Nick Oldham - Backlash

Wilmslow, Cheshire, England

It was time to kill again.

David Gill placed the newspaper down across his lap and took a deep breath to steady his excitement and anticipation. He could feel the tension building up to bursting point in his body; like an enraged beast, it tore through his veins. Uncontrollable, but wonderful. Demanding to be released.

With tingling fingers he folded the newspaper neatly, slotting the sections back inside each other as though it had only just dropped through the front door. He put the heavy broadsheet down on the coffee table, aligning it carefully with the edge of the piece of furniture.

He flexed his fingers and eased a pair of disposable gloves onto his hands, pulling them up his wrists and over his cuffs. After this he adjusted the elasticated shower cap on his head, fitting it halfway over his ears, totally covering his short cropped hair. He wriggled his toes in the disposable paper shoes he wore over his feet and shook his head, uttering a snort of a laugh and grinning sardonically as he thought, ‘Bloody forensics. . the trouble you have to go to. .’ He had a light feeling in his chest and, as he stood up, he shook himself and shrugged his shoulders inside his neat blue overalls. He was ready to perform.

Gill went out of the living room, walked down the short hallway, crept upstairs to the landing and slid quietly to the closed bathroom door. The only sound he could hear was that of his own blood pounding through his head, driven by a heart working in overdrive. He stood stock still by the door, head cocked, brow furrowed, as if listening for something. Then he knocked lightly. Politely even.

There was no response — even though he knew there was someone inside.

He knew because he had put them there.

‘Hello. It’s me. Mind if I come in?’ he called brightly through the door, awaiting a reply which did not come. Not that he truly expected to hear one. The person in the bathroom was in no position to make one. Gill was just playing a silly old game. His idea of a little joke. Designed to lighten and brighten up a heavy — very heavy — situation. ‘Well,’ he announced, ‘here I come anyway — ready or not, whether you’re decent or you’re not.’

Gill gripped the door handle and, for effect, pushed it down with excruciating slowness, just to pile on the agony. He also cackled maniacally, like a pantomime witch. He was really beginning to enjoy himself now.

The woman in the bathroom could not have responded in any way to Gill’s original question even if she had wanted to. Her whole head had been encased in parcel tape, with the exception of a slit for her eyes and a gap underneath her nose to allow her to breathe. The tape covered her mouth and had been looped under her chin and back round the top of her head so that it was impossible for her to move her jaw at all. She was quite a small woman and had been laid full length in the bath, naked. Her hands had been bound behind her by the same type of tape, which had also been wrapped round her legs from her thighs to her ankles. She was quivering with fear, her whole body shaking.

Her name was Lucinda Graveson. She was a lawyer.

The bathroom door creaked open, inch by inch. Gill curled his fingers round the edge of it, cackled again, and then showed his face and stepped fully into the room. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked her gently, a smile of sadness playing on his lips. ‘Oops, sorry. . can’t speak, can we? All trussed up and nowhere to go. How inconvenient for you. Still. . it’s for the best. . now, what shall we do here?’

Lucinda Graveson began to squirm in a valiant, but ultimately useless attempt to free herself. Muted, terrified noises emanated from somewhere deep inside her throat. She was exhausted from trying and the effort subsided until she once more lay quivering and whimpering. Gill gazed at her indulgently, shaking his head.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ he advised her.

Gill had previously arranged his tools in a line along a folded towel on top of the toilet cistern. He turned away from Graveson and made a show of inspecting the shiny instruments: he counted them, touched them, picked them up and held them up to the light, assessed them, hummed and hawed, muttered a few words such as, ‘Nice. . lovely piece. . wow!’ and replaced them in their neat row. He twiddled his fingers with mock indecision and then made a selection.

A scalpel. Long. Sparkling. The blade honed to perfection. Sharper than a razor.

He spun back to Graveson and showed her the scalpel. A gurgle of despair churned inside the lawyer’s guts as, at last and inevitably, she lost bowel control.

Gill’s shoulders sagged impatiently. ‘Bloody hell, Lucinda — why did you have to go and do that? You’ve gone and shit yourself. Ah well, never mind, let’s get you all cleaned up, shall we? You see, the problem is that blood and shit don’t really mix well.’

He replaced the scalpel on the towel and reached over the bath for the shower head fitted above the taps. It was a power shower and he went to work, whistling as he sprayed away the runny faeces down the plughole, constantly adjusting the temperature control so it was just right. Not too hot, not too cold.

‘There we are, done and dusted,’ he declared eventually. He slotted the shower head into its wall fitting and turned it off. ‘Now,’ he said, wagging a finger, ‘you’re not going to do anything like that again, are you, Lucinda?’

She shook her head.

‘Good, that’s good.’

Gill reached for the scalpel again, chatting brightly. ‘I’ve just been reading the Sunday Times downstairs. God, it’s a weight, you know? I wonder what the paper boys think about Sunday papers, they’re so heavy now. . and Saturday’s too. .I mean, The Times on Saturday is almost as bulky as the Sunday one!’ He spun round with a flourish, scalpel in hand, making Graveson cringe and cower. He leaned over her and she tried to contort herself away. ‘Don’t bother struggling — you’ll only make things worse for yourself. . and anyway, what do you think I’m going to do with this little thing?’ He held the scalpel up right in front of his face and drew it towards his nose, making his eyes cross. ‘D’you think I’m going to kill you with it? Don’t be an arse. Now relax, Lucinda. . let things progress.’

Gill’s hand hovered a few inches over Graveson’s face, the scalpel pointing downwards. He placed the tip of the blade into the parcel tape wrapped over her mouth, then he drew the scalpel along the tape, cutting a two-inch slit in it which allowed Lucinda a tiny fraction of movement of the lips. ‘There — see — didn’t hurt a bit, did it?’ Gill squatted down onto his haunches by the side of the bath and patted her on the head. He stood up and crossed to the toilet, positioning the scalpel carefully back into its allotted place on the towel.

A murmur came from the slit in the tape that was now Lucinda Graveson’s mouth.

‘Sorry — what? Didn’t quite catch that one.’ Once more Gill leaned over her, his ear a couple of inches above the slit. ‘Say it again.’

‘Why?’ Graveson was able to hiss. ‘Why?’

Gill laughed. He had known this would be the question, had been anticipating it. It was the one they all asked. Why me? Why fucking me? Of all the unfortunate people in the world, why does it have to be me? Gill scratched his head. ‘You mean you don’t know? Hmm? Let me think now. I’d say it’s because you are one of the causes of the problem, Lucinda Graveson, LLB, and whatever other stupid, petty, meaningless qualifications you possess. The problem being society and the way tradition has been stepped on and crushed and brushed under the carpet as though it’s dirt.’ His voice began to rise as he spoke, becoming an hysterical whine. ‘The way the ordained order of things has been turned upside down. The tail wagging the dog, that’s what!’ He slammed an angry fist hard into the bathroom door, hurting himself. ‘That’s why,’ he said, shaking his hand, ‘that’s the fucking reason why! I’m just doing my bit — my little, inconsequential bit — to try and rectify all this injustice.’