had just the five; inwardly
disappointed that the barmaid hadn't politely asked him if he didn't
think he'd had enough today sir.

Roger was nowhere near drunk, you can't do four years in the Navy and
get drunk that easily. No, on his return to work, Roger was pleasantly
braced. He swaggered, rather than his usual timid walk.

Work was the largest part of his problem. The staff he was supposed to
supervise were all far more technically able than him and they were
happy to let him know it. For the first time in his life he was one of
"Them" not one of "Us" and he wasn't at all sure how to make the
adjustment.

His only real purpose here seemed to be attending meetings, headed up
by Garland, known unaffectionately as Gargoyle (but only when people
knew he was out for the whole day). At the meetings, the others seemed
so confident, so able to glide away from their errors and soar on their
triumphs. Roger would sit there with fingers plucking anxiously at the
technical reports he'd somehow patched together, which would usually be
a half-hearted excuse as to why his division weren't hitting the
deadlines again.

Every morning as he shaved he traced his fingers over his Adam's apple
and thought about the way life was racing away from him. He'd never had
huge dreams. When he boxed for the navy he'd been quite good, but he
never dreamed of a title shot. They weren't huge, his dreams, but he
had some.

The bleak afternoons, reading through progress reports and budget
forecasts (both easily summarised as "Not enough") he could feel the
figures start to blur and swim, it was an effort to keep them where
they should be. His eyesight was going and glasses really would be the
end for him.

He had never imagined that he would be washed up by thirty-two. He
always knew it would come, but he'd thought he could hold it off for
some more years yet, not to achieve his dreams, but to reach a stage
where he no longer cared about failure.

In his office that afternoon, he fumbled a little with the mouse, the
pointer greasing about the screen before he finally opened his New Mail
icon. He grinned to himself a little foolishly, the alcohol felt very
pleasant in his system.

The e-mail contained a nasty shock, Garland's secretary booking him an
appointment at 4.00. Damn, thought Roger, the Tech-Heads were eleven
days behind schedule for the latest project. He really couldn't hold
Garland off any more. He'd have to find something to tell the old man,
find a fish to throw him or Garland was liable to have his balls for a
desk ornament.

Roger stood up and ran the flat of his hand down his trousers, building
up his composure. Gavin, who normally helped him with the technical
reports was on leave all week, it would have to be Todd, the most
talented of the designers. Todd was something of a novelty amongst the
other designers.

He seemed to be the only one with something of a sex life (Roger
included) and was quite happy to share the details. Roger had heard
stories, blow-jobs in cinemas, quickies in lifts, a girlfriend's aunt
who had seduced him. The last one had something of truth in it Roger
felt, the script was usually sister or mother, but aunt had a different
quality to it. It sounded less glamorous and was therefore more likely
to be true.

There were other more senior designers, but Todd would be the one with
a bit of magic, something new they were adding to the system which
would please Garland and might, just might, calm him down about the
delays.

Roger felt his palms get slippy as he approached Todd, with the
corn-blonde hair that fell about his face, the fake Valley accent, the
shirt pulled out from his trousers, flapping at his thighs, the tie
that was tied in a ridiculously thin knot. Roger noted with distaste
that Todd was wearing what Roger thought of as trainers but Todd called
skate shoes.

" Did you not read my e-mail Todd? "

" Huh? "

" I sent everyone an e-mail two weeks ago, saying that staff in my
division were to wear shoes. "

" These ARE shoes, dude, " said Todd, lifting up a foot and rotating it
in display, like a prize on a weekday evening game show, " Did you,
like, believe them to be eels or something?"

Roger noted the decrease in the noise levels in the room, keyboards had
stopped clattering, and the people nearby were quickly saving their
work to the hard-disc so that they could watch this confrontation. They
had no doubts that Roger would end up scurrying back to his office and
remain there for the rest of the day. Todd was the closest these people
had to a real-life hero.

" Shoes that I could put polish on, " explained Roger, as patiently as
he felt able, " The e-mail expressed that element very clearly. It also
said that breach would result in a verbal warning, which is what this
is. "

Todd smacked his keyboard, making his computer fire off a string of
error bleeps.

" That sucks. I never saw your dumb message. My system is set for
Auto-delete for any messages from Man-Age-Ment. "

There was a quiet ripple of laughter from the others, enjoying Todd
giving it to "The Man".

" The warning stands, " said Roger, " I need you to bring me up to date
on the Weasel project. "

Todd looked around at the other workers, making sure that he had their
full attention, before he smirked and said, " You can suck my ass.
"

Roger didn't even know what this meant.

Todd grinned and said it again louder, " You can suck my ass. "

It would soon become a chant, Roger sensed.

Later, Roger would think of it as one of the best punches he'd ever
thrown. It was from the shoulder; firm and crisp and it connected flush
with Todd's chin.

Todd went down, skittling over his swivel chair as he went. There was
no question of it being a knockdown, this was a harsh punch rather than
a firm shove, the boy was out cold by the time he hit the ground.

There was a real stillness afterwards. It reminded Roger stupidly of an
old Seventies song, Johnny Mathis or someone like him solemnly singing,
" There's a kind of hush, all over the world." Or was it Karen
Carpenter ?

Roger realised that he was on his toes, moving easily, hands at the
ready to deliver a second punch that was clearly not going to be
needed. The blood roared through his ears and he could remember the
awkward taste of his old mouthguard.

Todd groaned on the floor and Roger turned quietly away. His brow
creased and he stood with his back to everyone for a few seconds.

" Project Weasel, on my desk, completed by Four today. I don't care how
many holes it has in it; I want a working copy plus manual on my desk
by four. "

He went back to the safety of his office. He sat very quietly for about
twenty minutes and nobody bothered him until the guy from the union
rang. Jason Ford, the man's name was. He introduced himself to Roger
and said that he worked in the union. Roger's brain was stiff, like a
cat caught in a freezer.

" I'm sorry, " he said, " But I'm really not interested in joining the
union. "

The telephone snorted, " As if we'd have you! "

Mr Ford paused, but after a few seconds it became clear that he was the
one making all the running in this conversation, so he ploughed on, " A
member of your staff is in our union. The man you assaulted this
afternoon. The man who is currently having his jaw X-rayed in casualty.
"

This seemed a bit strong to Roger and he said so.

" Well, let's see how you feel when Garland has you in, I've already
filed the grievance claim. You might want to look up Gross Misconduct
in your staff handbook. "

When Roger left his office to attend his meeting, his foot brushed
against a Jiffy envelope laid near the door. None of his staff met his
eyes as he bent to pick it up. A wry smile spread over his face as he
looked at the disc inside, labelled up, " Weasel 1.0". Too late to save
his job, but it was nice that he'd finally wrung some fear from his
staff.

Garland immediately bristled his secretary out of the room, his hands
all over her arse, Roger noted. This was a rare event, seeing Garland
alone. Garland had almost reached Howard Hughes levels of eccentricity
recently, wanting a note of everything that he said and that was said
to him.

The office was vast, occupying nearly the whole of the sixth floor, but
for the small reception that barred the way to casual callers. Three of
the walls were entirely glass, the city behind Garland's back, agreeing
with him in every meeting.

Roger couldn't help but steal a glance at the cherrywood roll-top desk
that was to the left of the room. It was a massive piece of furniture,
beautifully made, with a smell that delighted him. This desk was one of
Roger's favourite things, up there with the memory he kept of a
bitterly cold morning on the deck of his ship, seeing his first
iceberg, so white it almost burnt his eyes, massive and shapely as a
city skyline.

There was an old film he'd once seen, two journalists and a man on the
run, wanted for murder. The police wanted him and so did the
journalists, to file his story. Eventually the man ended up hidden in
the roll-top desk of one of the journalists, while the police played
heavy with the journalist. Ever since he had seen that film, Roger had
wanted to hide in a roll-top desk of his own, but he was a big man, and
it was going to take a big desk, one like Garland's.

Garland indicated with the edge of his hand that Roger should sit and
made a show of reading a memo, to keep Roger waiting nervously. He was
in his early fifties, distinguished but with slightly too much about
the waist and the chin, heavy crinkling of the forehead and around the
eyes, with some fine gray at the temples, darker grayish black to the
rest of his hair. He looked very much like a newsreader of Roger's
youth, the Alan Whicker school.

" Well Roger, " he said eventually, " Things have been a little crazy
downstairs today. "

Roger swallowed hard, " Sir, it's been a total mess, for which I am
totally responsible. "

Garland half-turned in his chair, to look at the traffic, " Well, thank
you at least for not wasting my time. You were in the Navy weren't you?
"

Roger knew very well that Garland would have been reviewing his file
before calling him in. He nodded, very conscious of the shirt collar
sticking a little to the back of his neck. He realised that his
possession of the disc was not going to help at all in this
conversation and let the envelope drop to the floor discreetly by his
left calf.

" Left there under a bit of a cloud, eh? You can't really afford
another blemish like that on your CV. Not at your age. "

" No sir, " said Roger, risking what might be his last ever look at the
desk that he cherished.

" I'm going to die, " said Garland.

This was unexpected.

" What do you think to that then? " Garland asked him.

Roger moved his tongue, trying to buy himself some time, " I'm afraid I
don't really know what to say sir. "

" No, I didn't myself when the doctors told me, " said Garland, finally
turning to look at Roger with wet blue eyes, " Wasn't very bloody happy
about it, I tell you that. "

He continued, " Three months I've got, they tell me. Cancer. Three
months, six if I have all the bloody radiation and tubes and whatnot.
"

" These doctors get it wrong sometimes sir, " said Roger, trying to be
positive, " You can read it in the papers. "

" Not doctors that cost this much, " said Garland, and he opened up his
desk drawer to take out a bottle of Scotch. He unscrewed the cap and
poured some into an empty teacup. He hesitated and poured another cup
for Roger.

" Did you like the men you worked with in the Navy? "

This was something Roger could answer without thinking, " Sir, they
were the best. I'd have died for any one of them. "

Garland sipped at his Scotch and said with an edge of sadness, " I
don't think I've ever felt that way about anything. Tell me, how did it
feel to slosh that jumped-up little twat today? "

" Pretty good, " said Roger instantly and the regret was quick to show
on his face.

" Don't worry about it, " said Garland, " Have some Scotch. I'm afraid
it's cheap muck. I never got the taste for the pricey stuff, so I don't
waste my money on it. People tell me the good stuff tastes of all kinds
of other things, seaweed and peat and oak. Why would I want to drink
something that tastes of oak?"

Garland chuckled to himself, the noise low in his throat, " Wish I'd
seen it. Laid him right out. "

Roger picked up his cup and took a small taste. All he really tasted
was warmth and seaweed.

" Roger, I've got to be straight with you. What you did this afternoon
is a sackable offence. There'll be pressure on me to sack you. The
union will want to see you suffer for it. "

" Yes sir, " said Roger, feeling that he should drink a bit more of the
whisky.

" There's an alternative, " said Garland, who seemed to be looking very
closely at Roger's face, weighing him up, " There's a post coming up in
Europe, take you away from here, get you travelling. You speak a bit of
French and Spanish, it says in your file. What you did today shows me
that you've got some balls and that's what I need over there. I'm sick
of all the wet bastards I've got here. "

Roger had finished the whisky and was hoping that Garland would finish
his soon and pour himself another.

" The post would be a six thousand a year increase. It would also
reward you with a two- percent stake in the business, worth a hell of a
lot. It would also get you a seat on the board. "

" I'd better hear the catch, " said Roger, who was no fool.

Garland grinned, " The catch is Roger, that the interview process
involves a little practical test. Whoever gets this job will have to
kill me first. "

Obviously there were a few moments when Roger knew that Garland was
speaking metaphorically, but the look in his eyes eventually told him
differently. Garland softly nodded his head, silently saying, yes,
that's it, that's the deal here.

" You mean that, don't you? "

Garland mopped his head with a handkerchief, " Yes, I do. My doctors
have told me what my last months are going to be like, what my family
are going to have to cope with. I don't want anyone to remember me as a
weak old man, dying in hospital, ending up skinny and coughing up black
stuff, too tired to move. "

Roger tried to make supportive gestures with his head and eyebrows,
whilst not really communicating anything.

" And don't tell me I've got too much to live for. I've done it Roger,
everything I ever really wanted to do in life, I've done. I've had a
pretty good crack at life and it's been good to me. I don't want to
spoil it all now at the end. One quick bit of pain and that's it.
"

Roger rubbed his chin, still waiting for that Scotch, " Are you
thinking in terms of assisted suicide, tablets or something? "

" No, I can't wait that long. Besides, I'm insured for more than
Buckingham Palace; I can't risk the whiff of suicide. Besides, a top
businessman being unexpectedly murdered, culprit never caught, crime
never solved. I can get my immortality that way, maybe have some tawdry
books written about the mystery. "

He leaned forward, Roger catching a whiff of expensive cologne from
him, " I've always wanted to be a murderer you know, but never had the
balls. Maybe being murdered is the next best thing. "

A few seconds passed before Garland spoke again, " I notice that you
haven't said no yet. I thought you might have it in you. "

" Well, " said Roger, " You want to die and you're willing to reward me
quite heavily for assisting. I'm guessing if I don't help you then you
won't be able to resist the union when they call for my dismissal.
"

Garland grinned fatly from behind the table.

" This is not a definite, " Roger told him, " But I'll be actively
considering your proposal. "

Garland grinned once again and his lips made a noise against his teeth,
like jellyfish unpeeling from a rock. He poured out another slug of
Scotch for them both, " Here's to crime Roger. "

Later that evening, Roger was giddy from fear and drink. He went to a
supermarket and bought four apples in a clear polythene bag. He ate
three of them one after the other in the supermarket car park; they
were good and sour. He just felt that he needed to clean himself
out.

Obviously the thing to do would be to visit his friend Evelyn, who was
very smart and wore a delightful perfume that smelled of crushed Love
Hearts.

Two

I'd better be straight, right from the off. All of that before is just
what Roger told me, plus my own embellishments when he was sketchy on
the detail, which was quite often.

I mean, Roger's a man for one thing and we all know what that means
when it comes to telling stories. Very heavy on how the protagonists
negotiated the Basingstoke roundabout, but useless on anything else.
And we then have to factor in that he's, well ROGER. Roger's a lovely
chap, but he really should have been born sixty years ago, he'd have
been so much happier.

I don't mean that he's like an old man, but he's like a man from a
forties movie. He's so damn polite and buttoned-up, the real calm,
stoic type. Of course, if women had stayed like they were in the
forties movies, we'd have been queuing up to marry him; instead of
which he sits in of an evening eating apples. Is it his fault the world
changes?

When he started telling me this story, I don't mind saying, my first
instinct was that he was trying to get me into bed. Not that he does
that a lot, but it does seem to be a man thing, that women will find
them much more attractive if they seem sad and unable to cope. (Of
course, that's not really Roger at all, but I have these
super-conditioned reflexes, honed to prevent me from sleeping with
suitable men)

I mean, we had a thing once, for about three months. He was unlucky,
that was all. That's just not a book I intend to get off the shelf and
reread. I can't really remember anything about our sex life. That means
it wasn't mind-blowing and worth repeating, or dreadful and worth
revisiting to see if there's been any improvement. It was just
alright.

" So are you seriously going to go through with it? " I asked him,
pointing two fingers at him and going " Boof" then blowing smoke from
my fingers.

" Seems that way, " said Roger, " I'm meeting him for dinner tomorrow
evening to go through his plan. If the plan seems up to it, then I may
as well get on board. "

This was an interesting new side to Roger, the hired killer. Even if
the victim was the one doing the hiring, it was still a new twist to
add to his resume, good experience I would have thought. Not the sort
of thing I would have imagined Roger rushing to apply for, but who
knows how people react when goodies are placed in their path.

When I looked at him again, there maybe was a touch of vintage Sean
Connery about him. Maybe it was just that I'd seen photographs of him
in Navy uniform, which reminded me of James Bond. I took a quick look
at his eyes, but wasn't sure if I could pick out the look of a killer.
There probably isn't one, otherwise how could people like Fred West
actually get any lodgers to move in. (Personally I always thought he
looked rather amiable in the photos, I'd have been chopped up before my
first rent cheque had cleared.)

However, I was a little miffed that he'd been in the flat for nearly an
hour and hadn't noticed that my walls were now a lovely shade of
toffee; when I thought of poor Oliver, nervously up that ladder with
the roller and tray and all for nothing. Poor lad was actually shaking
when he got down. Roger was the first person to visit since the
redecoration and it seemed to have no impact at all.

" I don't really understand the apples, " I said tentatively, as I
smoothed a hand along the wall, by way of a visual aid. I really was
very pleased with this toffee colour; it was all warm and autumnal,
like having a hug from four people standing on all sides of me.

" That's just something I've always done, " said Roger, " If I feel
upset or guilty, I like to go and eat apples until I feel sick to my
stomach. Cleans out my system, makes me think about a physical
sensation rather than a mental difficulty. "

" Sort of like punching a wall, only with less distress to the
knuckles? " I observed. I had often noticed similar behaviour with men
of varying types, this need to sublimate the emotions in physical
activity. Perhaps Roger had been caught scrumping as a boy and his
father delivered that sort of "well you wanted them, I'm going to sit
here and watch you have the lot" approach to discipline that you
usually get with cigarettes.

Roger sort of prowled the edges of my room, turning back as he reached
the paper screens that separate my dining area from the lounge. He had
a nice body for prowling; I could have watched him for hours, if I'd
been at a further distance. Being so close up, it was just making me
giddy. I told him to stop and he did. Lovely screen by the way -
Japanese, with a charming thin grey heron drawn on it in ink. Picked it
up from Muji.

It was a shame that Roger was ever so cute and very attentive, like a
little puppy. We had split up ages ago, reasonably amicably. We had
been ticking along quite well in the usual sort of way and then
somebody fearfully attractive had collared me at a party. He had
chatted away to me for a while and then said, " I'd been wanting to
talk to you for ages, but I'd always thought that you were cold and
cruel, you had that sort of look. I realise now that you're actually
quite a nice person"

This was terrible, simultaneously the most flattering and most
insulting thing anyone had ever said to me. I realised that very minute
that I had the potential to be the sort of woman I'd dreamed of being
and started stripping the niceness out of my life. Poor Roger was just
part of the debris that got cleared away.

I never had any sort of relationship with the chap at the party, but
when you're the sort of child who claps with delight when Cruella
DeVille slinks about on the cinema screen, then you have to seize any
chance you get to be vampish.

The odd thing was, dear old Roger was the first (and last) ever chap
that actually took me seriously when I gave him the " I want us still
to be friends" routine. I nearly fell down when he turned up at the
flat a month later with a bottle, but he's such a nice chap I hadn't
the heart to explain it all to him. It turned out that he really did
want to be friends and he's quite fun in his own limited way. So,
that's the way we've gone on for the last year and a half.

He started to pace again and once more I told him to stop.

" Sorry, " he said, in a clipped manner, " I've just got so much going
on in my head at the moment, I feel I ought to be doing something,
rather than just chattering on. "

I thought about mentioning some shelves that I needed fitting in the
bathroom, but decided against it. A man with murder on his mind might
not be as accurate with the spirit level as was really necessary. Of
course, even slightly crooked shelves fitted by a killer might prove to
be a talking point in years to come, but the moment had passed by the
time I realised this.

" It seems to me, " I said, " That you can't really do anything until
you hear what the plan is. Your Mister Garland has probably been
thinking about it for some time, and without being harsh, he's probably
got far better machinery for that sort of thing than you. "

Roger settled himself down on my white sofa (very pricey, bought after
New Woman took one of my longer articles: - " I joined a cult, to be
sure of getting laid ") and I could tell that my words of comfort had
helped. An idea struck me and I scooted off to my bedroom, to retrieve
something that would give clarity to the whole affair. It took me a
while to find, since I got distracted by a feature in Harpers and Queen
that I'd left open on my bed.

I wrote some small notes in the margin of the page for an article I'd
just thought of writing and turned the page. I'd moved right onto the
adverts for cosmetic surgery before I realised with a tinge of guilt
that I was supposed to be helping out Roger.

These things happen.

(Though perhaps to me more than others)

I found what I was looking for on the top shelf of the wardrobe without
very much difficulty at all, but made a number of " Now where is it? "
loud remarks for Roger to hear, so that he'd think I'd made more of an
effort. Never let a man think anything you do was easy.

" Cluedo? " said Roger, as I set the box down in front of him.

" Cluedo, " I said.

" Never played it, " he said, " Navy family - we played a lot of
battleships. Pen and paper, Jay-Four, Eff -Eight, that kind of thing.
"

What would my childhood have been like without those Waddington's
boxes, the fearful quiet of a Sunday afternoon, when the day yawned
ahead and the squabbles began to surface; when mother got out the bored
games to keep us amused ?

I opened the lid and took out the board, unfolding it and setting it
down on my wooden floorboards. I reached into the tray and pinched the
red figure representing Miss Scarlet between my thumb and finger,
lifting her up tenderly.

I had a lot of fond feelings for Miss Scarlet; she was always my choice
for character as a child. I would often sit and look at her image on
the card and dream of being a vamp in the future. Oliver always
selected Mrs Peacock, which would have been worrying, but for his
mathematical leanings. He had realised that Mrs Peacock was the only
character who could get into a room on the first turn, a small though
significant advantage.

The important things were the gold weapons though and it was these that
I placed carefully on Roger's knee, together with a yellow rope and a
small silvery pipe.

" Here we are, " I said, " The revolver, the dagger, the lead pipe, the
candlestick, the spanner, the rope, the poison. Take a good look and
pick out any that appeal. "

Roger looked stern for a second, " This isn't a game, you know Evelyn.
"

" I didn't say it was. This is just to get you thinking of the
parameters. You don't want to go along to your meeting with Mister
Garland before you've set your parameters. "

He saw the sense of this and began to pick up the pieces, turning them
this way and that in his fingers, absorbing the essence of what it
might be to murder. It really was very fascinating to watch.

" The gun is much less personal, less direct," he said.

" Revolver, " I corrected him, " But I see what you mean. It's a bit
like mail order murder, you don't really have to be all that involved.
"

" Very traceable though, " he said, putting it back into the tray, "
And I think the police can do tests on your hands and that sort of
thing. The rope probably takes forever and you've got to have a sort of
knack for it, getting it in the right place. The poison, hard to get,
unless Garland has already laid his hands on some. "

" So it seems that we're in the bludgeoning oblique stabbing area then,
" I said, looking at what was left on his knee.

Roger bit his top lip gently, " Yes, I think it does. "

The telephone rang and I asked Roger to answer it. I had a pretty good
idea that it would be Harper and it would do him good to think that I
had a man in my flat, a man who was around often enough to answer my
phone. Some people can just get too cocky for their own good.

Roger came back, " A chap called Harper. Said he'd call you tomorrow.
"

" He's my decorator, " I explained falsely, seizing another chance to
promote my new interior.

" Thinking of having the place decorated? " asked Roger, looking about
the place, in a way I can only describe as askance, " Maybe not a bad
idea, it's looking a bit dated. "

Roger was very lucky not to be thrown out of my flat there and then. I
got up and went into the kitchen to make myself a stiff brandy and
soda. I came back with a solitary glass, by way of making a
point.

" I've been thinking, " said Roger, rattling the Cluedo dice in his
palm, " You've been very helpful this evening. I'd like you to come
along to this meeting tomorrow night, help me weigh it all up. "

I found myself warming to Roger again, but soon thought of a flaw, "
But surely Garland won't want to talk about your arrangement with me
sitting there. "

" No, " said Roger, " But I could book a table in the same restaurant
and you could just check him out from a distance, see what you think.
I'd feel better just having you in the same place as me. "

I thought it over.

" I'd pay for your dinner of course, " he added quickly, " And we could
meet afterwards and talk about his plan. I'd love to have your views
before I commit to anything. "

He'd thought of it all himself, I was very proud of him.

Three

The next morning, I'd already started planning for a (suitably
anonymised) article about my dinner with a killer. If I could keep it
to three thousand words I'd have a good chance of flogging it. Of
course, the killer in the article would have tattoos, a liking for
strong curry and a high tolerance to pain, demonstrated by holding his
hand over the sizzling iron Balti dishes. He might even grow his own
tomatoes, to give him a more human touch. Maybe he snapped his
poppadoms into pieces, one piece for each of his victims. We would
definitely be meeting in a seedy curry house. I'd have to check one out
for local colour. I could give Bronte a call; she knows plenty of rugby
lads and could get me the real inside knowledge (on curry, not
murder).

Or maybe the killer in the article could be a butcher troubled by a
guilty conscience and works as a hitman to send money to the Animal
Liberation Front. Or, hold on, a disgruntled Post Office worker, driven
to murder by the bad-tempered customers queuing up to buy
stamps...

I hastily grabbed a tissue as an idea hit me, the only writing
implement to hand was a brown eyebrow pencil, but I didn't want to risk
losing the idea, my mind has huge slots in it, into which all of my
best ideas fall, never to be fished out. I wrote on the tissue, " The
Manila Killer" and wondered if I could talk Roger into suffocating
Garland in a gusset envelope. Probably not.

I folded up the tissue and put it into my purse for safekeeping. I had
an appointment at two, meeting Yasmin Le Bon to talk about what her
perfect Christmas might involve. In late August, this was difficult to
envisage, but the editors always want all the Christmas stuff in early,
so they can sift out the dross.

I looked in the mirror. Honestly, where do you even START with make-up
if you're lunching with Yasmin Le Bon? Is there any real point?

Why do I put myself through this sort of ordeal?

The journalism is usually pretty jolly and it helps to make up the
deficit from my monthly allowance from the estate (Daddy's lump-sum
paid for this lovely flat in Holland Park, but I can't just sit and
look at the walls all day, can I?).

Of course, Oliver got some of daddy's money too, but his didn't all get
tied up in trusts like mine. Odd that they call them trusts, when what
they are really are tangible evidence of the very reverse.

But the real thing is to make a name for myself, to make it easier to
sell the book once I've finally written it. The idea behind the book is
to cash in on all these travelogue affairs and write an account of
getting wildly scandalously drunk or high in various cities of Europe,
but with a twist.

For each city I allocate myself just one hour of the day, brief tour of
the city first and then to the festivities. Of course, I'd then
eventually clock up all twenty-four. I've only managed four so far, but
I've done some of the more difficult hours already - believe me,
they're a scream. Glasgow sharing bottles of Verve Cliquot with some of
the down and outs at five am was an experience I shall never forget.
Though I'm sure THEY already have.

The telephone rings - note to self, turn down the volume and pitch, too
harsh in the morning.

It's Harper on the other end. He's all miffed about hearing Roger on
the phone last night, which will do him good. Men need to be a little
insecure to make them lift their game.

Some people are too good looking for their own good, and this is Harper
to a T-bone steak. He's a bit Antonio Banderas with a positive slant
that he's not got a porky quality to him, but a negative slant in that
he can't speak Spanish and the last time we went out to dinner, he
still had a patch of dark ink on one of his fingers.

He's very good at the brooding intensity, but sometimes, that's not
really what a girl wants. Heavy sighs and beautiful thoughts about the
pain of the world and the small tragic beauty of a smile worn by a
young woman is all very well in small doses, but nobody ever got a set
of shelves put up in their bathroom by brooding intensely about
them.

What I really need is Harper for the dirty deed and Roger for all the
other husbandly duties. I don't really see either of them standing for
that as an arrangement.

Harper is an artist and I happen to think he's rather good at it. He's
not one of these chaps that drapes velvet over Nelson's Column or
slices things up and pickles them. He's an illustrator, pictures for
magazines and book covers usually (for when they can't find a good
photograph I suppose).

That's what he likes to do, but to pay the bills he draws
cross-sections, those complicated little drawings which explain what
everything's called and where it goes. Some of the tanks and cars he's
done are pretty good, but the other week I peeked at one he was doing
for a medical book, picture of a brain, showing a chap with his scalp
unpeeled in four neat triangles to show the brain underneath, all
unfolded like an envelope.

It made me jolly queasy and I'm currently reassessing our
relationship.

To be quite frank, I'm not sure how I feel about a man who knows that
much about what the inside of my head might look like. I'm happier with
the idea of tiny girls running round inside there with bits of paper
(like basements in old war films, pushing planes round a map of
Holland), or whirring computers or even at a push clouds of tiny lights
blinking on and off. What I don't like is the thought that my
personality and memories and feelings might look like a cauliflower,
just the same as everyone else's. All the stuff that makes us real is
just a cauliflower.

The other thing is, I have this dreadful personality defect. What it
is, okay, is that once a month I feel this dread urge to scrutinise my
life, you know, to take a good hard look in all the dark recesses and
write down on a piece of paper how I REALLY feel about certain things.
It's a curse, it really is. My friend Cinnamon gets stomach cramps and
an urge to listen to Kid Creole records and cry - I'd kill to get off
so lightly.

What I'd written down last week was, " Harper? Is my interest in him
because he has the same name as a magazine? "

If there's one thing I dislike (be honest, there are several dozen),
but one in particular is to be reminded of my shallowness. I'm quite
happy most of the time just splishing about in a tiny puddle of
interests and desires, the right colours, the just-so pair of shoes,
adding the latest names to my circle of acquaintances. I don't like
having perspective thrust under my nose.

So, maybe Harper was just going to be a reminder of my paper-thin
personality all the while we were dating. This was not likely to be a
good thing.

Harper prattled on for a while about this and that, trying to interest
me with tales of a bar down in St John's Wood where he'd been drinking
absinthe with Ewan McGregor, so I mentioned that Darren Day had asked
me out and this upset him, quite a deal.

" Who the hell is Darren Day? "

" You must know, " I told him, " Used to see that skinny girl who plays
a hairdresser on television and before that the faux-lesbian girl who
was on all those magazine covers. "

" But he looks like Cliff Richard. "

I toyed with some plum lipstick I had bought but never worn, yet
another plot in the fashion graveyard that is my dressing table. I
decided to stall for a while, pretending to think things over and
letting Harper bubble up nicely, " Yes, but he's photographed, darling.
And the girls he sees are photographed. I'd have a much better chance
of getting my book published if I became a celebrity. I told him I'd
think about it. "

Harper began to splutter then, so I told him that I had a call waiting
and cut him off.

The lunch and interview didn't really go all that well. Yasmin ordered
us both parmesan and rocket salad, for heavens sake. I was just about
able to tolerate eating those peppery leaves when they were the very
height of fashion, but you can buy it in ordinary shops now, so I'm
told. Even people up North can get it, how off the pulse can you
get?

The more significant problem was how could I focus on Yasmin's
Christmas tree decorations, for which she had drawn on Moroccan
influences (how very 97) and her Christmas meal when I knew very well
that one of my ex-lovers might very well be killing someone by the end
of the week?

Still, I am a consummate professional, if nothing else and I was easily
able to convince Yasmin that I was charmed by her plans to spend
Christmas Eve in Monmartre, perhaps lighting a candle in the Sacre
Coeur and fly back to London on Boxing Day. I had cooed pleasantly over
photographs of Amber, Saffron and the other child whose name I forget,
noting that the family snaps were backlit and obviously
professional.

The notes would easily polish up into the sort of bland cosiness that
the editor would lap up for a Christmassy issue. I hoped that the next
Christmas interview would be with some American rock or rap star, who
might celebrate Christmas by chopping up their child's bodyweight in
cocaine before screwing / shooting anyone that came within range of
their hotel penthouse.

It was time to think about getting ready. I was starting at that stage
to feel a little edgy about going to a restaurant all on my own, I
would probably look like a very high price call-girl sharking for
trade. I knew that she wouldn't come, but I called my friend Janey
Darwin anyway.

" What floor is it on? " she asked, once I'd sketched out a very edited
highlight (old friend, wants me to check out whether his boss is on the
level or romantically attracted to him by watching them have dinner
together)

Janey Darwin is odd, even by the standards of people I mix with. I
don't think I've ever seen her on the ground. I don't mean lying down,
I mean, actually walking about at ground level. She's got this major
phobe about heights. She likes to be up high, and if she can't be up
high, she likes to be travelling very fast.

She explained it to me once, it has something to do with gravity and
time, but it was all far too involved for me. The gist is, I think,
that experiments with really really sensitive clocks have shown that
when you travel fast, time moves slightly slower, and also that time
goes really really slightly slower at the top of the building than at
the bottom. Who knows how true any of this is?

Suffice to say it has to be something very good to get her into any
building where the elevator has less than six buttons.

She is in some way related to the Charles Darwin of beard and monkeys
fame, but only in a very tenuous way. She's frightened of tortoises, so
was never about to do a tour of the Galapagos islands or anything like
that. She might fly over in a jet, but that'd be it.

I promised her that we could eat on the third floor and look down on
Roger and his potentially gay boss, which would perhaps be the best way
to do it. I didn't want to get too close and besides, from the third
floor I would be able to spot any celebs coming in the door.

She agreed, finally and asked me what time I'd be there, stating that
she'd be there half an hour earlier.

True to her word, she was already there when I got in, drinking a
Seabreeze with two empty glasses beside her at the table. The place was
quite crackly; I sort of liked it. There was a nice toffee-apple
wrapper redness to the place, the light and everything having a red
shine to it that made me feel warm inside. The music was okay too, all
sort of thirties cocktail bar stuff, a nice change of pace from drum
machines and house.

Janey looked pretty yummy; pale skin, soft lips, a tumble of dark hair
and almost black irises. I like to think I'm not bad looking, but she
really is Mariah Carey oblique Nigella Lawson pretty, with legs to
match. The waiter was very attentive. I made a mental note to meet with
Roger alone, when Garland finally left, no reason for him and Janey to
meet.

Janey had been doing a bit of modelling, photographs only. She told me
that she'd had a great time in Manhattan " The buildings over there are
just so tall, Evelyn, I spent nearly a whole day in the Empire State
building. I was so far from gravity I was practically weightless.
"

She'd been dating a new chap over there whose job was writing dialogue
for cheap cartoons (the ones that are used primarily to sell action
figures), who knows what they had in common, "Finn says that they're
just to get all the clich?s out of his system before he writes his
Great American novel. "

Finn's Great American Novel turns out to be a sort of updated Moby
Dick, only it's Bigfoot that the main character wants to catch (and
later educate), and the first half takes place entirely in the basket
of a hot air balloon. I decide not to order dessert.

Jesus, I'd written tighter plots than that on my cheque book
stubs.

" So what's the deal with your um, friend, Roger? " asked Janey Darwin,
gesturing over the balcony towards him with her fork, " I think he's
cute. "

" He's gay, " I said quickly, totally forgetting the cover story I'd
previously sold Janey Darwin.

" So why are we here? "

I had to signal for another bottle at this point, my throat felt like
it was full of warm jam, though I wasn't sure why, " He's gay, but he's
new out. He doesn't know how to check the signals and can't tell
whether his boss is hitting on him or not. Anyway, I thought you were
crazy for Finn. "

She sighed, making a sea of her chest, " I don't know. Finn lives in
this beautiful loft, fourteenth floor and everything but I'm not sure
about his work. "

" How so? "

" Well, sometimes when he was doing tricky cartoon stories, ones with
baddies that are just like Nazis, he'd walk round speaking in a German
accent, 'so meine freunde Janey, you have found ze ciabbatta bread'. It
was all very Dustin Hoffman, deeply creepy. And when I spoke to him
last night he was talking about buying a long leather coat to immerse
himself in the part, to help him be more creative. "

I felt the best Finn could expect a coat to help him do was keep warm,
but I kept my own counsel on this point.

" It makes me feel odd, " she said, " What if he starts goose-stepping
or wearing a monocle? I mean, some of my favourite photographers are
Jewish.... I think. I mean, they may be, and who can tell these days?
"

God, it was so Harper and me. Shallow materialism as against a
skin-crawling dislike of their work. I called the waiter over, it was
clear that I was going to need that dessert after all. Sometimes I feel
like I should go off and tend to sick children in Iron Curtain
countries or something.

With a pang of guilt I realised that I'd hardly even looked at Roger
and Garland since they'd come in. What sort of friend am I?

At least getting a quick look at Garland had helped me to flesh out
Roger's dreadful description of him " sort of fifty and quite
well-off", having no answer to my further questions and not being able
to compare him to anyone famous. Thus leaving me to fabricate the extra
details. I'd been quite wide of the mark in my earlier
description.

Garland was slightly shorter than me, and substantially shorter than
Roger. These gave him a bit of a rodenty impression. His suit was
expensive without being stylish and his hair was that sort of whitish
silver that Richard Gere carries off so much better. I had imagined
that he would be much more bluff and prone to laughing loudly in
restaurants, instead he seemed like one of the hundreds of quiet dull
men in suits that you pass in the street every day and never glance
back at. Both he and his smile seemed thin like a knife.

The waiter came over to their table and Garland settled the bill,
putting what looked very much like a platinum Amex card on top of the
folded slip of paper. I have something of a keen eye for plastic.

I called a waiter over to our table and asked for the bill, Janey said
that she would stay a little while longer. I always seem to meet her
either at her flat or IN places, never seeing her enter or leave.
Perhaps she gets some friendly waiters to carry her out to a cab, so
that she never has to set foot on the gravity-heavy ground.

After ditching Janey, I met Roger outside and he seemed in good
spirits. He was looking well, I felt. Nothing like a pang of jealousy
to make someone more attractive and fending off Janey's interest had
begun to make me reassess Roger. I'd always felt he was nice, but far
too safe. Maybe if he was prepared to take risks like this, there was
more to him than I'd touched on in our short relationship. I gave him a
peck on the cheek, just to jolly things along.

" What did you think? " he asked, excitedly, " Of Garland, what did you
make of him? "

I paused, to make it look as though I might be weighing things up, when
in reality I had only looked at Roger's boss for about a minute and a
half, and even then, not in any great detail, " I thought he
looked...SINCERE ? "

Roger nodded keenly, like a puppy shown a lead, " Good, good, that's
how I felt too. He seemed very straight. "

I made some encouraging small noises.

" He showed me all of the documents, " Roger told me, " Could you see
much from up where you were? "

I shook my head sorrowfully.

" I didn't think so, " he said, " Anyway, the details of the package
are all sorted. The best thing is, I forced him into throwing in the
roll-top desk. "

I'd wondered at the time why the only really lucid part of Roger's
story had been that old roll-top desk, but it became a bit clearer now.
The desk had been in his mind the whole time; it was obviously the
clincher for the deal.

" I'm very keen, " he said, " I've worked out the details with him and
it all seems for the best. We both gain something from this, you see, "
he took hold of my arm gently by the elbow, " I've decided that I need
your opinion. You get the final say. If you think I should do it, then
I will, if not, then I'll walk away from it. What do you think? "

In retrospect, if I'd known I'd be giving advice on this sort of very
serious issue I perhaps wouldn't have drunk two bottles of very good
Californian red earlier in the evening. I blinked a little and dredged
up an impulsive answer from within myself, " Yes, Roger, I think you
should do it. I think you should kill Garland. It'll be good for him.
"

Four

Okay, so I admit it. There was a kiss outside the restaurant. Tongues
were exchanged. And yes, alright, as a result of the kiss, I had to do
a little regrading of my all-time league table. Not a straight in at
number one, but a very promising upwards leap for Mr R Vale.

It's not solely my fault. Emotions are a very funny thing. Add to that,
the ten to twelve units of alcohol that are making my head throb as I
write this and you get the beginnings of a pretty lethal
combination.

And then, there's the elbow. None of my chaps know this, I keep it
pretty low-key, but I have an incredibly sensitive erogenous zone in
the crook of my arm, just opposite to my elbow. A brief brush of the
fingers makes my insides feel like a Pop-Tart fresh out the toaster. I
can hardly help that, I was given no choice in where my erogenous zones
were allocated, I myself would rather they were tucked away, but these
things happen.

Though to me more than others, perhaps.

Fact is, after Roger touched my arm and brushed the spot, for whatever
combination of reasons, just after I'd told him to kill his boss, there
was a kiss. I can't help this sort of thing happening.

I'd decided, in any event that we ought to go to Will's party together,
so I invited him and gave him the gist of it. Will is a very funny
fellow that I met with Darwin up on the fifth floor of Harvey Nicks,
while we were drinking espressos and those cute little stem ginger
biscuits. Darwin saw him first, but he turned out to be gay, so there
was no need for either of us to sharpen our nails or anything.

Once again he was an artist; in fact, it was through him that I met
Harper. Will is tall and has hair that is quite honestly, mad. He
currently wears it very long but gelled up at the front to look like a
skateboard ramp, but cut into a sort of shop-girl bob at the sides. He
was in the Face a few months ago and he works at one of those shops
that sells inflatable furniture and sixties curtain fabric.

He sings for a band called "Tequila Mockingbird", who have had a few
tiny mentions in the indie-press and have played quite a few gigs. Will
describes it as Radiohead but with surf-boy sensibilities. One of his
songs that they released on a single was very bouncy pop about how he
dug up one of his best friend's to retrieve the heroin that he'd
swallowed to smuggle into the country - very macabre. Good imagination,
that boy.

Anyway, this week he fessed up to his sexuality to his parents, by
holding a massive "Come As You're Out" party and sending the invites to
his parents and his old ex-girlfriend. Quelle statement.

The theme of the party is to come dressed in something which was once
trendy but is now dismally out of fashion.

I managed to find some dreadful clothes, puffball skirt and stripy
red-and-white sweat-shirt with braces, put on the hairspray in that old
eighties style of spraying the same quantity as you would apply
air-freshener to your front room after a rugby team had spent the night
in it, leaving my hair so stiff and lacquered that flies would stick to
it. And then piece de resistance, a good squirt of Poison to give the
full Pepsi and Shirley effect.

Roger came along in some Farah trousers, white terry-towelling socks,
white moccasins, Lacoste shirt and a black jacket with white lining,
sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dollops of wet-look gel in his hair,
the sweet medicinal reek of Jazz about his neck.

" Excellent work my friend, " I said to him, " Now we just need to get
a bottle to take. "

" Already done, " he said, showing me the bottle of Mateus Rose.

Fine job!

It was a good party. Shame Janey wasn't there, but it was too close to
ground level for her. The music was lots of stadium rock, Europe, Bon
Jovi, Simple Minds. Cringeworthy, but uncanny how just everyone seemed
to know the words. Will had pitched it just right, most people would
have gone for tat like the Birdie song, but he'd gone for stuff you
were embarrassed to have once liked. My God, Foreigner " I want to know
what love is ", Starship, " Nothing's Gonna Stop us Now ", from the
film Mannequin.

Will had got himself a dreadful Estate Agent double-breasted light-grey
check suit, stripy shirt and loud tie and was holding one of the first
generation of mobile phones that was, like, the size of a divers oxygen
tank. I saw Harper, briefly, but tried to keep out of his way - from
somewhere he had managed to find some frost-wash jeans, still with the
little white Joe Bloggs key-ring dangling from the belt loop. One of
his mates had come as one of those twats who used to be on Blue Peter
doing robotic dancing, white mask, slicked down hair, white gloves,
tight black jumper and trousers. Amazing how many people had bought
German wine. It was very difficult to force down glass after glass of
cloying sweet wine, but I managed somehow.

Roger was amazing; he had me laughing all night. I was definitely
beginning to reassess his potential and when he caught hold of me by
the elbow as I was coming out of the kitchen, well....

Five

It had all been set up well, Garland had gone off to somewhere quiet,
parked up his car and made sure he was alone. Then dear old Roger had
bopped him on the head, presumably with some degree of force, though to
be honest, details weren't necessary.

I had already lined up the fake alibi, the dinner with someone who was
a passable lookalike, the receipt, the taxi, calling the date 'Roger'
on the way.

When Roger returned, his hair was nicely messed-up and he was a little
breathless. I was breathless myself shortly afterwards, and Roger moved
further up that league table of mine.

To be fair, I did make him shower first, so it wasn't as morbid as you
might think.

I have to confess though; the whole killer thing was a bit of a
turn-on. I'm a little ashamed to say it, but it's true.

So, two days later, the story is in the newspapers, Managing Director
found killed in park, the business genius behind FPX software found
dead in a park believed by police to be a notorious homosexual pick-up
venue.

Roger laughed at this, "Not sure that's how he would have wanted to get
his lasting fame. "

The police interviewed simply everyone, but only very half-heartedly.
They weren't looking for a killer in the firm; they were looking for a
crazed lover, or an opportunistic mugger. In any event, Roger dished
out his story when they spoke to him, and I confirmed it when a
policewoman telephoned me.

So that was that, we'd got away with it.

Jolly bloody cool, I felt.

By Christmas, Roger had sold up his place and was living in the flat
with me. It still gave me a twinge every time I hopped out of the
shower and saw his razor and aftershave on the bathroom shelf (which,
incidentally, Roger had put up for me, in an inspired bit of work). I
love DIY - I could watch it for hours. Harper was long gone by this
stage. No turning back for me. I'd tasted commitment and decided that I
rather liked it.

Such commitment, I even went to Roger's works party, as his 'partner'.
Nobody had ever introduced me as that before. It was funny, but with
the bastards I'd always craved domesticity and with the decent men
danger. Roger was the only man I'd ever known who could combine the
two.

There was even a short article in Cosmo (penned by yours truly) on a
new social phenomenon - the Edge Guy , basically sensitive and
dependable but with an element of danger. Think Nicholas Cage edge plus
Harrison Ford for Sunday mornings kicking leaves about in a park.

I mingled with his co-workers, who were - it's fair to say a little
lacking in social skills. Some of them had never really learned the
knack of looking at a woman's breasts while seeming to look at her face
and listen with interest to her conversation. I didn't begrudge them a
look, some of them seemed like they needed something fresh to fantasise
about.

"How's that weasel thingy coming on? " I asked one of them.

"All washed up, " he said, screwing up his face, "One of the
competitors got there first, ripped it off. They're even calling it
Ferret. "

"Shame, " I said, trying to seem interested, "So, which office is
Roger's? "

The geek led me to it and opened the door. There it was the fabled
rolltop desk, in all its cherrywood glory. It really was a thing of
beauty, no doubt about that. I wasn't as crazy about it as Roger was,
but I did have a fleeting mental picture of my living room rearranging
itself to accommodate this new piece.

"So, this is old Garland's desk? "

"Garland? " said the geek, "Roger's had that desk since the day he got
here. It's his pride and joy. Even the cleaners aren't allowed to
polish it, he does that himself. "

Curiouser and curiouser, as a girl once said after she'd fallen down a
rabbit-hole.

Okay, I may be shallow but I'm not stupid. I challenged Roger about
this when we got back to the flat. He poured us both an Amaretto and
told me to gulp it down.

"You know when I killed Garland ? " he said.

"Yeah."

"Well, he didn't really ask me to do it. Not in any real sense. I mean,
he's been asking for it for a long time, you can talk to anyone who
worked for him. "

"But he didn't ever actually come out and invite YOU in particular, to
kill him ? "

He poured me another Amaretto, substantially larger and told me all
about it.

The whole thing was originally just industrial espionage. He'd been
tapped up by a Software company who had heard whispers about Weasel and
were willing to pay big money to get hold of a beta-version so that
they could rush out their own version. The technical guys had two
faults - one they had outdated ideas about loyalty, and two, they tend
to tell the world by e-mail. So, the competitors talked to Roger, who
they knew was a bit clueless about the whole technical aspect.

Roger had delivered Weasel up on a plate, but he knew that Garland
would have conducted a mole enquiry, found out what had happened to the
test code. So, Roger decided to create a vacancy at the very top, give
the management something else to keep them busy.

"So you murdered him for a DIVERSION ?"

"And something else, " he said, grasping me lightly by the elbow, "A
change of image. I knew that safe dependable Roger, waiting patiently
in the wings was never going to ignite you, but Roger the killer - that
was a different matter. "

I protested but vainly. Sorry Naomi, sorry Germaine. I sold you all
out, all those feminist principles. No matter how I try to move
forward, there are some things that just do it for me, and bad boys are
one. I've said throughout that I'm shallow. I'll happily take shallow
and happy over deep and miserable any day. Shallow just means that
small things can give you pleasure.

And so, my boyfriend is a killer. (Well, I knew that anyway) And he
didn't kill because he was following orders, but so that he could bed
me. (So he's a romantic killer)

I thought this was a crime story, but I was wrong. I've heard of
rom-coms, but this was a rom-crim; a real Bonnie and Clyde deal. How
exciting !

These things happen? But to me more than other people.

Thank God !