Mark Sennen - Touch

Harry walked from the lighthouse across the grass, hardly a glance as he dodged a gaggle of overweight and half-naked teenage girls. Great curves of flesh, fluttering eyelids and red lips teasing ketchup soaked fries. He smiled to himself and trotted down the steps to the road, pausing for a car. Down here, below the plateau of the Hoe, it was quieter, just one or two people hurrying up the road to see the display. He crossed over to the wall, some hundred metres away from the boyfriend. He walked along the pavement towards him, just another patron heading down to the puke-filled streets of the Barbican. Nearer now and he realised the lad stood right next to one of the openings in the wall, which led to the maze of terraces below. There was a cafe to the right — closed — and to the left little paths weaved along the top of the steep cliffs and amongst low scrub. No one would be down there at this time of day. Harry looked back at the Hoe where the firework display was reaching a crescendo. A myriad of rockets streamed into the air and all heads craned skywards, eyes fixated on the colourful patterns being painted onto the black canvas. Harry turned to the boy. He appeared to be the only person not interested in the display as he faced out to sea as if looking for some answer out on the inky brine. Harry moved closer.

‘Excuse me? Could you tell me the-’

The figure turned to face him and Harry brought what he was holding in his left hand up level with the boy’s eyes. Flash!

‘What the fuck?’

The boy’s arms went up to shield himself and he knocked the camera from Harry’s hand. It didn’t make any difference because with the other hand low down Harry thrust the kitchen knife forward. Sheffield steel glided through Far Eastern cotton and into Devon flesh. A strange gurgle came as the boy opened his mouth, but he did not scream. Harry was disappointed the boy’s face showed no sign of surprise. Never mind, there would be plenty of time for surprises later. Like there had been with Forester.

Harry wheeled the boy around and pushed him through the gap in the wall, bustling him to the ground in the darkness on the other side. He flung the knife seaward and brought out a couple of cable ties from his pocket. He pulled the boy’s arms behind him and secured the wrists with a satisfying zip sound. Then he secured one around the boy’s ankles. Finally he took the leather gag out and fastened it, pulling the buckle tight with his knee on the back of the boy’s skull. It was all over in a few seconds and Harry dragged the groaning lump ten metres along the path and left him concealed under a small bush.

Nice work, Harry! I never liked him much anyway.

‘Thank you, Luce.’ He realised he had said the words aloud and wondered if he wasn’t going a little bit crazy.

Harry went back to where he had attacked the boy and scrabbled around on the ground looking for his camera, but it had bounced away off the path and down the cliff to the sea below. Never mind, the thing was only a point-and-shoot. Now for the car. He walked back towards where he had parked it, thinking all the time how easy the job had been.

But why, Harry? He was so ordinary, he hadn’t done anything, he wasn’t doing any harm.

He touched Lucy, that was why. The same way Forester soiled Trinny and Mitchell ruined Carmel. People couldn’t be allowed to get away with doing things like that. Not when they involved his girls.

Do you mean he fucked me?

Yes. He spoilt her. Lucy had been Harry’s girl. He sat on her lap when he was little and she had been supposed to be pure for him to love. He had given her a chance, but sadly it had turned out she was dirty. Like the rest of them.

You knew I had a boyfriend. Did you think that meant just holding hands?

He knew boyfriends did more than just hold hands but he had been appalled at what it had turned Lucy into.

Harry, my love, you are mad.

Mad, yes. Quite probably.

Harry took fifteen minutes to walk back to his car, all the time with Lucy still whispering in his head about a world populated only with sluts. Ignoring her he got in the car and drove round to get the body. The road up along the seafront was a one-way street so to get to the gap in the wall he had to first drive round through the Barbican and that’s when he saw the flashing lights.

Not red or green or white like the ones out in the Sound, but blue.

That’s OK, he thought, probably sorting out some ruck outside a bar.

No Harry, look where they are heading!

Lucy was right and he followed the police car through the Barbican and up round the curve of Madeira Road toward the Hoe. There were more blue lights and Harry spotted another police car and an ambulance. He swung past at a crawl and could see paramedics attending to someone on a stretcher.

God moves in mysterious ways, Harry thought, but sometimes the bastard didn’t get it.

Harry! It was your fault, you didn’t hide the body well enough, or somebody saw us.

Us? What was Lucy talking about?

Yes, Harry. Us. We are an item.

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had told Lucy again and again that she was not the one.

I know, but I want to help you. So I have decided to stay with you for a while longer since you can’t be trusted on your own.

Blimey, Harry thought. That was an understatement.

He headed back up past the Hoe and then down into town again and along Bretonside, intending to return to the cottage. At one point he nearly knocked down a group of girls. Bare legs and heels, push up bras and quivering hemispheres of white temptation.

Sluts, Harry. A world full of sluts!

Maybe Lucy was right, but where could he go to find someone pure enough? Emma was sixteen and yet she had turned out to be a little tart.

Younger, Harry, younger.

Younger? Younger than Emma? He didn’t like that, it was disgusting, illegal. What did Lucy think he was?’

Mad, Harry, you said so yourself. But don’t worry, I can help you. Together we can do anything.

Anything?

Yes. Just think. You can do anything, have everything!

Lucy was beginning to sound like Mitchell, Harry thought, as the car sped along Embankment Road and out across Laira Bridge. The Plym glided by beneath, black, glossy and shimmering in the starlight like the PVC skirt on one of the girls he had just seen.

We can find her, Harry. But not in this town. There is nothing pure here. But don’t worry, if all else fails I have got an idea.

St Michaels Church, Malstead Down. Saturday 6th November. 9.12 am

Jean Sotherwell was quite aware of the kerfuffle surrounding her monopoly of the flower arranging at St Michaels, but to let on would be to stoop to the level of her detractors which would never do. After all, only one woman in the village had the required skills and artistic flair to please the Rector, not to mention the dear Lord of course, and if Hilary Osbourne, the old crone, couldn’t accept the fact then tough. She should stick to her simple ArrowWord magazines and those mindless reality TV programmes she wittered on about. However, Jean thought in a moment of contrition, the good Lord did insist on loving one’s enemy as thine own brother. But she found it so especially hard when they were ignorant and stupid.

It had been the same in her career as a nurse. She enjoyed caring for the injured, ill and dying when those people were clever, witty, and imaginative. The ignorant, simple-minded majority had been more of a challenge. Their rude manners, boorish behaviour and incessant demands often got to her, and she had questioned her vocation and at times her faith. Still, her working days were over now and at the final tally she thought the real good she had done would outweigh the bad thoughts. And her good deeds hadn’t finished yet, she reminded herself.