He recalled the promise he’d made to The Man Point Two last time. The temptation of a shower, some clean clothes, and sleeping in a proper bed. The Man Point Two had been eager, nodding, smiling. Was he someone’s husband? Did he have children? Anyone at all who missed him? Would his death bring closure to any family members who may have been wondering all this time where their beloved had gone?
So there could be something good to come out of this, the possible closure for many, as well as the peace of mind for himself—that new stretch of a few years ahead where he’d know her and The Man were gone and couldn’t hurt him again. Would it last as long this time, that feeling of freedom? He hoped so. Doing what he’d done so far had been a strange yet wonderful experience. It went against the grain in some respects—Gran had taught him to be kind and forgiving—but in others he was just doing to them what they’d done to him. An eye for an eye.
They’d stolen his life, so he’d stolen theirs.
The first time, with her and The Man, he’d gained much satisfaction seeing the life drain out of them, the light going from their eyes, the sneers on their lips turning static, permanent until the funeral parlour had changed them into the serene smiles of death. Gran had been upset at the loss of her daughter, of course she had, but he’d imagined that there must have been some sense of relief for the old lady. To no longer have the hassle she brought. The hate she directed at Gran. To know her child was at peace—or so Gran had hoped—but he rather hoped she was in Hell, burning, burning, burning, The Man with her, embraced by the very Devil who had embraced them in life, guiding them to mistreat her child.
Perhaps they were guiding him now, scorching embers at their feet, urging him to do what he was doing without really protecting himself from being captured. His beard. His number plate on show. His lack of care in being seen. Although that wasn’t true. He’d cut the wires of the alley and street CCTV—but only because he didn’t want to get caught before he’d finished the whole job. If he didn’t get rid of The Man Point Two now Anita was dead, he’d only have half the inner peace.
Whatever, the die had been cast, the game was in play. He was moving his pieces around the board and he’d come out the winner. He would pass Go and not end up in jail. No, hopefully never that, but if he did? No matter. Perhaps he could move away, leaving the constant reminders behind. Perhaps he should have done that the first time around.
The tramps chatted, one of them tugging a damp-topped pizza box from the trolley and handing slices around. They’d struck lucky then, some kind stranger buying them a meal. And wasn’t it funny how they were sharing it, the one who had originally been given it not attempting to hoard it for himself. How kind.
The Man Point Two might not be lured away with the promise of food tonight. That could put a spanner in the works. Should he approach him now, before he took a bite? Or would he still be hungry and follow him anyway?
Leaving it to Fate, he leant his head back against the tunnel wall and closed his eyes, deliberately bringing The Man to mind. He didn’t like doing it usually, but in this instance, as he had with Anita Jane Curtis, it would help him to focus, to remember why he was doing this. To banish any guilt he had experienced when he’d looked at Anita as they’d stood in her kitchen, telling himself that her sacrifice would be worth it.
And it had been.
So, The Man. He’d think about him, and the courage to continue would come.
“I have something for you,” The Man said.
Wary of him, he didn’t get up from the table in the kitchen to see what The Man held in his hands. One covered the other, creating a box of sorts. A flesh-and-bone gift box containing something he wouldn’t want. Something nasty.
It always was.
“Come here and get it then, you ungrateful bastard.”
He had no choice but to obey or face the consequences. Since The Man had married her, he had become more obnoxious, more controlling, taking it upon himself to dish out smacks and beatings like Gran dished out kind words. With the pair of them hurting him, her and The Man, life had become unbearable. That wasn’t the whole truth, though. He was bearing it, after a fashion, going inside his head and creating a scenario where his parents were as kind as Gran and loved him to distraction. The idea of that got him smiling, and he clung on to the scenes in his mind if things got too much.
He approached The Man, fear turning his legs weak, and stood in front of him, staring down at the hand box. Thick hairs covered the knuckles, and the word ‘fuck’ had been tattooed there. That was a naughty word, one he wasn’t allowed to say, but she said it all the time.
‘Fuck me,’ she told The Man. ‘Fuck me harder.’
He didn’t understand, but those words were always followed by loud bangs from their bedroom, squeaks, and this weird moaning that sounded like she was in pain. The Man always grunted, shouted other naughty words
