The Other Killer

The Other Killer by Heidi Field

One - Now

Standing on the pavement outside the prison is a rush like I haven’t felt in twenty years, like someone’s been standing on my chest for two decades and they just stepped off. Thoughts swirl around in my head, stuff I haven’t dared think about for so long, possibilities, ideas, plans, simple shit, like, I get to take a dump on a crapper with a seat, what it’s gonna feel like to sleep on a mattress with springs, not having to watch my back or get my room turned over just because some arsehole feels like making my life just a little bit harder. I don’t gotta do jack shit if I don’t wanna, don’t gotta do what another man tells me to, don’t gotta sit in a room with bars like a zoo animal no more.

Hell, I’m a goddam free motherfucker.

Last time I stood outside in the fresh air, allowed to go wherever I chose, I was nineteen, a stupid, angry kid who’d got himself caught up with a piece of scum that stole my life. I was naive, scared, dumb as fuck, and I made some choices back then that I’m not proud of, not at all. Choices that I’ve paid for, for the last twenty years, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.

I roll back my shoulders, stand up tall, before turning around and looking back at the prison that’s been my home for more than half my life. It looks like it feels—bleak, grey and unyielding, full of misery and mistakes and a whole lotta psychos. I look around, my skin tingling at the sight of the open spaces surrounding me, the options that lie ahead, making my mind buzz and my fists clench thinking about all the hurdles I’ll have to jump to be accepted back into society.

A man stands a short distance away, staring at me, not moving. I smile, but the surly bugger just keeps on staring. Bet he’s wondering what I did, trying to work out if he recognises me. Doubt it. I’ve changed a whole lot inside, twenty years has erased the kid I was when I was arrested, and now I’ve got grey hairs, stubble, a busted nose, and some deep wrinkles. I’m bigger too, still six feet tall, but I’m broader, filled out, spent my time getting beefed up so that I could fend off all the bacon bonces that fancied a pop at Gunner’s bitch.

Been imagining this day for the last few years. Kinda expected to be faced with a baying mob of aggrieved parents and family members wanting to tear me apart. Guess time heals, or they figured hanging onto that much hate wasn’t worth it. Who knows. Not sure I’d ever forgive and forget. Nah. I’d be waiting, if it had been my boy dug up in those woods. Suppose I should be grateful to the prison system for keeping my release under the radar and giving me a chance.

Mum said she’d come get me, but I wanted to make my own way, walk around like everyone else. I done my time, paid my dues, wrote letters of apology, spent hours talking to the prison chaplain, the ‘nicker’ we called him, understanding what I did and why, trying to make amends and do better. Mostly, I did it for mum. Worked hard to show her I can be a person she can be proud of, show her that she didn’t get it all wrong. She stuck by me, and I owe her, and I wanna make it up to her. Bottom line.

Be lying if I didn’t say I was hoping Shiv might make an appearance. That’s the real reason I blew mum off. Stand for a few minutes and look around, save for the creepy guy who’s still staring, the place is deserted. It’s one thing visiting me in a locked room with guards keeping watch, guess the reality of seeing me a free man is more daunting than she expected it to be. I get it. Still, I’m out, now. Pretty sure she won’t ignore me forever.

Day’s not too bad, bit of a chill, but dry and bright enough. I can see the town stretching away from the prison, and somewhere in among all those buildings and cars and people is a train station. Mum got me a mobile phone, put on a payment card so that I can get a train ticket to my new home in a town called Duldridge, a not very inspiring name, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I could’ve ended up in a government hole full of sad ex-cons like me. Mum bought a flat in Duldridge a few years ago, readying for my release, knowing that I’d need to start afresh, new name, new town, new job, new me.

I start walking, looking over my shoulder a couple times expecting to see a guard chasing me, shouting at me to stop, yelling that they got it wrong, that I’m not free after all. Gives me the chills. I walk past people and they ignore me, don’t even look up. Cars drive by, quieter than the cars twenty years ago, silently gliding by like I’m in a futuristic sci-fi movie. None of them honk or slow down to stare at the Peasedale Accomplice. That’s who I became known as inside, The Peasedale Accomplice, after I broke some weasel’s wrist for calling me Gunner’s bitch one time too many. Took a few years to get to that place, lotta hours in the gym, a good share of beatings. Never became anyone else’s bitch, though, however tough things got.

Nothing looks how I remember, but I was only nineteen, and I’d spent most of my time with Gunner, or riding the trains, or holed up in my bedroom smoking weed and watching crap online. Don’t think I ever knew what the world really looked like. What it looks like now is busy and fast and flashy. I’ve only been out an hour and already I miss the bars and the routine and the quiet contemplation of the carpentry shop.

I find the station, follow the signs to buy a ticket. Whole thing’s a mind fuck, no glass booths with people behind them, just a row of machines. A guy in a uniform comes over.

“Need some help?”

Guess I look as lost as I feel. “Need a single to Duldridge.”

He taps some buttons and I watch. “Payment.”

My hand shakes as I unlock the phone and find the wallet. I wave it at the machine, and a digital ticket pops up on my screen. Cool.

The guy smiles at me. “Have a nice day.”

Fuck. Haven’t been smiled at like that, ever. He even told me to have a nice day, and you know what, I fucking will. I’m already having the best damn day in twenty years. I could cum without even touching my cock I’m so goddam fired up.

Trains look different, sleek, silent, still work the same way they did twenty years ago though. Station’s fancier and there’s a shop and electronic gates and flashing screens, but the trains come into the stations and people get on at the platforms, same as they always did. I buy a can of coke and a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar from the shop. Don’t wanna spend all my money at once, need to be sensible, plan, look after myself. No point getting dragged back inside ‘cause I spent all my cash and got caught nicking stuff, I’m too old for that kinda shit now. I’ve got a chance to get things right and I’m gonna do that, big time—make the right choices, do good things, keep my head down.

Sitting by the window, watching the world go by, is a dream come true, like I’m back to my safe place, riding the rails, the life ahead of me full of promise. The train fills up, two women sit opposite me, chatting on about their day out, lattes in this café, lunch in that restaurant, cocktails at a swanky sounding bar. They both look at me, coy, trying to hide their interest, but I see their reflections in the window when they make faces at each other. I’ve aged well, I know that, kept myself fit and the shaggy salt and pepper hair suits me. I reckon the busted nose gives me a bad boy flavour, too.

I’m not interested in the women, though, it’s the group of teenagers standing by the doors that draw my attention. Haven’t lost my knack for sniffing out the wrong-uns, the ones whose parents don’t know where they are, no idea what shit they get up too. I can smell the weed, and they are doing a poor job of hiding the vodka bottles in their backpacks.

One of them stands out, the quietest one, looking around, nervous. They were the ones I always went for, easy pickings, too afraid to say no, desperate to belong, neglected enough that the idea of a new friend was like an invitation to Buckingham bloody Palace. The others all jostled for their positions—coolest, funniest, bravest. Load of bullshit and it’s no different inside, everyone had their place, played their role, did what they needed to stay alive and avoid a kicking.

Nope. Nothing’s changed.

Duldridge. Not so bad, after all. It’s a small station, two tracks, in and out, a high bridge joining them. I pull out the slip of paper with my address on it. Mum said there’d be a key in a box under the stairs, and she wrote down the code. I’ve got money for a taxi, but I’m walking, don’t need to be shut in anything if I can possibly avoid it. My legs work, and I can explore the town that I’m gonna call home as I go.

Mum didn’t do a bad job, Duldridge is alright. There’s a high street with plenty of shops and a few pubs—I’ll try them out later—a big supermarket, spotted a barber, and an all-night gym, too. Soon as I get set up with a job, I’ll be joining that gym, working out late, after a day's work and dinner, avoid the busy periods. I’m not looking to make friends, just get by, get myself a steady routine.

An old man with a dog is waiting by the crossing, the mutt sniffing my leg as I stand behind him. The old guy’s bent and gnarly, hands are bony and mottled, wisps of hair clinging to his wrinkled head. This is how I imagine Gunner looked before he died. The arsehole went quietly in his sleep. No fucking justice. I’ve always expected to go out with a bang, something painful, sudden, karma giving me one last slap in the face. The old man drops something, could be his wallet, I reach down and pick it up, handing it to the old guy before crossing the lights. First good deed of my life, right there, and it feels good.

Mum got me a first-floor apartment, end of a terrace, picked so that no one can look down at me from upstairs or bump into me as I come and go. The less people I know, the better. Worst thing I can do is go making friends and then shooting my mouth off, blowing my cover and face having to up sticks and start again.

The steps up to the apartment are on the outside of the building, metal and wide, and there’s a pale green front door, looks like it’s been freshly painted. I find the key box, punch in the numbers and open it up. Two keys. Yale and a deadlock. She trying to keep me inside or other people out? Whatever. I take the steps, unlock the door and go inside.

Gotta give it to her; she’s done me proud. New grey carpet, pale green walls, cream material sofa and armchair and all the furniture is light wood and matching—a coffee table, TV on a unit, shelves with some books on. The kitchen is new, with pale yellow wood doors and she filled the big fridge freezer jam packed with food and drink. Nothing alcoholic. She’s not saving me from anything. Cupboards are full, too, tins and pasta and rice and snacks, bread in the bread bin. She’s even got me a blender and a microwave.

There’s a fair few people out there who’d be sick at the sight of all this, seeing me here, what I’ve been given, fact that I’ve got a family that gives a shit about me like this. Know I don’t deserve it, but here I am so I might as well make the most of it. You’re here till you’re here, right, so I’m just gonna see where all this takes me.

I check the bedroom and bathroom, all brand spanking new towels, toiletries, even some old man pyjamas folded at the end of the bed, and clothes in the wardrobe. I look out of the front window onto the street below. I bet there’s a neighbour out there who’s seen me arrive, a street always has someone keeping an eye on things. Scanning the road and the windows, I spot her soon enough. Not very subtle, standing on her front doorstep looking straight up at me, with blonde curls piled up on her head and a lime green dress with big sleeves that looks like she stepped outta the seventies. Younger than me, but she’s not in shape, standing there with a hand on her hip smoking a cigarette. Bet she’s over here later asking me all sorts and trying to get her leg over.

A boy—twelve, thirteen maybe, scrawny, white blond mop of hair—dumps his bike on the paving slabs in front of her. She points to his bike, says something to him, kicking the bike at the same time. The kid ignores her, pushes her out of the way as he goes through the door. I smile. There’s my redemption, right there.

Mum picked me a perfect location.

TWO - Before

It didn’t take me long to realise that secondary school wasn’t for me. My little sister Lily had been dead two years and her dad, Breck, mum’s ex, had gone back to Ireland. It had been a better two years at home than the six before when Breck was living with us. He was a prize arsehole—angry, drunk, and he hit me. Hated me being around Lily. Now they’re both gone life is easier, kind of.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I thunder down the stairs making sure mum can hear me. She shuts herself away in her office most of the time, working, and we don’t talk a lot, not since Lily. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened, and she doesn’t want me having any counselling, I guess because she is worried I’ll slip up and tell them what really happened. Wasn’t her fault, not exactly. Lily wouldn’t come down from the tree, and mum tried to grab her to stop her climbing higher. She was only five, and I was supposed to have been looking after her. I wasn’t going up that tree, no way. Maybe burying her in that log pile then lying to the police wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Mum’s been funny with me ever since.

“Bye, Mum.”

She doesn’t respond, so I jump off the last step and open the door to her little office at the front of the house. She doesn’t move from her desk, clicking away on the keyboard.

“I’m going to school.”

She turns on her swivel chair. “OK, Mason. Have a good day.”

"Yeah.” I force a smile.

I like being in the house, safe and comfortable, mum leaving me alone most of the time to play my games and watch stupid clips on YouTube. She makes me dinner most nights, and sometimes we watch a movie together. She runs a lot, does yoga. Not sure if she’s got any friends, no one ever comes over. She had a boyfriend last year, but he was awful—weedy and quiet and always sucked his teeth when he looked at me.

Outside feels unsettling, like there’s a monster about to pounce or a cyclone about to suck me into it. Might have something to do with Hendrix and his meathead mates who hang around on the corner waiting for me. I try to leave late to avoid them. It’s raining today, so I pull up the hood on my camo puffer coat and fix the popper so it doesn’t blow off. I take a breath and gear myself up for the fifteen-minute hell walk to the building of doom. Here I go!

I walk down the path, open the gate, close it behind me, and look along the road. It’s clear. The rain is getting worse, and I can already feel water dripping down my nose. I get to the corner and turn left to walk to the main road and there it is. A torrent of water shoots up into my face, up my nose, in my mouth, and soaks my trousers. While I splutter and wipe the filthy water from my eyes, I hear the laughter and the triumph from Hendrix and his cronies.

“Brilliant.”

“Worked like a dream.”

“My shoes are wet now.”

“Not as wet as the siblicidal dweeb.”

One of them has obviously looked up the word siblicide and decided this will be my title for the duration of secondary school. It’s caught on in class. I haven’t told mum, ‘cause she’ll go straight into school and complain and make my life even worse.