Healing (Part Seven)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

A few days later I sold the rifle back to the dealer because I decided I wouldn't need it again, and his word proved golden because I didn't make a great loss. As a goodwill gesture he gave me a freebie, a tiny 22 revolver of indeterminate make and a couple of boxes of ammo, and though I carried the gun almost everywhere I went I doubted if I would ever use it.

The papers and news channels revelled in the story for the next few days, but then a drug dealer killed four members of a rival gang along with six innocent passers by in a spray of machine gun fire in Birmingham city centre, and the story was barely mentioned again.....

I read in the newspaper that Clive and Donna were running a cannabis farm in an empty property adjoining their house, so the police automatically assumed that the shooting was drug related. They didn't bother investigating further, at least not in my direction because I wasn't interviewed. For a while I wholeheartedly believed that providence was on my side, but then I began to imagine that I was being watched – I convinced myself that every other person I passed on the street was an undercover copper waiting for me to drop a bollock and reveal my guilt, so I decided that I needed to take a few precautions before I continued with my blitz.

I spoke to a few people in the know, and before long I had a whole new identity sorted out; it cost an awful lot of money to pull it off properly, but it was worth every penny. I was no longer Richard Brand, I was James Joseph Adams – actually for a while I was both people at once while I made myself comfortable in my new skin. The same people that provided my new identity transferred my assets to my new account, and I was assured that the final destination of my funds would be completely untraceable because a bewildering digital trail had been laid by the most cunning mind in the business. I purchased a little house in a neighbouring town where no one was likely to know me and eventually transmogrified for good, and Richard Brand mysteriously vanished.

My parents died a long time ago, and my only close living relative was my half-sister Jean who emigrated to Canada with her husband in the mid-nineties, but after the first five or six years we fell out of touch. I had learned that most of my friends were of the fair weather variety so I wouldn't miss them, and the few that I did value I could easily live without - if I did have close ties and I wasn't so bloody self-sufficient I guess my disappearance would have been a lot harder to stomach.

One morning Richard Brand failed to turn up for work and abruptly stopped paying his bills. His sparsely furnished flat was abandoned, his birth certificate and other documents were tucked in the bedside drawer where they were usually kept and there were ample provisions in the fridge, but he had apparently vanished off the face of the Earth. The only clue to his whereabouts was his arrangement with an elderly neighbour to take in Cheesy, his cat, because he said he was going away for a while and he had no idea how long it would be before he got back. I guess the police wondered what had happened to Richard's money. Perhaps they thought he had been robbed and murdered or that he had committed suicide in some isolated location where his body was unlikely to be found – I didn't know and I didn't care. All I knew was that Richard Brand suddenly and permanently ceased to be, but JJ Adams was alive and well and he was a busy, focused and deeply contented man.

It took about six weeks to complete my great metamorphosis. Before I moved into my new house I shaved my head, which broke my heart because I had often been told that my long, slightly curly hair was my crowning glory. I had worn my hair almost down to my waist since I was a teenager, but as a fugitive from justice I couldn't afford to display any unusual features that might stick in peoples' minds. I grew a sparse, rather unspectacular beard, something that I hadn't attempted since my mid-twenties because it put a good ten years on me, and the flecks of grey that infused it since its last incarnation enhanced the ageing effect.

I kitted myself out with a selection of plain suits and bland, colourless casual clothing that I didn't at all like as I put together my new image. The old me was a dedicated jeans and t shirt man with a love of bright, clashing colours and loud pullovers, but I needed to blend into the background as much as possible and I couldn't afford to wear anything that might attract attention. Finally I replaced my contact lenses with what the fashion conscious would no doubt describe as oversized, dated looking specs with tinted lenses and at last the transformation was complete - I was a completely different person, and if my mother was still alive I reckon she would have struggled to recognise me.

*************************

Soon I was ready to sniff out victim number two. Maybe 'victim' is the wrong word, but I couldn't settle on a suitable alternative apart from 'the suspect.' or 'the accused.' “What about 'the lying cunt?'” I mused. “That has a certain ring to it.”

I bought myself a little car to get around in, a bog standard blue Skoda that looked as anonymous as I did, and I started staking out the smart looking council house where Keera Pratt lived with her doting mother. During office hours I could sit and watch unnoticed as long as necessary, because just over the road was a busy car park serving the local shops and the health centre. It took a while to catch my old colleague in alone, because as Keera once let slip her mother was a home bird and apart from an occasional bus ride into town to do a bit of shopping or play bingo she rarely went out. On the fifth day of my stakeout Keera climbed out of her car just as her mother was leaving the house. It was about half two, which told me that she had just finished a morning shift at Banbury View. I was close enough to hear every word of the conversation.....

“Yo, mo,” Keera said. “Where are you off to?”

“I'm just popping into town, love,” the old lady replied. “I should be back within the hour. I would have gone earlier, but I've been busy with the new cushions I'm making.”

“I'll give you a lift.”

“No no,” the old lady replied. “You've just got in from a hard day's work, flower, you stay here and chill out. I have a bus pass that doesn't cost anything - I'm a pensioner, remember?”

“That's what I like to see,” I whispered, “a sweet old lady who leaves her precious little flower unattended once in a while allowing the lying cunt specialist to pop in and do a little pruning.”

A few minutes later I was knocking on the door with a fake British Gas identity tag fastened to my regulation overalls, a clipboard tucked under my arm and a large toolbox at my feet. “Your neighbour has reported a strong smell of gas, love,” I said. “I can't find any trace of a leak in her house or the one on the far side, so I need to check your boiler and your cooker if it's a gas appliance – it shouldn't take more than five or ten minutes.”

“Right, come on in then,” Keera said, barely looking at me. “The kitchen is straight down the hall.” She traipsed back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa in front of the TV, holding on tightly to her chocolate digestives. I had been worrying about whether I ought to try to disguise my voice, and after listening to the practise runs I recorded on my phone I decided that it wasn't such a good idea because even my most carefully considered voices sounded like a bunch of drunken Scotsmen. Obviously I made the right decision because Keira didn't recognise me, she didn't know me from Adam.

Once I was out of view in the kitchen I began to don my protective gear. I slipped on a white disposable overall, stretched the flimsy elastic of a face mask over my head and replaced my own specs with a pair of safety glasses. I hesitated for a second, wondering if I should use the plastic shoe covers that I'd brought along, deciding that it would be wise because this was going to be a messy job. Finally I put on a pair of latex gloves, and then I was ready to play. I opened the cupboards under the sink, pulled something that looked like a geiger counter from my toolbox and called Keera in.

“I'm sorry to disturb you ma'am, but I need your help for a moment. There is a leak in here somewhere, and quite a bad one according to the meter, but I can't quite figure out where the source is. I've checked the boiler and the cooker and they're fine, which leaves the main pipe running at the back of your kitchen units. Would you be kind enough to hold the torch for me and shine it in the cupboard while I take a closer look? You'll have to aim the beam right into the bottom corner where the pipe is, and you'll probably have to rearrange the stuff in there a little. Oh, I'm so sorry - I clean forgot to explain the protective gear I'm wearing, I look like one of those US government officials that kidnapped ET..... It's our new Health and Safety regulations, I'm afraid. One of our technicians had a boiler explode in his face last year, blinding him instantly and causing serious burns, which cost the company a bloody fortune in compensation. From now on they've decided to give risks of all descriptions zero tolerance. It's way over the top if you ask me, but what can you do? Rules are rules.....”

Keera knelt down, aimed the beam of the torch I handed her into the cupboard and started moving bottles of bleach and detergent, granting me an unwelcome view of her fat, shapeless arse, an arse that reminded me of a particularly lumpy sack of potatoes. My fingers almost closed on a large screwdriver that would have been perfect for piercing her ribcage, but as soon as my eyes alighted on the raised tessellations of her lower spine that peeked out between the bottom of her t shirt and the waistband of her jeans I changed my mind. “Is that OK?” she said.

“That's perfect, m'dear,” I replied. “Stay right there a tic while I select the right tool for the job.” I believe she was about to say something else, but the beautifully polished blade of the axe that I severed her lower spine with simultaneously derailed her train of thought and she clean forgot about it.

“Nnnnngh,” she grunted, tumbling unceremoniously to the floor.

“Got a short memory, haven't you Pratty?” I said as I watched her spastic wriggling. “Or else you don't recognise me. I can't see why, it hasn't been all that long since we parted company in rather unpleasant circumstances. Don't try to scream, or I'll make what's left of your life very unpleasant indeed.” She tried to drag herself towards the back door, wobbling from left to right like a crippled sea lion and uttering a series of comical gasps like an over-theatrical female tennis player, but her lower limbs were no longer capable of responding to the signals from her brain and her arms weren't strong enough to take her enormous bulk very far. I gently pushed Keera over onto her back so that I could look into her eyes, and she emitted a low moan of pain. “I'm sorry about the discomfort,” I continued. “I don't really enjoy causing pain, or I'd make your demise a lot slower and nastier than this. Heavens, you deserve it because you caused me enough pain, you lying fucking bitch.”

“Who..... who are you?”

“Oh come on,” I said. “The disguise isn't that good. My name is Richard Brand. Or it was..... I need to ask you something, and if you fail to reply to my satisfaction I'll hurt you badly for a long, long time. I'll hurt your dear old mother too if she comes home before I'm done, and we don't want that, do we? Now tell me, why did you tell those glaring lies about me when you know very well it was you who said I wanted to shag the living shit out of Meena? Why, Pratty, what was in it for you, what did Donna offer you in return? Hmmm? I suspect she offered you a free pass to her fried egg tits and dried-up old pussy and you did it out of misplaced love, but I'm not entirely sure however much I reflect on it and I'm not going to stop hurting you until you enlighten me.”

“Nooooo,” she mumbled. “That's not true, Richie. I didn't say anything about you, honestly I didn't. Donna pleaded me to but I refused to do it – she must have got someone else to lie for her. Please don't hurt me any more.....” I rolled her onto her side and pushed the blade of the screwdriver deep into the cleft in her spine, jiggling it sharply back and forth as I covered her mouth with the palm of my hand to muffle her screams.

“In, out, in, out and wiggle it about. You do the hokey-cokey and you turn around, that's what it's all a-BOUT!” Keera closed her eyes tightly as I rolled her onto her back once more; she was groaning piteously, but her performance failed to pull on my jaded heartstrings and I doubt if it would have won her an Oscar.

I took the lying cunt's ensuing silence as a stubborn refusal to give me a truthful answer (or an answer of any description, come to think of it), so I lifted the axe and brought it down sharply on her outstretched hand, severing three of her fingers and the very tip of the pinky, which hung on desperately by a tiny thread. She screamed even louder then, but I was ready for her, stifling the atrocious racket by stuffing a tea towel in her gaping mouth. I lifted the maimed hand up so that she could absorb the enormity of the situation. “Rest in pieces,” I chuckled. “Tell me what I want to know, poison ivy, or the pain will get a whole lot worse before it's over. I was going to carry on singing the Hokey-cokey, but I didn't want you to get bored with the show; this is supposed to be a variety performance, after all.

Look, Pratty, I'm a brutally expedient rather than a naturally cruel man, believe it or not. I'm not enjoying this butchery at all, but I'm prepared to get even more vicious if necessary. Call me a psycho if you like, but I'll cut your stupid fat face off to the bone one slice at a time and make you eat it – mind you, you might enjoy that, you greedy fuck. I'll make you watch the whole grisly process in a mirror if I have to, because the truth is much more important to me than your miserable life or how sweetly or otherwise it ends.

If you tell me the truth I'll let you live, I promise. I don't see why not..... Richard Brand is missing presumed dead, and even if you summon up the courage to reveal my identity to the pigs I've covered my tracks pretty damn well and I'm confident that they haven't got a cat's chance in hell of catching me. But if you do grass me up I'll find you and kill you. I've only got two cheeks, and you've already slapped the shit out of one of them. Do you understand? Are you sure? Are you ready to talk now?” She nodded swiftly, so I pulled the tea towel out of her mouth.

“Donna and I were having an affair,” Keira sobbed. “It's no secret that I'm a lesbian, but it was just a wild, passing fling for Donna and she didn't want anyone to know in case it got back to her husband. We had an open relationship at first, but I slowly fell in love with her. That's the story of my life, falling for the most unsuitable people.....

Donna told me what happened when she made a pass at you. She never stopped moaning about her rejection, and she swore that she'd get revenge on you one way or another. She knew I loved her, that I'd do anything for her because I told her so enough times, so when she said she expected me to back up her story I agreed. It was foolish and horrible and unfair, but I did it anyway because I loved her to bits. I'm so sorry. I assume it was you who killed her - well she bloody well deserved it. Now please call me ambulance. I won't mention your name, honestly, I'll say it was a stranger, I'll say anything you want. Please don't kill me.”

“Thanks for the information,” I said, trying to ignore Keera's pitiful wailing. “It's most kind of you to be honest, and I feel a whole lot better now I know the truth. Night night, Pratty, you lying cunt. Sleep tight. And don't let the bed bugs bite.” Then I brought the axe down very hard indeed on her forehead. The result was extremely messy, but apart from a few specks of blood on my cheeks that I washed off immediately I was fully protected. Pratty died more or less instantly, and her pain and deception and barefaced lies were over for good.

I placed the open toolbox and its contents between her splayed thighs, making sure I hadn't missed any of my tools in the excitement. With some difficulty I lifted her huge tree trunk legs and kicked the toolbox half under her expansive buttocks to raise her off the ground a little, then I placed a rectangular stainless steel bin from the living room under her shoulders. “Perfect,” I said. Hopefully the flames would travel under the blubbery bitch and destroy as much evidence as possible. I stripped off my outer clothing and dumped it on top of Pratty's still twitching corpse, doused her with half a gallon of petrol from the garage and as an afterthought I arranged a number of highly flammable items on top of her to feed the flames, including a half full plastic recycle bin. I opened the kitchen window a touch to make sure there was sufficient oxygen, struck a match from the box by the cooker and started a nice, warming fire. Finally, as another afterthought I set fire to the living room in several places, flung my remaining protective gear onto the blazing sofa and let myself out of the front door, careful to cover my hands with my sleeves so as not to leave any incriminating prints. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.