I AM HERE TO KILL YOU Page 3

  The sting to my cheek thrusts my eyes open. My darling wife sits over me, one knee either side of my belly. Her open hand is ready and willing to slap me again. I put my arms up, not to push her away, but to protect my face.

  "You fucking loser!"

  "I'm sorry-"

  "You're sorry? I'm sorry I married you..."

  "Don't say that..."

  "Am I asking too much for my husband to actually fuck me once in a while?"

  "Of course not."

  "I could have any man I want-"

  "I know. You are beautiful-"

  "I chose you, and this is how you repay me?"

  "You excite me so much, Apinya. I couldn't help it. I'm sorry..."

  She pushes her hand to my chest. Uses my body as a springboard. Bounces off the bed. The bedroom door slams shut. Apinya is no longer light on her feet as she thunders back downstairs. A herd of elephants rampages through our house. The room is suddenly dark; I am suddenly alone. I huddle up under the duvet, my body naked and sticky and trembling.

  A thought intrudes my mind, mocking me. I imagine Apinya sat in the living room, arms folded across her chest, vehemently staring up at the family portrait on the wall. I'm reminded of my earlier thoughts.

  Given a chance, I'd definitely turn back the hand of time to the day that photo was taken.

  Ray

  Saturday night, I feel the air is getting hot. Like you baby.

  I nod to Geraint and Dave when I rock up in The Swan but then, when I return from the bar with a pint of Fosters, I walk straight past them. The Chuckle Brothers appear forlorn, like they're the last two kids left in the line to be picked for football, because they're shit. Leaning against the pillar in the corner of the pub, I deliberately wait a few moments before throwing them a second nod.

  "You're not contagious are you, Ray? Not caught crabs again have we?" Geraint smirks. "Don't worry, Dave gave it to your missus in the first place."

  Dave runs his hand through his mop of wavy, silver hair. Mullets weren't fashionable even in the eighties. As he is the only one of us with any significant hair, we like to find fault with the style. We don't need to try very hard. Somehow, at the age of fifty-three, he manages to pull off a metal hoop in his left ear. His black leather jacket always makes me think he has a motorbike parked outside. Wagging his middle finger, he tells Geraint he is a bad, bad man. Geraint is far from offended. His gaunt, lined face broadens. He accepts this as a compliment.

  "Don't worry, gentlemen," I say. "I'm not contagious. Heard the filth are out tonight, running random checks. Thought I'd keep my distance from you two muppets in case they arrest me for crimes against banter."

  I can almost sense steam emitting from their heads as they struggle for a decent retort. I grab the opportunity to take in the other (dozen or so) residents of The Swan, mainly shiny, upturned faces silently staring at the flashing screen up on the wall. I shake my head. This is Saturday night and it is hardly heaving, is it? No wonder. The government is intent on taxing anything that is remotely fun. What is the point in keeping us all alive until we're a hundred if you then have to pay for all the care that goes with it? With these prices, it is much cheaper to get a crate of lager from Aldi and vegetate in front of the TV. No wonder we have an obesity problem - nobody bothers to walk to the pub anymore.

  You could pop an apple in the gormless, open mouths and release an arrow before anybody noticed. It's only rugby league highlights, for fuck's sake. This is the summer - the season is over. This isn't Wigan. They've got nothing better to do up north than bake pies (and eat them, judging by the locals) and watch rugby league on the tele. Nobody in Wales gives a fuck about rugby league. We only watch when there's no real rugby on, and even then we hope the wife doesn't notice the difference. There again, it doesn't really matter what they put on in this gaff. Golf. Tennis. Darts. Women's fucking football. We've all been transformed into bra burners, and nobody is man enough to argue against it. Put sport on the TV in the pub and - instantly - we're sucked in. The regulars in The Swan become Germans, hypnotised by Hitler's rhetoric. It's fucking boring.

  Geraint and Dave are my regular drinking buddies, and I mean them no harm. They see me as a slacker, as a lightweight, because I'm only in the pub three or four times a week. They made an exception last Saturday - they got drunk at the barn dance instead. Occasionally I don't join them; they don't take offence. It is one of my odd quirks. They eye me open-mouthed when I complete The Sun crossword, like they're in the presence of Stephen Hawking. I'm not deliberately anti-social. Sometimes it's healthy to take a step back, view things from outside the goldfish bowl. It's not like I'm into meditation or mindfulness or any of that fancy crap. Not like Bernard, hidden away in his castle with that Yoko Ono wife of his. No doubt if a spaceship landed in The Swan then the aliens would take one look at us lot and report back that they'd found an undeveloped civilisation.

  Tonight I'm just not in the mood for socialising. It's been a hard day on the job. My body feels like it has gone twelve rounds with Tyson Fury. My mind is frazzled, too. I would say my brain feels like I've gone twelve rounds with Stephen Fry, but I don't want to take the piss. I've had the extra burden of showing Rob the ropes.

  He's a decent kid but - for fuck's sake - sometimes it feels like I'm working with a twelve-year-old, not a bloke who claims to be twenty-two. God, I was married and had a young boy at his age. They say kids grow up so young these days, but sometimes I think they don't grow up at all. What is it with 'children' living with Mum and Dad when they're forty? We set our boy up with his own gaff when he was in his early twenties. Fair play to Rob, though, he is nothing like these Millennials they harp on about in The Mail. Aren't they supposed to be perpetually offended? Rob's jokes would make Bernard Manning belly laugh in his grave. And even I'm sometimes uneasy with his obsession with the female form.

  Fair play, overall, I could have done a lot worse.

  I catch the eye of a guy heading towards me. Don't recognise him, which is unusual around here. Sure, a couple of thousand people live in the town, but you tend to know the regulars. I angle my body to give him more room; I'm not sure if he is heading for the toilet, or maybe the door. Red-rimmed eyes, prominent underneath a bony, protruding skull, zone in on me. My fist knots into a ball. Maybe he knows me from the old days, has a score to settle? It's happened before. He pulls back his hand. My eyes remain fixed on his. He offers his hand. I shake it, hoping he doesn't notice me blowing air from my cheeks.

  “I'm Tony,” he says. “Fancy a game?”

  “Sure.” I'm too slow to think of a reason why I don't fancy a game. "Ray."

  We're no longer strangers as Tony slots a silver coin into the side of the pool table. As he racks up the balls, I busy myself by swishing the amber nectar around, making the taste last. Realise I'm a tad peckish. The wife is forever on a diet, keen to lose some lard from the hips and the tummy, even though I tell her I love her that way (she has this slightly plumper Nigella Lawson thing going on); regardless, that jacket potato she served up for tea barely touched the sides. I glance at the bar, even though I know it's pointless. They don't offer up nuts in glass bowls any more, do they? Something or other about it being less hygienic than licking a toilet. I read about it in one of those magazines laying around the house. Clearly, the Cosmopolitan writers hadn't visited the toilet in The Swan.

  "Not seen you round here before," I say.

  "That's because I've not been round here before," he says, smiling. "I'm from out of town. Part of the team doing the building work at the leisure centre."

  Glancing down at the ripped table, I'm thankful that at least this guy knows which order to put the balls in. Sometimes the guys with the swagger and the bravado are the worst players. Tony breaks; the crack of balls is familiar and comforting. Instantly, he becomes reds. He pots a few more balls, pausing after each to allow time for me to congratulate him. I remain silent. He's not a bad player; he doesn't need me to massage his ego, or his balls. Inevitabl
y, a red ball rattles around the pocket but fails to disappear, remains on the faded green felt. Close, I think, but no cigar. I tell him it was bad luck. I don't tell him he wouldn't have needed luck if he'd hit the fucking ball properly.

  "Looks like I've got my work cut out here."

  "Just do what you can," Tony says.

  I take a quick glance at my wrist. Look over at Geraint and Dave who, of course, are looking over. They don't have anything else to do. I lean over the table, the cue grazing my light stubble. I stifle a laugh. Time to get to work, I think.

  Five minutes and forty-three seconds later, I sink the black ball. There are a few snorts from my usual table. I shake Tony's hand for the second time since meeting him. This was better than staying in and watching Who Wants to be a Millionaire? I muse.

  “Good game, mate,” I say.

  I try not to sound condescending, but I suspect the harder I try, the worse it is. Tony prances around on tiptoes with colour to his cheeks. He jerks his head to the side, checking whether anybody noted the game. Geraint and Dave bow their heads, stare into the abyss of their pints (something they're experts at). Maybe I misjudged him? Maybe I've punctured his ego?

  Tony juts out his chin. “Fucking hustler.”

  I hold up my hands, keep him at arm's length. Instinct kicks in. Thirty years or so ago this was my usual Saturday night. His smirk shows me he's taken it as he should. Just a game. His plastic masculinity is still intact. “Like playing against Paul Newman...”

  “Hey,” I say, "I never pretended to be anything other than a great pool player."

  I seize this lull in activity - in conversation - as an opportunity. Need to be quick, before he starts again, badgering me for a second game, a rematch. I drain the glass until all that remains is froth and bubbles. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself, to impress this guy; I just want to get out of here. I can tell by his wide eyes that he sees this as a challenge. I may as well have flopped my cock out on the table and asked him to show me what he's got.

  I can see the pinkness of his lips through the glass. I dig at some dirt in my nails, killing time like I'm in the queue at the supermarket and don't want to appear impatient. Glance up, then glance back down again. Wish this guy would hurry up with his whole Tarzan thing; it's beginning to get embarrassing. I resist the urge to look at my watch again, to stifle a yawn. Looking over, Dave raises his eyebrows. Eventually, a jubilant Tony slams his empty glass down on the table.

  “Can certainly tell you're a drinker," I say, trying not to smile. I tell him I'm off, that its past my bedtime.

  “I'll come with you,” Tony says. “I fucking hate rugby league anyway.”

  I wave to Geraint and Dave as I pass their table.

  "I won't tell the wife you've pulled," Geraint says.

  I hold my middle finger behind my back as the door shuts.

  It is an hour or so from closing time, and there are only a few drunken shadows stumbling around on the dimly lit high street. We call it the high street, but really it's the only street in the town with any shops on it. I love it like this. I love it when the streets are completely deserted. Occasionally a fox scurries halfway across the pavement, jerks its head to the side to look at me, before continuing to the other side. It feels like we share a moment. I've noted it a few times in my diary.

  "Heading towards the bridge?"

  "Nah. The other way."

  Course he is. He's sticking with me. My hands ball inside my pockets. I nod to the guy in the pizza shop, do the same to the one in the chip shop. Momentarily, I'm tempted to stop off and pick something up – anything, so long as it is greasy and smothered in salt – but this isn't really an option. It won't be a meal for one. Of course, just because I've got a takeaway, it doesn't mean she's required to eat any of it. Some things aren't designed for sharing. I know the score, though. She'd silently stare at the food, whilst pretending she isn't. The guilt will eat away (ironic, really) at me until I'm just not enjoying the food anymore, until I feel compelled to offer her some. You sure? I wasn't going to ask. She'll shovel the food into her mouth like she's worried it will vanish if she doesn't. Once the high has faded and the guilt hits, she'll blame me for encouraging her to eat rubbish when she didn't want to. Is it really worth the drama just for a greasy Doner Kebab?

  Turning the corner, heading away from the high street, I flinch, stop dead in my tracks. Tony does the same.

  “You alright, love?”

  I stay at about six feet, like I'm in the queue for the cash machine. There are two of us - two men - and I'm aware that, even on my own, with my shaven head and bulky build, I'm the last person a single girl wants to meet down a dark alley. There is just one of her. She may not want our attention. She may think we're predators. Sat cross-legged on the edge of the pavement in a pair of baggy pink shorts, the girl looks up. Running a hand through her straggly, dirty blonde hair, she shakes her head.

  “Just embarrassed,” she says, with a trace of a smile.

  My knees click as I crouch down to her level. I try not to dwell on the puddle of sick, a perfect circle, casting a spotlight on the girl. "Don't worry," I say. "We've all been here. Me more than most..."

  The girl sucks in some air. Her eyes flicker, maybe afraid to take in the size of me. “I'm twenty-one next month. When will I ever learn...?”

  I study her face, searching for a flicker of humour. Only fucking with you. There is none. She's deadly serious. She's certainly grown-up. God, it's nearly thirty years since I was twenty-one. Should I tell her my age? I'm old enough to be her dad, and then some. No. It would be a pointless exchange that might freak her out. Besides, there are more pressing issues at hand. I don't want attention to be on me.

  The girl takes the silence as an opportunity to keep talking. “Thing is, I hardly ever go out anymore, not since I had my little girl. I feel terrible for thinking it, but it feels like I've been let out of prison for the day. Wanted to live it to the max, you know? The drink has gone to my head, I guess. I'm a proper lightweight now, aren't I? Was downing shots in The Oak. Me. Cass. Amy. Becky. We all were. I only popped out for some air, to clear my head. Not sure what happened...”

  I glance at the puddle, just for a second. There must have been blackcurrant in those shots. I look over my shoulder. The street lights suddenly seem very bright, making my world a blur. This girl, with her shorts barely covering her bum, coiled over in a pool of her own vomit, conjures up the sort of image the media love to latch on to. Sad state of today's youth. And yet...and yet, she is sweet, just a young girl ashamed that she has drunk too much. I want to cover her up, hide her from any prying eyes. She doesn't deserve to be seen like this, looking so unladylike. I was right when I said I'd been there. Only, when I was her age, I was doing so much worse. She is only causing damage to herself, not to others.

  “Can I take you somewhere? Away from her...?”

  Blood flows to my cheeks, I can feel it under my skin. I know how it might sound, but I can't think of any better way of saying it - I'm not great with putting words in the right order. The girl smiles, lips layered with moisture. What does that smile mean?

  "No, I'm good. Just...You don't have a tissue by any chance?"

  I spring up, suddenly twenty again. Dig into my pockets. Feels so tight, like there isn't enough room for my hands. As a young dad, I was always asked for tissues, for wipes. It was a dirty business. Now my boy is grown up and I've probably got a few years until they're asking Granddad for tissues.

  "Not got any, Ray?"

  I'd forgotten he was there. I shudder at Tony's voice, coming from nowhere. He'd been so quiet. What's he been doing all this time? Tony bounces, feeling the cold, like he is on the touchline at the football. He crumples his face and shrugs his shoulders.

  I know one solution, but I'm wracked with doubt. Is this too much? Is it a bit odd to suggest? But I've come this far, and I really want to do something to help. I'm floundering, and the feeling doesn't sit well.

/>   “I only live down the road. Give me two minutes, okay?”

  Turning to Tony, this guy I've only known an hour or so, beaten him in pool and nothing more, I say, “You wait here, yeah? Make sure she's alright...”

  Jogging down the hill with my phone to my ear, I call a taxi, barely able to get the words out. Pushing the key into the front door, the house is warm and organised, a stark contrast to the mayhem out on the street. I should have stayed home after all. I clutch at a handful of tissues from the kitchen table; there is always a plentiful supply. I turn to leave.

  She stands in the hallway. Blocking my path. My beautiful wife of twenty-six years. Katherine.

  “What's the matter? What's going on, Ray?"

  I stand in the kitchen with a handful of tissues. It is hardly a scene from CSI. You can't get anything past Kat, though. She always smells a rat. I don't know whether it has something to do with my youth, when there were plenty of rats to smell. But then, she was something of a wild child, too, by all accounts. These days she is content to keep the home, draped in her thick jumpers that hide her delightful curves. She is a housewife, a homebody, with a son who has long flown the nest.

  Of course, I wouldn't change her for the world.

  "You've left the front door wide open. It's freezing out there. Anybody could have got in. Burglars. Rapists. Murderers. You can't be heading out again, surely? You've only just got in. Ray, what is going on?”

  The questions rattle around my skull, bruising my brain. I'm on the back foot. Now she's mentioned it, this does look odd. She needs an explanation. I don't have a decent one.

  “Somebody has been sick on the pavement, love. Drunk. Just off the high street. Not far. Bit of a mess. Said I'd pop back and get some tissues. Feel a bit bad. We both know I've been in that position myself a few times...”

  “Somebody?”

  I look away. Of everything I said, that's what she picked up on. My darling wife should be a detective, not pottering around this house most of the day. I'd hoped she wouldn't pick up on it. Of course she did. “A girl. A woman. She's only a kid, really. Twenty, going on twenty-one. She just needs some help, Kat...”