The house was empty. Jill had gone with the kids and Terry was early, wasn't due in till ten so there was no rush. He finished shaving and stared at himself in the mirror. The couple extra hours should have done him some good, but instead he looked rougher than ever, blue circles under his eyes from another night of broken sleep, mind racing, waking up in a shivering sweat. Jill had soothed him at one point, told him not to worry, he was just having bad dreams, happens to us all. But things were getting worse. Getting serious.
Terry had been out in the wilderness. A deserted cottage somewhere. Knocking on the door with a toolbag slung over his back knowing if the bastard didn't soon answer he'd have to use one of the windows, smash his way in like a fucking criminal. But suddenly he's there. Older, greyer, but it's him alright. Standing there. Scared. Go away, whoever you are, or I'll call the police. And he's trying to close the door, shut Terry out, bolt up and life will just carry on, problem go away. But Terry has his foot there. Isn't going anywhere. Glaring into him, pushing close, words slow but intense, watching his face change, skin turning white.
Finding him. Getting to him. Putting things right. Sometimes the urge was so strong he felt he was going mad. Other times he had better things to think about. Work, reality, his family. Three kids now. Ryan, the oldest, fifteen. God, how times moves. Amazing. But that's it, when you have a family you move on, you leave the past behind, leave it well alone. Responsibilities for Christ sake. Got to have your head screwed on. Other things to worry about. Like losing his job at the engine plant. There'd been redundancies last month, cutbacks big time. Not anywhere near management level, but still. You had to keep on the ball. Be aware. Have your head in the clouds and there's always someone ready to take your place, grab everything you've got. No mercy. Got to live in the real world, the here and now. Not look back, ever.
The Eighties was so long ago. Different world. Needed to be buried. Press delete, watch it disappear. Terry had moved on, got sensible and done bloody well for himself. Good home, good job - both out of town - kids he'd die for. And Jill, he loved her so much. She understood him, had a light inside of her, positivity, knew how to cheer him up. Knew he sometimes pushed himself, worked too hard, but understood he only wanted the best, for her, for the kids. Jill was proud of him. Told him often enough. Working his way up like that. Assistant manager now. Sometimes he had to pinch himself. But deep down he knew Jill was in the dark. A chasm between them. Secrets. Things he would never tell.
Jill would never understand. Why would she? The things he'd done. It was hard to believe now. The recklessness. Self-hate. Anything goes. And to make it worse, it had all been his own choice. He wasn't like a lot of the other kids. Some of them rootless, homeless, landing down in the big city living from hand to mouth. He was different. Well above all that. Had a home. Not up north in some broken-down mill town but twenty minutes on the Victoria Line. A bit of a messed-up home, but still.
When his mum and dad split up he'd ran a bit wild for a while. Felt a bit confused, I suppose. Teenage thing. Passing phase. Bunk off school and head down the West End. Burger bars, arcades. Hanging around. Bit of mischief, make a few quid here and there. Same old stuff any truanting kid would have done.
Like fuck. Terry looked deep into his eyes. They were bloodshot, had a wild look about them. God. At school he'd been doing pretty well, did his homework, passed his exams. Wasn't bad at all. But come fourteen, fifteen - forget it. Necking pills. Drifting from his school mates. Getting in with the wrong crowd.
It seemed harmless at first. Easy. Sometimes, fucking hell, you didn't even have to do anything. Just take the cash and fucking scarper. What are they going to do - call the police? But even when you did have to, you can switch off to these things. Especially when there's drugs involved. Not let it touch you. It's not real. Not really happening. A stranger's cock in your mouth in a public toilet somewhere. Big deal. He's the one fucked in the head, not you. You're just making some easy money, notes in the pocket, a little bit of fucking freedom. You're the one laughing, not these cunts.
But now there were other implications. Turn back the clock and there's questions everywhere. Screaming in your face, fingers pointing. He wondered if he'd maybe enjoyed the attention, the affection. Stuff he hadn't got from his mum, his dad as they fought like two drunken idiots. Always asking for it. Taking things further. Letting them buy him things. Spend hours with him. Blurring the lines. Pushing the boundaries. Acting like a fucking little queer.
But it ended. He moved on. Had to. Seen a light, a flash, a fucking John the Baptist experience, and said no, no more. Crying as a teacher hugged him. Told her you'd been experimenting with drugs, did bad things, but it was over, a mistake, you wanted to change. And you put your trust in her - hadn't told her anything really, not even a fraction - but she helped you, got you back on track. Start afresh, get on with it, leave the past behind.
But it never goes away. Not really. Lingers dormant, contained. Then suddenly there it is full-frontal in your face when you're on the motorway, when you're lying in bed, when you're staring into the mirror seeing the youth that you once were, and Ryan fifteen now, his father's son, a near spitting image, seeing him under the Dilly lights, hustling on the street, selling himself on the meat rack, led to a stinking Hackney towerblock, predators in wait, end of youth, fucked for life, drawing a blade across his wrists, a darkened alley somewhere, all too much, no-one to turn to, blood draining into the gutter, life ebbing away.
Jesus Christ. Terry had to cool it. He splashed his face with water, slapping the skin, rinsing away the filth. Had to stop thinking the unthinkable. He'd have to start leaving Ryan alone. Stop poking around in his bedroom. Stop spying on him. Let the boy grow. Watching him hang around the shopping centre with his mates; safe distance, anonymous in the crowds, keeping an eye. For what? Bad people. Bad influences. People were out there waiting for you. Sniffing out your youth. Ready to jump. One minute you're growing up, you're smiling, everything's normal, the next you're necking drugs down a car park ready for anything up to God knows fucking what.
On Saturday he'd followed his son down to London. Ryan had started going down there now and then with his mates. Terry had warned him of the dangers but there's only so much you can say. Lecture too much and they stop listening, go the other way. Terry knew as much himself. He told Jill he was putting in some overtime. Followed him down on the same train. Pure paranoia. What if the kid was up to things? His mates pulling him in, polluting his mind? You don't know. How can you? Look at his own youth. Ryan and his friends visited a few shops, went to a McDonalds then spent the rest of the day skateboarding at the South Bank. None of them so much as smoked. Kids just having fun.
Terry felt silly. He walked away. Let the boy be. Ryan wasn't stupid. The boy had more sense than he'd ever had. And London, it was so different now. Cleaned up. Parts of it unrecognisable. Terry had cut across to Waterloo. A massive cinema complex where the Bullring had been, cardboard city. Fucking hell. He explored. Hadn't properly observed the city in years, popped in and out for work stuff now and then, drive in drive out, but saw nothing. Silver-steel-glass. Cafes, bars, restaurants everywhere. The whole place one big leisure park. He crossed the river. Piccadilly into Soho. Blue skies, sun shining down, everything polished, given a sheen. Well-assured youngsters out on the pavement drinking coffee, talking, joking, smiles all round, a leisurely urban populace at ease with itself. No edge, no tension anywhere.
He saw a down-and-out by a cash machine being shuffled on by police. First beggar maybe he'd noticed all day. It was like they had all disappeared. Gone. Part of the last century. Terry imagined government-commissioned night squads touring the streets in blacked-out vans, working stealthily, short-sharp, collecting up the homeless, the beggars, the unsightly. A state-sponsored snatch squad working for a clean efficient London, forth economic capital of the world and rising, no place for misfits, line them up against the wall and pull the trigger, crush the human shit, disease buried deep in the ground, radioactive vats full of crushed bone, turn a blind eye, problem solved. A world free of drugs and decay, slot machines, seedy sex, primitive desire. A world swept clean.
But it was there alright. Just not so much in your face. Pushed indoors. Pushed further out. The grey estates and towerblocks and terraced wastelands he's seen on the train in. Real London. Not this brochure version. Shunt the crap out of sight, bad for business, let if fester elsewhere. The solution was to get away, far as possible, move on from the lot of it. Terry had. Soon as Jill got pregnant, that was it, see you later. London was no place to bring up kids. Taking his family to the sticks. Best thing he'd ever done.
He went home. Back to his wife, his little boy, his little girl; Ryan following on a few hours later. The family all together on a Saturday night. Watching the talent shows, getting the games out, father and son playing at the screen like best friends. He ordered a big take-away. Have whatever you like. Told them this year he'd take them on the best holiday ever. Fuck money. Live. Fuck the past. God, mate, cheer up, get over things.
But certain things - how? Two months ago now. Sitting in front of the telly one night with Jill, cuddling close, the kids in bed. And that bastard flashing up on the news. Eyes staring, possessed by the fucking devil. Sledgehammer in the face. A recently-released killer paedophile has been hounded out of his Devon home by shocked and angry locals who discovered his identity. Police have urged for calm and say disorder not be tolerated. The man is to be moved to a secret location for his own safety. Casually getting the remote and turning over. Everything rushing back. Going to the toilet to vomit. Bed early. Sweating. A sudden flu. Days off work not like him. Too much. Bottle it back up, wait for it to go away. Certain things you tell nobody. You keep to yourself.
In the mirror he studied his face. Place to read the signals, the signs. They say you get the face you deserve, well, shame that because Terry looked rougher than ever. Thicker lines around his eyes like his skin was pruning up with each sleepless night. More greys; temples, sides. Looked like he'd aged years since that news report. Hadn't had a proper night's sleep since. Used to be out for the count, no dreams at all. Not now. Each night feared. Each night a fucking death trip: murder, rape, destruction.
And last night Jill soothing him at one point, telling him to relax, just a bad dream, too much coffee, too much work, and he'd held her so tight, the mother of his kids, loved her so much, was frightened of drifting off again, falling into that semi-alive semi-dead nightmare world, because sometimes he'd wake up and he'd still be there, it was like madness, insanity, he didn't trust himself, didn't know what he was capable of, you read the papers and people go crazy, lose the plot, it happens all the time, they kill their whole families, kill themselves, and when your mind's all over the place you just don't know what you'll do, and Jill was stoking his chest then moving her hand down and touching him, saying she'd make him feel good, relax, and you had to watch out, voices in the head, forces taking over your body, and she was stroking him and moving herself down and taking him in her mouth, a stranger stepping into your skin, swinging a hammer, plunging a knife, and you're dialing 999 and crying down the phone because you've woken up from the madness and discovered your whole family is dead, carved up, chopped to pieces, blood all over the walls, his wife working on him, saying things, face gently lit in the lamplight, trying to ease him as he tensed up, softly saying she loved his cock, loved it in her mouth, loved it inside her, and remember when they used to fuck all the time, every single day, when he used to come in and grab her and fuck her hard, when he'd make her suck his big cock then spread her legs apart and push it right inside of her, his wife gently moaning and sighing as she took him deep in her mouth. But he had to push her away. Didn't need that now. None of it.
And later, almost dawn, dreaming, sweating, screaming. But not a sound, only the croaking of the early rooks in the trees and the sweet song of the blackbird's early chorus. Terry standing over him with a blowtorch. The bastard naked, spreadeagled on the floor, hands and feet nailed to the fucking floorboards. At least the other three cunts, the sidekicks he'd went down with, had the decency to die in prison. Suicide. Cancer. The other murdered in his cell. Good riddance. Not this bastard though. The ringleader free, out there somewhere, given a home, living the life of fucking Riley. But things were different now, different rules, fair and square. Terry held the man's fate in his hands. Listening to the screams and howls and wails, and smelling the burn of melting flesh as he worked the flame to great effect, genitals dripping away like candle wax. Listening to him plead for mercy through the horror, for God for Jesus for some kind of saviour to come down and pull him from the torture the pain the hell of the crazy demented fucking madman getting down on his knees and sinking his teeth into flesh and tearing his face off, bit by bit, up against the wall, erasing his identity, his memory, every night ripping the bastard apart.
Finding him. That was it. Doing the research and cutting through the dreams, the nightmares, burning away the demons with a dose of reality. It wasn't make-believe a tall. Didn't have to be. It was possible. Bit of rational thinking, apply company tactics. Spies keeping an eye on the rivals - hiring someone to do the legwork. Same thing. Get the info then look into it, weigh up the pros and cons, the ins and outs, then Go, project underway. Carry out the kill himself. Simple as that. Get the bastard out of his life, out of his head once and for all.
But in a way, it was fantasy. Something that would never happen. How could it? It would rip his family apart. Solve nothing. Terry thought of the first boy that had been killed. He had vaguely known him, seen him around the streets, the arcades. Quiet bloke. Broken home, same old story, didn't deserve any of it let alone death. But it had been a lottery. Could have been Terry. Terry had been with the killer, been over to his flat three four five times himself so it was just a roll of the dice. But the last time was different. End of his youth. Over. Terry had never been so scared in his life. Drugged, hallucinating, kept prisoner for two days. Different men coming in to rape him. Brutalise him. Hell and reality washed into one. The bastard telling him he was going to die. Watching, laughing. Dumping him out on the road somewhere. Chucking notes at him. Money to shut up. Money to fuck off.
Terry never told anyone. Too embarrassed. Too ashamed. Left it all behind. Never wanted to see that world again. But next thing it was there, all over the papers. Boy dead. Body dumped. Men arrested. Hackney-based paedophile ring that prowled the terminals, the coach stations, the Strand, the Dilly, Soho, Leicester Square, preying on the vulnerable, little runaways, little truants, waifs and strays, failures of the system. Three teenage rent boys pulled out of shallow graves, dug out of wasteland, binned and rotting with the rubbish until an alert landfill worker noticed part of a bare human torso.
But Terry wasn't dead. No way. Terry was still here. Terry was doing well. Getting on. Doing his best. He rinsed his mouth with Listerine. Spat away the scum. He had to go to work. Had to get out there. Out in the world. Live. Tear himself from all this introversion, all this looking back, get real. He went into the bedroom and put his clothes on, shined his shoes. Headed down and had a bit of toast, quick cup of tea - too hot, left it. He got his car keys. Maybe he'd do a late one. Few extra hours. Graft it out, exhaust himself. Get into the rhythm, mind working like a machine, no time to think at all. Definitely. Head down, get stuck in. The only way.
IAIN SINCLAIR
MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ
J.G. BALLARD
JAMES KELMAN
JOHN FANTE
DAN FANTE
ALAN SILLITOE
