Peter – Chapter 8

He sat for a long time in the darkness of the little pathway. It was still and quiet, now and again a car on the main road would assault the silence or a night-bird would cry into the gloom. He thought of the girl resting now. He knew that what he had done was right, she would no longer have to sell herself, there was no more need for the sordid things that she had done, the dirty scrabbling in alleyways with perverts and scumbags.
Why the client had wanted her cleaned up didn’t really matter. He didn’t think about it very often, they contacted him through the network and told him the name, the location and provided a photograph, it was all he needed to know. That they were all prostitutes was important, they were the ones who needed his help. There were drug addicts, thieves, drunks and adulterers but they weren’t his concern, it was the ones like his mother that he had to help. To atone for his crime. When Gran had taken him away he had been very young, but later, when he was a teenager, when he was old enough to understand, she had come to him.
Tears fell on his hands where they lay on his lap, he could still hear her pleading with him to help.
“You talk to her Peter, she listens to you. She’ll help me if you ask her to; just tell her I’ve got nowhere to go. I’ve got no money Peter.” He was selfish though, he wanted Gran to himself, he understood that now, he knew his feelings had been wrong, he had let the memory of neglect from his childhood harden his heart.
“No, I can’t ask her, she said I shouldn’t talk to you.” It was a lie, a dreadful lie, Gran had been searching trying to find her, of course she would have helped. Her heart was as big as the planet she would have taken her daughter back and made a space in their lives for her. It was him, he didn’t want her there, his life was clean and safe, his home was warm and he didn’t want to risk her sullying it.
He’d watched her walk away, her shoulders slumped, if he closed his eyes now in the darkness of his car he could conjure up the picture of her, skinny legs in tight pants, her hair dyed too often hanging like woollen strands over her bony back. She had trailed away up the street, he knew she was crying. He could have stopped her then, brought her in, saved her life but he didn’t he just watched her go and held the knowledge of her situation locked away. Three weeks later she was dead, drugged, debauched and ruined lying in the squat.
When the police had come they asked for someone to identify the body. Gran hadn’t wanted him to go but he had insisted, cried and pleaded and in the end he had gone. He expected to feel some sort of justification for what he’d done. He thought that the sight of her would expunge the residual guilt.
They had her in the hospital, not at the morgue; she was lying in a chapel. There were flowers, and soft music. It was inter denominational and he remembered wondering if the deities minded sharing space, it was a strange thought conjured from fear while they waited in the ante room. His mother though, he wasn’t prepared for his mother. They had dressed her in a white gown with long sleeves, they had combed her hair and someone had tied it back with a white ribbon. A sheet covered most of her wasted body but her hands were crossed at her waist. She had been a catholic and someone had wound a rosary between the clasped fingers. She looked Angelic, absolutely at peace and more beautiful than she had ever been in life. Her long lashes brushed pale cheeks and her lips, though cold and stiff as he kissed them were almost smiling.
The knowledge of what it all meant was some time in becoming clear but when it did he had felt so much more whole than ever in his life. He understood without any doubt that though he had let his mother down, turned her away in sadness, he could help other girls in the same situation, he could find them the same peace.
The first time had gone badly he hadn’t planned it right. He had found a girl at random and she hadn’t realised that he was helping her, had fought with him and made it violent. It had been very difficult. He had planned the mechanics of it, the knife, such a cleansing weapon. The location, far away from the lights of the town centre, in the back of the park and the disposal. That had worked out well he was confident  the parts of her would never be found, the car was destroyed so very completely, the great jaws of the crusher turning it into a small square of scrap metal and her deep inside wrapped in plastic in the boot. He had been dissatisfied though it wasn’t how he wanted them to end up, they needed a burial, a place to sleep, and that was when he had thought about the graveyards.

Beautiful Anarchy

Okay, so the last two days have been spent driving back to the house.  It’s about seven weeks since we were last here.  It was as things were beginning to recover from the unusually cold winter.

Now, they have recovered -

Oh boy have they recovered

Semi chaotic but actually really rather lovely, I don’t think I’ll do too much with this for the time being.

Well, I will get back to Peter and his dreadful deeds in the next couple of days but in the meantime, the garden needs me!!!!

 

 

 

Poppies, I sowed some field poppy seeds two years ago and they have naturalised beautifully and now are popping up everywhere.

Peter – Chapter 7

It is so logical, so very obvious that he wonders how it can be that other people haven’t seen the sense.  Then again maybe they have, perhaps it is that graveyards all over the country are home to the disappeared, the lost and the disposed of.  The place that he was heading to is old, very old indeed.  The stones are ancient, many of them so worn by time and weather that the names are unreadable.  He likes them, these old fields of the dead.  They speak to his soul, the end of life when it’s all cleaned up, when all the badness is finished and everyone is equal.

When his mum had died in that horrible way everyone assumed that she would be cremated, they shook their heads at him when he insisted that they open up the old family grave and lower her down on top of her own father and her grandparents.  It’s nothing special, where she is,  it’s a great city cemetery, a few trees and well mown lawns but no real atmosphere.  He prefers the old ones, Yew trees and dark corners, the graves of young wives and plague victims, the fallen soldiers, the sailors. He has photographs, lots of them.  Photographs of the old stones and the towering crosses, the weeping seraphs and the draped flags.

Of course he would have been interested anyway but now, with this work that he does it has proved to be so very useful.  Many of the old tombs, the ones of the wealthy, the alter tombs are damaged now, they’re made from sandstone and the years have punished them.  It’s ideal, if there is a body to be disposed of then a graveyard is the most obvious place to hide it.  It’s more than that though.  He cares about these women, life has led them astray, he has saved them from their wickedness and so now he likes to think that he leaves them sleeping peacefully.  After all the old families are long gone,  finished, and it’s philanthropic to share their resting places with these fallen angels.

It takes several hours driving but the night is friendly to him, rain is coming and he hopes that it has already arrived at the kill site, is already expunging any residual evidence near the warehouse but for the moment the dry roads and more importantly the dry churchyard suit him better.

He turns into the little village, as he had known it would be it’s sleeping now on this ordinary night.  The lights are out in most of the twee, cute houses and the only movement is the odd feral cat and leaf  litter blowing along the gutters. He drives quietly around, passing the church twice.  There’s no sign of anyone, no homeless old men slumped against the wall with bottles of cider to ease their dreams, no gangs of youths with splifs or even stronger stuff.  This isn’t that sort of place, this is a quiet, refined place.  She’s lucky to be coming here, would never have been able to stay here in life, he smiles at his kindness, at least in death she has some dignity, some “class”.

The car slides into a little back lane between two stone walls.  He pulls on his hat and gloves, the overalls are in the back, wrapped in the parcel, but he doesn’t need them now, they will never search here, a little spurt of a laugh escapes his throat.  They will never look for a body in a graveyard, they don’t have the imagination and anyway it’s miles and miles from where she was last seen.

He hefts the stiff plastic roll lifting it fairly easily and resting it on his shoulder, part embrace part baggage removal.  He walks as quickly as possible the few steps to the side gate, there he has to toss her to the ground, he can’t negotiate the small space encumbered as he is.  She lands with a dull thud but the wrapping holds, there’s no leakage, no errant limbs, he’s satisfied with the packing job.  The grave is far into the cemetery, down in the oldest part, beside the church walls, hidden by the overgrown trees and the cenotaphs and mausoleums.

The sides were crumbling

The sides are crumbling but he had wedged the old stones in some weeks ago, he didn’t want anyone getting an idea that this should be repaired and he knew, according to sod’s law that’s just the sort of thing that happens.  No, it was as he had left it on his last visit.  He opens up the space and places the broken pieces neatly beside the grave.  He lines up the mummy, head facing towards the furthest end, stiff as a board in the plastic wrap.  He opens his backpack, inside there is a tiny bunch of flowers, cheap things, from the supermarket, white daisies in plastic.  He places them on her breast, kissing them first, now there are tears flowing freely down his face.  He is so happy, so pleased that he has been able to rescue her from the life that fate had chosen.

Now he performs the final act, sliding the stiff parcel easily on the grass he inserts her into the space, he rocks her from side to side, pushing her on the small gravel he had shovelled into the tomb weeks ago, nobody had bothered him, assumed he belonged, was carrying out maintenance.  He pushes her in as far as he can reach.  He is laying now full length on the damp grass and he whispers a goodbye.  He would have liked to use her own language but he doesn’t actually know where she’s from.

It’s done, he draws himself to his knees and stands, pausing for a moment, head bowed for a final salute before he rebuilds the tumbled sides of the tomb.  Making his way back to the car he shakes the soil and bits of stone from his gloves, dusts the front of his trousers and congratulates himself on a good night’s work.

Peter – Chapter 6

The front door of the pub was brightly lit with punters swaggering in and out, she smiled at them.  Their reaction to her depended on the makeup of the group, gangs of youths would generally come back with course comments, lewd jokes and laughter.  Couples would scurry past, wanting her to become invisible, not willing to let her into their pleasant evening, a scab on their romance.  Single blokes were occasionally kind and would spare her a quick smile and a shake of the head.  Then there were the others the single men who would stop, glance around and if they were unobserved would question her, “How much dahlin’.  What are ya offerin’.”

“Twenty five here.  I can go with you though.”

“Don’t you have a place?”  She would shake her head when they asked her that.  She didn’t even have a place to lay her head that was hers and hers alone, how could she have a place to take them.  They didn’t understand, most of them didn’t care, it was a momentary temptation but the thought of dirty sex in an alley beside the pub appealed to so very few and they’d sneer at her and return to their quest for alcohol and football.

It was no way for anyone to live.  He was warmed by the thought that he would take her away from it all.  He would end her need to sell her body, finish this sordid, sad, unseemly existence.  She wouldn’t end up like his mum, drunk and drugged spending her last moments choking on her own vomit in a grimy squat.  No, he would save this girl.  It was what made it all worthwhile, the planning, the danger and the horror of it all.  The money was useful, the money made his gran comfortable but even if there was no payment he knew that this would have been his life’s work.  He was their saviour, the avenging angel for these shades in their doorways.

She came to him easily as he had known she would. He called to her quietly, “In the alley sweetheart, over here.” She twisted her head towards the sound of his voice, her eyes were wary but lit with a glimmer of hope.  He was smoking a cigarette and as he sucked on it the red glimmer at the end drew her in, a moth to his flame.  She came to him softly, her heels stuttered a little on the dark paving.  She hutched the little bag higher on her shoulder, the chain handle glinted in the street lamp.  “’Ello, where are you.  I can’t see you.”

“Here in the alley, over here, come on.  I don’t want my mates to see me.”  She laughed a little.

“Oh so, shy boy, you yes?”

“That’s it, will you come to my car.  I don’t want to do it in an alley.  I’ll pay you extra.”  She shrugged, it wasn’t an unusual request, it was warmer in a car anyway, more comfortable and if he had a car then he would probably have some money.

“Yes, is okay.  Where is car, it is in car park, here by the pub?”

“No, it’s over here, a bit away.  Come on I’ll walk you there.”  By now she had come alongside him but in the dark she saw only the light of his face and the glow of the cigarette as he handed it to her, let her take a drag.   His arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her close, she struggled a little, trying to pull away, trying to keep control until she could see him properly.

“Aw come on love it’s not far.”  He used the pressure from his encircling arm to drive her forward, she was willing but some sixth sense had tensed her body, he knew he had to be quick, to keep her moving on.  “Come on dahlin’ get a move on, You’ve got me hot.  How much do you charge?”

“In your car I charge more, in your car is thirty pounds.”

“Okay, great.”  By now he had her moving forward at a fair pace.  He kept slightly behind her pushing her ahead.  She tried to turn and look at him but he moved her faster.  Now they were nearing the car, he pointed ahead.  “There, that car there. Okay.”

She nodded and scuttled on, she felt him tense beside her, he would be quick, was already excited.”  She grinned to herself, maybe her luck was in, it could be over quickly and then he might walk her back to the pub.  It was dark here and she didn’t fancy being on her own.  “You walk me back after, yes?”

“Yes, I’ll look after you afterwards, don’t you worry.”

With the reassurance she relaxed a little, took longer strides and covered the distance to the car in a minute or so.  She turned to him, leaning back against the metal.  She started to slide her skirt up over skinny thighs.

At first the reality didn’t register, that there was something wrong connected with a subconscious part of her brain but for a moment it was simply a deep feeling of animal fear.  Then she saw the glint of the blade, the sight of it followed so very quickly with the flood of warm fluid on her belly informed her on a subliminal level and brought forth the knowledge and with that came brief pain.

He had been quick though, merciful.  He was surprisingly strong, the stringy muscles flexed and tensed as he dragged the knife across her stomach.  There was a gush of blood and he sprung back away from the flood.  He lowered her gently, sliding her dying body down the smooth metal of the car side, he cut again twice, slicing through the aorta, speeding the thing along.  “Hush now, hush, soon be over, don’t be afraid nearly done.”

Her fear filled eyes bulged with tears for a moment but it didn’t last long, the light in them faded quickly and she was gone.  It had been clean and easy and now the real work began.  He stored away the smell of blood and the sight of her panicked face.  He would recall them later, when the rest of the business was finished.  He knew that he could close his eyes and bring it all back and then, safe in his room he would take the pleasure from it.

For now though he worked smoothly, professionally, the boot lid popped open and he reached inside.  First he took out a great roll of catering weight cling film.  He knelt behind her the roll in his right hand.  He kept away from most of the blood, propped her against his knees and then starting at her head he began to roll it round and round the body, as the flesh was firmed by the enrobing of plastic film it became easier to handle, she was thin and small and by the time he reached her legs she had become a firm cylinder, he could move her without too much trouble.  The arms had crossed over the torso a little as he wrapped and rolled the plastic, her face was twisted and distorted by the pressure, the nose pressed sideways towards the flattened cheeks.  It took three rolls to encompass the whole body.  He had wrapped her bag into the parcel and he included the shoes, forcing them back onto her feet from where they had fallen.  Everything was inside the package now and he hoisted it easily into the boot, the polythene was already spread and he wrapped it around her folding and tucking.  Because of the amount of blood on her top half he had wrapped many layers around her upper body and the film was almost opaque with just a glint of pink in the creases.  Round her lower parts the wrapping was thinner and the legs had only enough wrap to keep them together, part of the whole and to make it easier later.  He took a moment, breathed deeply, it had gone well.

He reach over the top of her and grabbed the fifty litre container of liquid, as he splashed it out into the gutter the smell of bleach wafted to him.  He used the flow of the water to usher the pink fluid towards the drain.  He had parked near to the grid and the sound of the tinkling water evidenced the first part of the cleaning exercise.  Once the gutter was sluiced he released the hand brake and pushed the car forward.  The big torch made a bright cone of light and he didn’t want to use it for long but he had to check round quickly.  It was unlikely that anyone would search here but there was no point taking chances.  He was sure he’d been quick, she hadn’t had a chance to drop anything and he was still covered completely with his overalls.

As sure as he could be that there was nothing left he ripped off the overalls and overshoes.  He wrapped them together with the clingfilm before tucking them inside the polythene with the girl.  He climbed into the car and started the engine, slowly he drew away, first gear, at hearse speed he bore her away, his cling wrapped victim, stowed in the boot.  He had checked the weather forecast before finally deciding on tonight, there would be rain before morning, by the time they began to search, if they ever did, then nature would have finished the job completely, there would be no evidence of her, no reminder of her brief terror.  Now though he had the rest to do and he needed to move, there were many miles to cover and he had to be finished while it was still dark.

Peter – Chapter 5

The overshoes slipped into his pocket, they would look odd if anyone saw him on the way.  He had quite a walk ahead.  Public transport was out of the question and his car was already there, hidden in a dark place.  It was a nondescript vehicle, grey, not old and not new it wouldn’t have registered with anyone.  If it had, if someone had noticed it standing there since yesterday evening then it didn’t matter, the number plate was a fake.

He had watched the area for three weeks, in all that time he had never seen the police, no traffic wardens, the refuse collectors didn’t even go back there.  It was a small back road near some old storage warehouses.  The car was parked at the kerb outside one of the smaller ones.  He had seen that people came and went but nobody stayed long.  It was some sort of storage facility and so people popping in and out would be involved with their own business.  A  workshop would have been no good, smokers would hang around the outsides and notice the car parked there for such a long time but this place was almost perfect, quick visitors with other things on their minds and no security.  It was the little things that made the difference, the details.  The car boot was already lined with plastic and there were bottles of fluids and the other equipment for what he needed to do afterwards.

The night was calm, a pretty moon beamed in a little circle of sky, it was cool and friendly and he enjoyed the fast walk.  He made his way to the main road but didn’t stay on it for long.  The bright shop windows and the floods of light from the fast food places would make it too easy to be seen.  He ducked down a side road and then after a few yards turned left and stepped briskly along parallel to the main drag.

The part of town that he was heading for would be washed with sodium glare but that was unavoidable.  He could handle that though, it was factored into the plan.  As he sped past the little terraced houses he didn’t muse about the lives hidden behind the dim windows, it was the sort of place he came from, the habitat of people like Gran and him when he was small.  Little rooms, little gardens, little lives.  Just ahead a door swung inwards spilling the hum of a television programme into the road.  He slowed his movement, not stopping, simply adjusting the speed, giving himself time to take stock and decide on any action.  An old bloke in baggy trousers, a sleeveless vest  and carpet slippers shuffled out through the door way.  A fag-end glowed as he sucked on the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, the scent of tobacco wafted back to where Peter leaned against the low wall.  Bending as if to tie a shoe lace, he was practically invisible in the gloom but every sense was humming, he musn’t be seen, he was too near the killing ground.  The old bloke shuffled down the tiny path and heaved at the lid of a wheelie bin parked against the inside of the garden wall.  He puffed and swore as he struggled with the heavy plastic cover. It flipped back with a thud and he tossed the white rubbish bag inside.  “Buggering thing, bloody great soddin’ thing.”  He dragged the lid back in place and with the curses still hovering in the darkness he staggered back to his empty evening staring at the flashing screen.  The door slammed and Peter straightened, glanced left and right and then resumed his trek.  He needed to move faster now, only a minute or two had been lost but he had to be in place in time

That she was punctual to her spot outside the pub wasn’t really a surprise.  She was bussed in with the other girls, he didn’t know where from.  He didn’t need to know where she spent her days, it wasn’t relevant.  Extraneous information was a complication he avoided.  How these lives were spent didn’t matter to him, it wasn’t the life that was important, it was the ending of it and the cleaning up afterwards.  That’s all he needed to think about.  At first he had wondered a bit, wondered if the bosses ever dropped the girls off with a tiny spark of regret, but then why would they he never told them when he would be working.  Once the money was paid in full he did the job.  He was reliable and had never let anyone down and so they did as he asked, stuck to the usual routines and then asked no questions, made no fuss when the cargo home in the morning was one light.

He was almost there, the spot he had chosen was near enough to see and hear the subject but he knew that in his dark clothes he would be unseen.  He slipped the overshoes on, slid the knife from the customised pocket inside his overalls and went to work.

Grinning from ear to ear

Just a quick post to say that today I received my first ever Royalty Payment from Amazon.  I knew it would be coming soon but to see it actually there in writing is brilliant.  It’s not for that much but oh boy does it feel good.  Thanks to anyone out there who bought any of my books – great big hugs all round

Peter – Chapter 4

It was time, he stretched and made his way in the gloom towards the bathroom, the airing cupboard was across the corner and up in the very top on a wooden shelf was a nylon carry all.  Carefully, using both hands he reached it down.  He didn’t check it, he had put it away himself and knew what was inside.

He took it with him to the kitchen, turned on the tap and left it to run until the water was as cold as it was going to get.  He filled a pint glass to the brim and drained it in two great gulps.  The glass slammed against the work top as he put it down.  He tipped his head to one side and stretched his right hand out in front of him.  He had wondered, for a moment if the slamming glass was a sign of tremor, nerves, but he grinned a little looking at his hand, steady and still, the fingers spread wide in front of him.

He wasn’t nervous, he was dead inside.  He had trained himself, this was what it was about, this deadness.  This ability he had developed for a total lack of feeling was strangely the buzz.

The first time he had been nervous, he hadn’t meant to do it the first time.

When he mused on the way that it happened, and he did think about it, he thought about them all, often.  What was the point otherwise.  He had lost his temper though that first time, he had become involved, argued and fought and then at the end he had been spent and panicked.  He realised now that it could have been his downfall.  The lack of discipline could have led to disaster but he had learnt quickly.  Now he kept the passion closely controlled and he knew he wouldn’t feel it until much, much later.  When it was all over and he was back in the flat, then he would feel it, then he would be consumed by it, he shuddered in anticipation.

He always planned now and researched, no matter how long it took.  He thought it all through first and that was why he was so good.  Being so good was why he was in demand.

The Russians, the first ones who had employed him, had been very impressed by the cleanliness of his work, they had recommended him to the others and so now he was the first one they contacted when there was some cleaning up to be done. It was funny really because they still didn’t know that the mess of the first time had been one of theirs.  They would never find out, not now.  Nobody would ever find out.

Of course he acknowledged that, he would probably have carried on anyway, on his own just for the pure, amazing feel of it.  The supreme control and the power.  After he had felt that, there had never been any way back. The money, the kudos and all the rest of it were a bonus, a huge, unbelievable freaking bonus.

He dragged the door closed quietly and made his way down the stairs, he didn’t use the front door but left via the back door into the alley way.  Down to the end of the road, left at the corner and across a small piece of spare ground, walking swift and surefooted over familiar ground.

The little row of lock up garages were in darkness as he had known they would be, they were fairly unpleasant places in the full light of day but now they were beyond grim.  Seedy, dirty and dark they weren’t where good people would go at night, not nice people, not The Swaggerers and The Workers, no only the people of the dark, the night stalkers, only they would risk these places.

He removed the padlock from the small side door to his lock up and slid inside.  The windows were covered with heavy black plastic sheets and not a glimmer of light showed, he knew, he was thorough, his work was clean.

He placed the bag on the small table in the centre of the cold space.  The sound of the zipper filled the silence.  He drew out an all in one nylon overall, gloves and overshoes, a woollen hat to pull over his hair.  He didn’t cover his face, if he was seen in this outfit he could be taken for a workman returning late, but he didn’t expect to be seen.  He never had been before.  That wasn’t strictly true, one person would see him tonight, just one.

Peter – Chapter 3

His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and regular but he didn’t sleep.  In the dim room, curtains drawn over the windows, no lights, Peter listened to the passage of time.  He heard the kids, coming home from school.  First there were the car doors, the mumble of engines and creak of hand brakes.  Then the yelling and bawling, the little kids, the ones who hadn’t learnt that you don’t really get what you want by yelling.  You think you do but in the end it’s all fake, yes another packet of sweets, maybe ten minutes more television but at the end of the day there’s payback.

“Be good now Peter, go and play in your room.  If you’re good you can watch Woody Woodpecker tomorrow.  There’s a man coming and I need you to be good Peter, don’t come into the living room, stay in your room. 

I’m going to the pub with Uncle Martin, be good and stay in bed and I’ll take you to Mac Donalds tomorrow.  Just leave me alone Peter I’ve got a headache, I need to take these pills and have a lie down, be quiet.” 

A while after what he thought of as The Whiners, there came The Swaggerers, the older kids, full of themselves, boys and girls alike.  Swinging bags, screaming at each other, yelling into mobile phones, slamming the house doors.  Then last of all The Workers, more cars sweeping into drives and the front doors slamming.  At most of the houses around that was it, all in their boxes for the night.  Some of the younger couples may go out later but not often during the week.  No, once The Workers were home the little road slumbered.

The front door of his own dwelling slammed, then the entrance to the flat downstairs opened, he heard the woman’s key in the lock and then the chatter to her cat, “Hello Smudgy, it’s Mummy, have you been a good Smudgy.  Do you want your tea then, just let me in tiddles.”  Then the slam and the snap as she locked herself inside.

There wasn’t any sound proofing to speak of and he could hear her kettle whistle, the scrape of pans on the stove top, he could even hear the toilet flush.  It jangled his nerves.  His knuckles were white against the dark wood of the chair arm.  His breathing shallow now, eyes flickering under the closed lids, other people were torture to him, other beings were an assault on his senses.  He often wished her dead Mrs Jackson, Smudgy’s mummy.  It wouldn’t help though, if she wasn’t there then someone else would be.

He could move out of course, he could take some of the envelopes and move away from here.  He could have a place of his own, totally his own.  If it was only a question of himself or of money he could do that but it wasn’t was it.  There was Gran, her care was expensive, hugely expensive.  He owed it to her, as long as it took he owed her.  She had rescued him, from the Uncles and the pills and the long, long nights locked in the little bedroom listening to the scary noises.  She had come in from out of nowhere, without a word she had packed his things, his clothes, his cars and his teddy.  She had grabbed his hand, led him quietly past his mum and out of the door.

He owed her everything and he wouldn’t let her down, never.

Apart from that he needed to be unseen, he had to be anonymous, an also ran, one of the no marks. That was the only way that he could work.  He knew that it had to be this way for now.  Later, when Gran had gone; the thought brought tears into his throat, a great choking lump, it couldn’t be long now but he still couldn’t bear it.  Later, after that maybe then he would move away, start up somewhere else, a different  way of doing business but for now this was how it would be.

As he sat in the old chair the room darkened and the streetlight turned on, glowing through the thin cotton and bathing the room with a strange underwater expression.  He pushed himself up from the chair, stowed the smoking paraphernalia and stepped through to the bedroom.  There was work to do, he had to be ready, a couple of hours he needed.  It was a local job, he was glad of that.  The last one was down on the coast, he’d had to drive all night to be back before daylight.  He’d had to use the car, he hated that but it had paid well.  Tonight though it would be easy, a couple of hours and then back to the flat.  Another smoke and then blessed sleep, dreamland, out of it, out of it all, the whole rotten, stinking lot of it.

Peter – Chapter 2

The great old clock in the hall ticked away the seconds and now and again a slightly raised voice or clatter of crockery disturbed the quiet.  Generally though an air of peace and serenity prevailed, this was an exclusive establishment, well run and expensive.

Peter sat for long minutes stroking the papery skin. The bird like bones in his palm filled him with sadness. She had been so strong and vigorous, scary even when he was small and she had caught him out in some misdemeanour, tears flooded his eyes and he sniffed, raising the back of his hand to his cheek he swept the dribble aside.  He shifted once or twice on the little stool but apart from that he made no other move.

Now and again his gran’s eyes opened briefly and her gaze swung towards him.  Once the thin lips lifted in an almost smile, creasing the already deep wrinkles and causing the eyes to water with effort.

After two hours of silent vigil he uncurled to his full height.  He bent and kissed her just once on the sunken cheek.  “Tomorrow Gran, tomorrow as usual.”  With these few words he turned and retraced the route of earlier, through the French doors and back to the park.

He glanced left and right before turning to head for the main gates and the high street.  Eddie would be waiting for him by now and Steve, they could wait but not for too long.  They were stupid both of them and would soon begin to look suspicious and obvious even in the busy bustle of a weekday lunch time.

As he moved through the green space he was invisible, the few runners who passed him registered him not at all and the Mums and Grannies in the play- ground were too busy with their demanding charges to notice him.  He knew that if he were to stop in that particular area they would start to glance at him, nervous and suspicious.  A man on his own with no dog, no child and no jogging gear was regarded as a threat to their precious brats.  Stupid, stupid, if he had any ideas in that direction, and the thought nauseated him, he would simply get a mutt or a bike and merge with the other park users.

It took about twenty minute’s brisk walk to reach the main street and the hot smell of Mac Donalds.  Eddie was outside, scuffing his feet on the greasy flag stones and watching the school girls passing on their way to the Subway further up the road.

There was no conversation, Peter barely slowed his forward motion, as he passed Eddie reached out and slipped a brown package into his hand, it was the size of an A5 envelope and slightly bulky.  Peter didn’t bother to try and hide it, there was no need.  He knew that most people turned away from him, he was unsavoury and slightly threatening and nobody wanted to make eye contact.

As the figure drew away from him, Eddie let his knees relax slightly and leaned for a moment against the wall behind him.  He let go a gust of stale breath and then sliding the couple of notes from his palm and into his pocket he turned and followed the little group of girls towards the delights of low-fat sandwiches and pickles.  He enjoyed the bounce of their behinds in the tight black trousers and the swing of long blond hair as they giggled and pushed against each other.

Peter was long gone, heading to the railway station he spotted Steve pretending to read the timetable.  Idiot, he always did the same thing.  In time the staff would begin to wonder why this slightly dishevelled young man read the timetable so often but never boarded any of the trains.  On the one hand Peter felt that if he was such an idiot then he should be left to suffer the consequences but he knew he couldn’t trust any of his contacts to keep his name out of things.  No, it was time to act.

“Next week, by the church, main gate.”  He didn’t even glance at Steve and hardly slowed his step as his grabbed the brown package.  Steve nodded as he slipped the tiny bundle of money into his jeans pocket.

“Yeah.”  He turned and made off in the opposite direction, subconsciously putting as much space as he could in a short space of time between himself and Peter.

In his turn Peter made for the flat, he stopped at a Tesco Express to pick up some bits and pieces and was back home by mid-afternoon.  There was a large box at the back of the wardrobe, he dragged it forwards and slipped the two brown packages on top of several others already there.  He didn’t bother to check the contents, he knew what was inside.  He was confident that all was at it should be.  He drew the curtains across the grimy windows, took out his bong and had the first smoke of the day.  Back in his own space, safe in the heavy air of his flat he relaxed.  He would need to go out later but much, much later, when the brightness of the day had turned to night.

His time was when the giggling schoolgirls, the demanding toddlers, their harassed and anxious mothers and the joggers had all settled in front of their soap operas and nature programmes.  Then was when he would come alive, then and only then would he feel the pulse of his blood fizzing in his veins and the pound of his heart.  He slipped a piece of paper from between the pages of a paper back discarded on the coffee table.  Shame, she was a nice looking girl.  The thought flipped through his mind eliciting the same reaction as if he had seen a sparrow grabbed by a cat, it was fact, it was life, it was what made the world turn.

Peter

Peter pushed his head out from under the Duvet, everything seemed normal.  Of course that didn’t mean he could relax his guard.  For a moment he simply waited, small breathing, the movement of the bedding kept to a minimum.  Only his eyes moved, just the washed out, grey irises dilating and contracting in response to the alteration in the light level as he looked left to right and then swept back again.  Wardrobe, chest, shelf unit, chair, curtains.  Curtains, chair, shelf unit, chest, wardrobe.  He listened, ears on maximum, he could feel them stretching from the side of his head, reaching for sound, any sound.  It was quiet and still.  All was as it should be.

Thin pale legs slung from underneath the faded cotton cover as bony toes reached for the grimy green carpet.  He clutched the cover to his body and leant to the chair snagging the slightly grey boxers with a long finger.  Left foot, right foot, he tugged them over his heels and up to his skinny butt.  Only now could he let the cover go and push himself upright.  Flicking the thin quilt back over the night warmth of the mattress and sheet he scratched at the top of his leg.  Flakes of dry skin showered to the bedroom floor, infinitesimal parts of him floating downwards to join the dust and crumbs.

His jeans were almost clean and the shirt a nondescript, muddy beige never appeared clean even after the weekly wash, so why bother to wash it.  Anyway; this was only Tuesday and he’d visited the launderette as usual on Saturday, so how grubby could it be.  He kept the heating to minimum and consequently didn’t sweat much, well not from physical exertion anyway, not the gym sort.

He had slept in his t shirt, dressing was quick and easy.  He rubbed grimy hands through his hair and smoothed it forward.  There was a faint, soiled grease aroma on his hands but he didn’t notice, it was there most of the time and he was used to it.

The room was cold and the hallway outside even colder, he scuttled to the bathroom to pee.

The kitchen housed the water boiler and, as he entered, the rise in temperature wrapped him around, his muscles softened slightly.  The cereal bowl lay on the worktop, he had rinsed it yesterday and left it there with the spoon propped inside it.  The plates from the lunchtime sandwich and evening beans with toast were in the sink.  They could all be washed together this morning and if he ran extra into the kettle he could even wash them in warm water.  Why not, he could pour some bleach into the cups and move the tannin.  He grinned to himself, proper little Mr Goodwife wasn’t he.  For the moment his mood was light, the thought of a couple of chores didn’t get him down and the sun through the window would be warming as he stood by the sink.

The cornflakes and tea were consumed and it was time, he glanced at his cheap watch, yes, eight thirty, it was time.  He pushed his sockless feet into the battered trainers and slammed the door as he set off down the little front path.  Fortunately the ground floor flat had control of the little bit of grass and the couple of flower borders and so the house appeared relatively smart and well-kept.  He turned left at the gate and strode quickly towards the bus stop.  The number sixteen was on time but full as usual.  He stood near to the driver effectively blocking the entrance and exit for his fellow passengers.

“Plenty of room further down the bus mate.”  The driver was used to him and wasn’t the least bit surprised to be ignored.  What the hell, he wasn’t paid to get into dispute with scum like this scruffy looking individual.  Peter stared through the windscreen oblivious of the inconvenience he was causing.

Six stops and then he hopped off.  The driver opened the window of his cab, a breath of air swept through the vehicle, freshen it up a bit.

The path through the park wasn’t very busy, a couple of dog walkers, a jogger or two but it was a weekday and most people were at work or their studies.  He made his way to the shrubs at the end of the duck pond and then took the little desire-way through to the wall.  He stepped over the low stones into the grounds of a great house.  Tall chimneys topped the lovely building and rich stone glowed in the sunlight.  He pushed through the rhododendrons and crossed the well-kept lawn.

The bright red of the front door glowed in the little porch but he ignored it and rounded the corner to the more private space at the back of the building.  With a short jerk of effort he pushed open the French doors, and stepped silently into the room.  In the corner an old lady slumped in a high-backed chair.  Peter paused for a moment his head tipped to one side, was it safe, could he approach without causing fear.  It was vital she didn’t shout out.

As he stepped across the rich colours of the Axminster the room door opened.  “Oh,” the nurse startled, almost dropped the heavy tray she was carrying. “Peter, you gave me the shock of my life, how are you today?  She’s been waiting for you, she’ll waken up in a minute or two I should think, she’ll be happy to see you.  I wish all our old ladies had such loving grandsons, you never miss a day do you?”

He didn’t speak but dragged a small stool beside the chair, perched on the edge and took hold of the veined old hand.