Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'Tell me about it,' said Tom. 'Anyway — let's not talk office; it's doing my head in. I'm taking a leak. You lot can decide on who plays with who.' He pushed through the double set of doors leading into the toilets and walked across to the stainless steel urinal running the length of the far wall. Undoing his fly, he looked down. Nestled among the yellow squares of soap, he saw lump after lump of spat-out chewing gum. The urinal's flush started up and a fine spray of water began hissing down, droplets gathering in the dimpled and creased surfaces of the discarded gum. Staring at their rubbery surfaces, he was reminded of the little droplets of water in the folds and crevices of the regulator in the swimming pool on the Seychelles. Once again, he could taste the rubber and feel the sensation as it entered his mouth, pushing up under his lips.

Suddenly his stomach churned and he let out a little retch. He turned round, walked across the narrow room to a cubicle and emptied his bladder into a toilet.

June 2002

'This is asking for trouble,' said Dan uneasily as he turned into

Moorfield Road.

'Chill,' answered Sly. 'We're just looking.'

Outside Tom Benwell's house, Sly clicked his tongue in appreciation. 'Our man is moving up in the world. Porsche Boxter. I'll settle for that.'

The car pulled over and Sly got out and made his way quietly up to Tom's front door. Once again the letterbox was pushed open and the torch probed the interior of the hall, moving slowly over the small table, searching for the keys. Unable to see them, Sly hoped the bastard hadn't started taking more care where he left them. Before standing back up he whispered through the letterbox, 'You'll leave them out one of these nights.'

At the roundabout off junction six, Dan looked at Sly. 'Which way, Altrincham or Wilmslow?'

'Let's do Wilmslow,' announced Sly and the car took the first exit. The road was single lane until it reached the tunnel going under the end of Manchester airport's runway. Dual lanes opened up and Dan increased speed, following a Hackney cab ferrying a passenger from a late-night arrival. As they entered the tunnel they were plunged into a world of orange provided by the continuous bank of bulbs running along both edges of the ceiling. Sly watched the multiple reflections racing along the sides of the taxi like a display on a fruit machine. Then they were out the other side, following the winding road in darkness until the street lights at the edge of Wilmslow began.

The streets had a village-like feel to them — pretty terraces of houses, erratic and jumbled, roads leading to little triangles of grass or narrow junctions. Clogging the pavements and driveways all around were the latest models of expensive cars.

Soon they reached a house at the end of a slender street. Beneath a cherry tree in the front garden gleamed a Mercedes. The gates at the end of the short drive were open.

'Try this one?' asked Dan, parking up.

'OK. 'Sly jumped out and pushed the door quietly shut. A quick look through the letterbox revealed a table with a set of keys almost within touching distance. He hooked them out in a couple of seconds, then waved Dan off. But when he pressed the key fob, the lights that flashed belonged to a Renault on the road in front of the house.

'Bollocks,' said Sly, eyes on the silver Mercedes. He examined the other keys, saw the one for the front door and let himself in. Fresh flowers in the hallway, a red umbrella standing in a pot by the front door. He shone the torch at the coat rack — no man's jacket in sight. A good search of the lady's coat hanging there revealed no keys so, taking his Stanley knife out, he climbed the stairs. First bedroom had breathing, the other two were silent. He stepped into the occupied room and turned the torch on to her face. She blinked a couple of times, then raised herself up on one elbow, letting out a low moan of fear.

He stood over her, relishing the sense of power, wondering whether to yank the duvet off. 'The keys to the Mercedes. Now.'

She started shaking violently, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. No reply.

He took the Stanley knife out of his pocket and held it in front of her face. The triangular blade eased out of the stubby handle with a series of clicks.

Still no reply.

Sly leaned forward and realized her eyes were tightly shut. She was trying to pretend it was all a bad dream. He slapped her hard across the face, sent her banging against the headboard. 'The Mercedes, bitch.'

She heard that and pointed to the bedside cabinet.

He crouched down, opened the door and pulled out her handbag. Purse with a wodge of tenners. Mobile phone. Mercedes keys. He pocketed the lot and looked at her again. If she wasn't such an ugly munter he would have considered it. Instead he picked up the phone on the bedside cabinet and cut the wire with his knife. 'Stay in your bed for the next half hour. My mates are parked outside to make sure you do.'

He walked out of the room, trying not to laugh.

June 2002

As Tom walked towards his front door, he held a hand up to shoulder height and pressed the key fob. Behind him the Porsche replied with three pips, the hazard lights flashing with each one.

As he pushed open the front door, it caught on something just inside the hallway and he had to step through a narrow gap to get in. Looking down, he saw piles of Habitat bags strewn across the floor, a couple of Diesel ones hung over the banisters. A musty smell of cigarettes hung in the air and then he noticed a trail of dusty footprints running up the stairs. 'Charlotte!'he called out.

'In here!' she answered from the front room.

Wearily, he pushed the door shut with one heel and dropped his briefcase next to the shopping bags. In the front room he found her standing in a little vest top and shorts, ironing the collar of a white shirt.

'What's all that mess in the hallway?'

'If you're talking about the Habitat bags, it's stuff for the bathroom.'

'And all those footprints?'

She draped the shirt on the end of the ironing board and grabbed his hand. 'Come on, I'll show you.'

Following the trail of plaster dust, they went up the stairs and along to the door leading into the bathroom. 'Where's the fucking bath?' he asked, surveying a room stripped of all its appliances, workmen's tools littering the floor. The smell of cigarettes was much stronger.

His wife sat down on a stack of floor tiles, lifting up a Fired Earth brochure. 'I told you — we're having this room redone. Ensuite? Knocking through in to our bedroom?'

Tom leaned against the door frame. 'I don't remember you mentioning it.' Charlotte shook her head and turned back to the brochure. 'It's been on the calendar ever since we got back from the Seychelles. You just never listen to me.'

Deciding whether to escalate things into another argument, Tom said, 'What are those tiles you're sitting on?'

Charlotte ran a hand over them, as if she could feel their quality through the layers of plastic wrapping. 'Italian marble. They're absolutely gorgeous.' She stood up. 'We're having an oyster shell bath here.' She made a lavish circular motion with both hands in the far corner. Swivelling on her heel she pointed to the wall where their sink used to be. A shorn-off pipe jutting through the floorboards was all that remained. 'New sink here. 'She pointed to Tom's side. 'Walk-in shower there; you know, those ones with the jets that nearly knock you over. And,' she flicked her hand to the other corner, 'toilet and bidet there.'

'Bidet?' said Tom. 'I don't think I've ever used one in my life. Except to clean that dog turd off my shoes that time in Paris.'

'Very romantic,' answered Charlotte, before raising a hand upwards. 'Recessed halogen lights in the ceiling. That wall will be taken out so we can walk straight in from our room, and the door you're standing in will be closed up. We'll have one of those vertical radiators in its place.'