Come, Time

CHAPTER NINE

  London looks in on itself. It watches itself with digital coldness. As it draws me in, the risks I take churn my thoughts. I’m a wanted man on the needy streets of the Capital. Cars and people swarm everywhere, but as a desperate man with little to lose the crowds fail to impact on me as once they did. No claustrophobic twitches or paranoid hunch. The traffic is dense, so I sit back and conform, try to purge myself of free will. I must do what I must do. I must act as a man hustled into a situation he would never have chosen for himself. I kill, but I kill only for food.

  Head down, avoid stares, do not react to sirens or car horns blasting. Ignore the clock and think only of my objective.

  With the map as a guide, I edge towards my desired location. Eventually, I turn into the street, his street. It is wide and straight, with two long rows of three-storey, plus basement, terraced housing. The houses, put simply, are posh: brown brick, skinned with Empire soot and smoke, with identical doors and windows all of which are dressed with heavy white stone borders and cornices. All is uniform. Houses lined up on parade, shoulders back and chest out. All white is white, the latest, newest white. Even the bricks with their multitude of shades seem to merge into a single, uniform colour. The parade, however, is private, as I can see no street CCTV. The pathways host various trees, which untouched by spring, will provide me little cover. Parked cars edge the road and fill a majority of spaces.

  I pass his house but see nothing that confirms his presence. As the street draws to a close, I turn the car round then slip into a side-of-the-road parking space. A street sign warns that all parking is resident only. I take the risk, pull out my new mobile phone and pretend to make a call. I feel obvious, out of place and watched. In a public street, I feel like a trespasser, but then of course I am, and worse, I come here to kill.

  My plan is simple but incomplete. I have an objective but no notion of the narrative that will let me achieve it. All I can do is tune my senses to focus on my goal and set the future to no more than a second.

  Time stutters by; the street remains still. Occasionally, a car rolls by, but no change occurs, either for or against me.

  With twenty minutes gone, a black Jaguar Saloon crawls calmly into the street. Approaching Oakley’s house, it rolls to a stop. I grab my binoculars and aim them at the car. A back door opens, and out steps a man who is office dressed in a long black overcoat. As he turns to close the door, I get a clear view of his face. It is the man from the photo. Fact. Pacing up the short flight of steps that lead to his front door, he pulls a set of keys from a coat pocket. In his other hand, he carries a briefcase and newspaper. The Jaguar crawls away. Reaching the front door, he unlocks it, enters then closes the door behind him. And now? What now? I have no idea, but still I pull on my black leather gloves, conceal my knife in a pocket and take from my rucksack a length of nylon cord - cord I use for making snares.

  And now? What now? I struggle for a beat until a Hackney Taxi splutters into the street. It stops abruptly outside the second house along. The driver, a slight and weak looking man, hurries from the taxi, steps to the back door and opens it. Out steps Lady whatever. Decision made, I make my move. I pull a roll of gaffer tape from my rucksack and add it to my pockets. I then exit the car and rush to the nearest flight of steps. Once hidden in a recess, I stand and pretend to knock the door. Seconds later, I hear the taxi accelerating away. I turn and hurry back down the steps. Seeing the taxi, I fake surprise, raise a hand and flag it down. As it slows, I step to the back door and enter my ride. Once sitting inside, I pull the door shut. The driver turns to me and smiles. Before a greeting has been uttered, I work a fist into his face, knocking him out cold. Grabbing his flaccid arms, I yank him into the back with me. Using gaffer tape, I gag his mouth, cover his eyes, and then bind his hands and feet. I then take the drivers seat and stutter the taxi away.

  The street merges with another. I pass a block of flats under renovation. Scaffolding coats the entire building, several skips and portacabins fill the grounds. I make a sharp turn and jostle the taxi into the driveway. A quick scan reveals no prying eyes, so I park the taxi behind a skip then deposit the driver, with a fair degree of care, in-between a skip and a hedge. Back in the taxi, I head back towards the house.

  The street remains still. I drive to the Oakley's house and pull up in the parking space outside it. The noisy diesel engine will, I hope, alert him to my presence. Timing is crucial; I don’t want him coming out before I reach the door. I beep the horn. Time to go knock. In the mirror, I check my face is reasonably concealed then open the door and exit.

  With head bowed, I hurry up the steps. Reaching the front door, I ring the bell, then pulling off my cap, turn to face the street. A quick look at my watch reveals the time, 4.11 pm exactly. I hear the door open followed by a voice, a man’s voice, which is calm and slightly amused.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong house,’ he says.

  I turn and look at him. He sees my face and a beat of confusion lights in his eyes. I am recognised. I am known, completely, with certainty - not just a face from an e-fit. This, to me, is Oakley. I lunge forward and shoulder him back into the house. As I follow, time seems to vanish. When it reappears, I am standing in the hall behind him. I have the length of cord wrapped around his neck. He is snared, and I am pulling the snare to choke him, dead. His resistance, I barely notice. My focus and stare burns through space. I block out the sound and the image of my action. Soon a vague choking noise breaks the block but then splutters into silence. His body becomes a deadweight, so I tighten the snare to the limit of my strength then meticulously count to ten. On ten, I release him from the cord; he plummets to the floor, more like heavy cloth than flesh and bone. I look away from the body and glance at my watch, 4.15 pm, a four minute job. I feel strangely calm, a touch unsure, but strangely calm. No pounding heart or gasping breath, but then the need to flee comes rushing in. I step to the door. With a hand on the handle, a paranoid beat forces me to stop and look behind. Scanning the hall, I see it. On a sideboard, I see it. Next to a newspaper and an empty vase, I see it. A framed photo, a family portrait, Oakley, a woman and two young children. I freeze for a second then rush to inspect it in close-up. Can it be what it seems to be? In the emails, Oakley stated he had no family. He lied! But still, I turn to the body and search for an identity. I find a mobile phone and then a wallet. I look inside; this is not Oakley. This is Henry Brockhurst! But he recognised me. Who is Henry Brockhurst? I have no poetry. The only word I can hear in my head is, “fuck!” shot out on automatic fire.

  The need to flee reasserts itself. I return his wallet then rush to the door. On the street, my only concern is to get to the Golf. I sense people but pay no attention to who and why. Reaching the Golf, I climb inside and lock the doors. As I start the engine, a surge of panic nearly consumes me. I fight it and force it down. A beat of clarity gives me the sense to turn off Henry's phone. Speeding away, a destination comes to mind, a destination that shocks me.

  London on the way out is no less constipated than London on the way in. I need distance and space, but I am stuck in a car that now feels as contaminated and wanted as I am. Guilt and paranoia can quickly strip you of all sense, in fact of all self. You can lose control of your thoughts. Silence can be lost never to be hooked again. I struggle for clarity. I have killed; I have murdered an innocent man. Can I rationalise this? Of course. I mean, I did. I was to kill Oakley and force an investigation, Oakley being far from innocent. But now, what now? I have murdered an innocent man. But was he? Was he an innocent who was randomly selected? Was he something darker? He was rich, no doubt powerful, corrupt even. Follow the money, let the stench lead me to the rot. He knew me. He had knowledge of me far beyond that gained from watching the news or seeing my e-fit in the news. Anyway, would he have the time to care for some countryside murder? Oakley wanted him dead, but why? Was his nose too deep in the trough? Had he served his useful purpose? Oakley wanted him dead, and he rolled the dice that I would do it for hi
m. Whatever the truth, I was set-up. Again, I am the fool but should I wallow in guilt? Yes, one day, maybe, but now, now I must survive. I must get out of London. My face has gone, or will soon go, national. I am losing. I need to find land. Can I make sense of this?

  Why this location? Why is it in my head? Is it weakness? A sickly need for a man I should be able to trust? Am I now not enough for myself? Is like drawing like? Are we now ever more connected? I swore we would never be as one. Maybe anger is demanding a face to touch and to blame. I must be cold, professional. Use him. He is close. Take something back. A night’s sanctuary at least. No one would predict I would visit him. He lives close by. Go there. Be practical.

  My father murdered my mother. Served time for her manslaughter. I was the star witness, the silent one of course. I have watched him from a distance, but he hasn’t felt my presence now for many years. He lives close-by and alone. This is not the time. Never is the time. Why is this in my head? Because I must do what I must do. Will I ever have the chance to see him, or use him, again?