Not Dead Enough

There was noticeable swelling, he could see it clearly if he put his two hands together. And there was something else he did not like the look of: thin red lines seemed to be tracking out, away from the wound and up his wrist. He continued sucking hard, trying to draw out any poison that might be in there. A freshly brewed mug of tea sat on his desk. He stirred it, counting carefully.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Dick Dixon was speaking again now, talking about a growing protest movement over a proposed third terminal at Gatwick airport. A local MP’s voice came on, launching a savage attack.

Evil creature.

He stood up, fuming, and stepped away from his workstation, threading his way across the basement floor through stacks of computer equipment, piles of motoring magazines and motor car workshop manuals, towards the grimy bay window that was protected by net curtains. No one could see in, but he could see out. Looking up from his lair, as he liked to call it, he saw a pair of shapely legs cross his eye-line, striding by on the pavement, along the railings. Long, bare, brown legs, firm and muscular, with a mini-skirt that barely covered her bits.

He felt a prick of lust, then immediately felt bad about that.

Terrible.

Evil creature.

He knelt down on the spot, on the thin, faded carpet that smelled of dust, cupped his face in his hands and recited the Lord’s Prayer. When he had reached the end, he continued with a further prayer: ‘Dear God, please forgive my lustful thoughts. Please do not let them stand in my way. Please don’t let me squander all the time you have graciously given me on these thoughts.’

He continued to pray for some minutes, then, finally, stood up, feeling refreshed, energized, happy that God was with him in the room now. He walked back over to his workstation and drank some tea. Someone on the radio was explaining how to fly a kite. He had never flown a kite in his life, and it had never, before, occurred to him to try. But maybe he should. Perhaps it would take his mind off things. Might be a good way to spend some of that time that was piling up in his account.

Yes, a kite.

Good.

Where did you buy one? In a sports shop? A toyshop? Or the internet, of course!

Not too big a kite, because he was tight on space in the flat. He liked it here, and the place was ideal for him, because it had three entrances – or, more importantly, three exits.

Perfect for an evil creature.

The flat was on the busy thoroughfare of Sackville Road, close to the junction with Portland Road, and there were always vehicles passing by, day and night. It was a downmarket area, this end. A quarter of a mile to the south, closer to the sea, it became rapidly smarter. But here, close to an industrial estate, with a railway bridge running overhead and a few grime-fronted shops, it was a ragbag of unloved, modest-sized Victorian and Edwardian terraced houses, all of them split up into rooming houses, bedsits, cheap flats or offices.

There were always people around. Mostly students, as well as some transients and dossers, and the occasional dealer or two. Just sometimes, a few of Hove’s elderly, gentrified, blue-rinse ladies could be seen out and about in daylight, waiting at the bus stop or waddling to a shop. It was a place where you could come and go, twenty-four/seven, without attracting attention.

Which made it perfect for his purposes. Apart from the damp, the inadequate storage heaters and the leaking cistern which he kept fixing, over and over. He did all the maintenance down here himself. He didn’t want workmen coming in. Not a good idea.

Not a good idea at all.

One exit was up the front steps. Another was out the back, through a garden belonging to the ground-floor flat, above him. The owner, a wasted-looking guy with straggly hair, grew rust and weeds in it very successfully. The third exit was for Doomsday, when it finally came. It was concealed behind a false, plywood wall, carefully and seamlessly covered in the same drab floral paper as the rest of the room. Over it, like over most of the wall space down here, he had stuck cuttings from newspapers, photographs and parts of family trees.

One photograph was brand new – he had added it just a quarter of an hour ago. It was a grainy head and shoulders of Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, from today’s Argus, which he had scanned into his computer, blown up, and then printed.

He was staring at the policeman now. Staring at his sharp eyes, at the quiet determination in his expression. You’re going to be a problem for me, Detective Superintendent Grace. You are in my face. We’re going to have to do something about you. Teach you a lesson. Nobody calls me an evil creature.

Then suddenly he shouted out aloud, ‘No one calls me an EVIL CREATURE, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Sussex CID. Do you understand me? I will make you sorry you called me an evil creature. I know who you love.’

He stood, hyperventilating, closing and opening his left hand. Then he paced around the room a couple of times, treading a careful path through