Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

George tried the number again but the line was now dead. He'd been ringing Tom's house quite a lot over the last few weeks but Charlotte never answered. Listening to Tom's tortured breathing made him feel good. But the fact she was never there presented a problem. He needed to know where she lived if he was to carry out his plans for her.

He tried the number again but there was still no tone. Strange, he thought, wondering if it had anything to do with the fire he could see burning in the back garden the other evening.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that her pilates class was in an hour. He set off towards the health centre so he could watch from across the road as she arrived. This time he'd keep track of her all night, right the way back to her front door.

She emerged from the health centre at ten past eight and walked up to Albert Square, where she met another man. They went into some trendy-looking cafe bar and George sat on the benches in front of the town hall for another two hours. Finally they emerged and walked down to Deansgate. A few hundred yards on they disappeared into a place called The Living Room.

George approached the doors but the bouncer waved him on before he could get near. 'Not tonight mate; we're full.'

He crossed the road, stood in a dark side street and waited. A group of glamorous people arrived minutes later and walked straight in. Charlotte finally appeared at two o'clock in the morning, arms around the man she had arrived with. She seemed full of energy, laughing raucously and grabbing at the man's buttocks. George's eyes widened in alarm as they flagged down a passing cab. He was on the wrong side of the road. As they jumped in he emerged into the light, furiously waving at a cab as it approached on his side of the road. The driver pulled over and he jumped in the back. 'Turn around! Follow that taxi over there!'

'You what, mate?' said the driver, twisting round in his seat to look at his passenger.

George was staring out the back window as Charlotte's cab turned up a side street and disappeared from view. 'Do a U-turn, you imbecile! Hurry up!' The driver turned the keys and the diesel engine rattled to a halt. 'Get out, you fat prick.'

George roared with frustration.

October 2002

Carefully Tom raised the nail scissors to his face. As he started cutting away clumps of beard, he felt better and better. Now he had accepted that he was merely an instrument of the Masters, courage and confidence flooded through him. His life had purpose once again.

When the stubble was short enough, he filled the sink with water, then shaved off the remains with a razor that had lain unused for over a month. In his bedroom he kicked aside the pile of musty-smelling clothes that he had been wearing for weeks. He turned to the X-treme branded tracksuit and baseball cap laid out on the bed and put them on.

In his garage he stocked the cart with boxes of gum and competition entry forms. The minivan he'd hired was parked on the drive and he wheeled the cart up the ramps and into the rear of the vehicle.

Next he drove into Manchester, parking by the Student Union on Oxford Road. He hung about on the flight of steps leading up to the main entrance, waiting for a group of three students. Soon he spotted two lads and a girl. He walked over to them and asked if they'd each like to earn thirty pounds cash for an hour's work. Within seconds all three were in the van and he was heading towards the city centre.

En route he explained to them that, because of a mix-up, he hadn't received a permit to distribute goods. If any officials approached them, he said, be prepared to pack up fast.

By 2.50 p. m. he had wheeled the cart on to the end of the concourse leading up to Piccadilly station. Two of the students — now wearing the ice-blue tracksuits with bags full of gum packets over their shoulders — positioned themselves on the pavement. The girl manned the cart to supervise the filling-in of the competition entry forms. Tom watched as clusters of shoppers approached from the city centre, hauling their purchases towards the trains, heading back to houses already crowded with junk.

He watched them ambling closer, many idly chewing gum, arms pulled straight by the weight of the bags hanging from their hands. Boots, River Island, Next, Sainsbury's, JJB Sports, Primark, HMV, Tesco.

The Masters' voices pointed out how similar they were to cows, chewing the cud and plodding back to their sheds, shopping bags swaying like swollen udders. And looking at them Tom realized the voices were right: they were nothing more than beasts.

'Hello there,' he said brightly as two women approached the cart. 'I see you like gum. Care for a free promotional pack?'

'Citrus flavour? Sounds interesting,' one said, plucking the gum from her mouth and dropping it on the pavement.

Tom's stomach turned over. Swallowing hard, he said, 'How about the chance for a luxury holiday to Malaysia? Just fill out this form — it only takes two seconds.'

Tom knelt in front of the coffee table in his front room as if he was at an altar. After selecting the Swiss army knife's most slender blade, he lifted the first pack of X-treme chewing gum. He stood it upright and pushed the thin point of the blade under the triangular shaped flap of foil at its end. By wiggling the blade from side to side, he got its point underneath, then prised the flap upwards with a tiny crackling sound. The smell of lemons entered his nostrils. He turned the pack around and prised the other triangle of foil up as well. Now he was able to fold open the end wrapping, pushing it back with the blade until the ends of the seven sticks inside were exposed to view. Pushing the sealed end of the packet with his thumb, he eased the sticks upwards until the top of one stood clear. Grasping it with the penknife's tweezer attachment, he dragged the stick out of the pack and laid it on the table.

Good, the voices coaxed, good.

Gently he slid the foil-coated stick clear of the paper jacket it was encased in. Next he turned the fold of foil at each end of the stick backwards and used the blade of the knife to ease apart the serrated edge of the wrapper, revealing the stick of gum itself. Picking it up with the tweezers, he dusted each side of it with the special powder then relaid it in its foil wrapping. After that he followed the process in reverse — refolding the foil wrapping, sliding it back into the paper jacket, easing it into the pack alongside the other six sticks. Once they were all pushed properly back into the foil outer packaging, he folded the triangular flaps back down and sealed them with a spot of glue.

Turning it over in his hands, he noted with satisfaction that there was no way anyone could tell that the pack had been tampered with.

Pausing at the end of Berrybridge Road, Tom placed the briefcase at his feet, took the bag of powder from his pocket and allowed himself a pinch. As he continued along the street, he looked at the dozens of other commuters walking with bowed heads for work that morning. He smoothed the arm of his suit, glad he looked exactly the same.

He turned up the driveway of number fifteen, stopped at the front door and knocked twice. A few moments later, the door was opened by a young woman with spiky blonde hair, wearing a dressing gown. She looked at him and placed her hand back on the door in readiness to close it again. 'I'm sorry, I'm not interested in whatever you're selling.'

Tom held up the competition entry form she had completed several weeks before. 'Miss Polly Mather?'

She peered at the piece of paper, recognizing her handwriting and signature, still unsure of what she'd filled in.

'You recently entered our prize draw for a year's supply of Xtreme chewing gum and a luxury holiday for two in Malaysia.'