His voice is calm when he says it. One short, sharp breath and out it comes: ‘Listen to me. I’ve killed. I’ve done it. I know what it’s like.’
I don’t believe him.
‘You think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I’m a lying cunt, but it’s been done, I’ve killed, more than once. Ach, but you don’t believe me. Maggots, they’re all fucking maggots …’
I don’t believe him. Through the fever in my head, I’m thinking: like fuck, you haven’t killed anyone. I raise an eyebrow sceptically and it ignites something in him, bringing his words down on my head: ‘I’ve got photographic proof, and you’ve sat on one of the graves. Get the bastards over 16, that’s the easiest way, they’re nothing to the police then, just some sad missing kid, runaways who’ve fucked off to London and the bright lights, file and forget. Jews, winos, queers – who gives a shit about them? They’re fucking germs and worth fuck all, even the police see them as numbers and know the world’s well rid. Who’s gonna give a fuck about some dirty little shirt-lifter? Hitler had the right idea, that’s just my point, he had the right fucking idea …’
Shut up, I’m thinking. Let me lie down and sleep. Talking a load of drunken shite again. Shut your fucking mouth and let me rest.
But the momentum spins; Ian’s pale eyes start out of his head: ‘Listen, there are two ways to do it, I’m fucking telling you, two ways, not just one. First method: get the car and yourself ready, prepare the lot, clean the car, cover the inside with polythene, count all the buttons on what you’re wearing and note everything, mustn’t leave anything behind – do you fucking understand, are you listening? Right, so you get out of the car, find the maggots – Central Station, Union Hotel, Rembrandt bar, queers – just get them, splatter them away. But that’s not the best way to do it, there’s too many risks, you have to clean your clothes and everything else afterwards. Not enough control in the situation” “Second method, this one is better: get them and do them in a place where you have full control, even over the fucking body, you can’t get caught then, ’cause the police are thick fuckers, give them fuck all and they do fuck all. Plan ahead, and if you’re questioned, give them the old spiel about not remembering anything more than ten days ago, that’s normal …’
He sits back suddenly, spent, breathless.
I look at him and his eyes narrow.
‘It will be done again.’ He nods slowly. ‘But this one won’t count. I’m not due another yet, but it will be done.’ His lips curl in a sly smile and I feel unnaturally tired.
He’s speaking again, but my brain scarcely registers his soft, insistent voice: ‘You know what I get from it? Control. You’re in control and that’s the biggest fucking high you’ll ever have, you’re in control. You can even control death, do you fucking understand me, it’s all a matter of control …”– From the book “Evil Relations” by David Smith & Carol Ann Lee
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