Daily Routine Orders 6
Time for a brief discourse on the subject of killing. Killing humans. Murder, not to put too fine a point on it.
Oh yes, that’s what they’d call it. If they ever found out about it, which they won’t. Murder. The deliberate killing by a human being of another human being. But you see, I was trained to kill. As a soldier, it was my chief function to kill, waste, do in – whatever you want to call it – those among my fellow humans whose activities happened to displease the powers that be in my country. And this is where the confusion arises. This is where distinctions get a bit blurred. The killing by a soldier of the enemies of his country is not murder. They don’t jail you for it. In fact, if you do it really well they give you a medal. So why, if I’m disposing of these druggy dossers whose activities are dragging the country down, am I a murderer? It’s all nonsense. I’m not a murderer at all – I’m a soldier out of uniform, killing for his country. Trouble is, is that because the country doesn’t approve, the whole thing becomes a hole-and-corner affair. You’ve got to hide what you’re doing, and that brings us to the hard part, which is DISPOSING OF THE BODY.
You see, soldiers – soldiers in uniform – don’t have this problem. They don’t have to conceal the bodies of their victims. Quite the reverse in fact. They lay ’em out in rows, count ’em, take snapshots of ’em, like shooting parties used to do with pheasant. Only difference is they don’t eat ’em. They shove ’em in a big hole and bury ’em and that’s that. No problem. Everyone knows they’re there, nobody cares. But if you’re out of uniform, like me – if you’re what they call a murderer – you’ve got to get rid of the body, and that’s a real worry because, believe it or not, it’s far and away the hardest bit of the whole job.
Killing’s easy. Dead easy. Especially if you’ve been trained to it, though of course anyone can do it if they put their mind to it, but more murderers have come unstuck because they made a mess of disposing of the body than through any other cause. It’s a fact.
Everything’s been tried. Acid baths. Dismemberment. Cement boots and a deep river. Everything. And more often than not it’s no use – the body (or parts of it) turns up sooner or later and the killer is caught.
I won’t be. No. Because unlike most so-called murderers, I’ve planned in advance. My flat’s on the ground floor, and there’s a handy little space – quite a big space, actually – under the floorboards. It’s beautifully ventilated – stick your hand down there and you feel the draught – so it’ll stay cool, even on the warmest day. That’s important. I won’t go into why because it’s not a pleasant subject – let’s just say bodies in a warm place have a way of betraying their presence after a day or two. So – I’ve got this place – I like to think of it as my built-in refrigerator – and that’s where our little friend of last night now lies. As I have said, he doesn’t feel the cold, nor is he cluttering up anyone’s doorway. The whole thing’s so much tidier, don’t you think?
I found a doorway. A good deep one, so deep that light from street lamps and shopfronts didn’t reach the door itself and you could sit with your back against it and not be seen by passers-by.
It was nine o’clock, and cold. I sat on my bedroll with my backpack between my feet, watching the bright narrow rectangle of movement and colour at the end of my little tunnel. People passed continuously but nobody glanced my way. Nobody knew I was there. Across the street I could see subway railings with a news vendor’s pitch, a road junction and part of King’s Cross Station. I sat thinking about my rat-faced former landlord who couldn’t spell negotiation – about how one day I’d catch him unawares in a dark alleyway, and about the inventive and wondrous things I’d do to him there. I was angry and a bit shaken, I suppose, but I wasn’t particularly unhappy. Not then. My anonymity was a comfort – at least I wasn’t going to be seen by people who knew me. Also, I was one among many. My plight could have no curiosity value for anybody who might spot me. And there was no further need to fret about next week’s rent. I felt – free, I suppose. This was before I became acquainted with some of the setbacks, like hunger pangs and real cold and the problem of what to do when you have to go to the lavatory and guard your bedroom at the same time. It was this last one which got to me first and lost me my doorway and more besides.
As I’ve said, I found my lovely doorway around nine o’clock, and for a time it was okay sitting there watching the world go by. In fact it was quite pleasant in a way. But by eleven my feet and legs were cold, I was tired, my bedroll was giving me a numb bum and I was dying for a pee. I saw no problem, though. The station was just across the way. There’d be toilets in there somewhere. All I had to do was stroll across. The numbness would go and the walk would warm me up. Course I’d have to take my stuff. If I left it back here in the dark it might be all right, but you can’t take that sort of chance when your bedroll and backpack are all you have in the world. So.
Quarter past eleven I got up and toted my stuff across to the station. The Gents turned out to be halfway down platform one, but there was no barrier so I motored on down, passing some down-and-outs sitting on benches. The place was underground. I trotted down the steps, beginning to relax like you do when you know relief is imminent, and hit snag one. At the foot of the stairs was a turnstile. Ten pence. I dropped my roll and fished in my pockets. A fifty, two twenties and some copper. No ten. There was a glass box – a sort of office, so there must be an attendant. I called out, ‘Excuse me?’ My predicament was becoming acute. There was no answer. Nothing stirred. I glanced all round, chucked my roll over the stile and followed it.
The relief was terrific. Halfway through, the door of a cubicle opened and out popped a runty little guy of about fifty with a peaked cap and a fag hanging out of his gob. ‘’Ere,’ he croaked. ‘’Ave you paid?’
‘N-no,’ I stammered. He’d made me splash my trainers. ‘I haven’t got –’
‘I don’t give a toss what you haven’t got, son.’
He was really hoarse – a sixty-a-day man. I could probably push him over with one hand. I’d been about to ask him to change twenty pence, but his attitude upset me. I decided I’d vault the stile and save myself ten p. ‘I’ve no dosh,’ I told him, zipping up.
He stood in front of the turnstile. ‘You don’t leave till you’ve paid.’ His fag wagged up and down as he spoke, sifting ash down his front. I looked at him. ‘Get out the way, old man.’
He shook his head. More ash. I moved towards him, swinging my roll. He dodged and swung an inept punch at my head. I ducked, shoved him aside and vaulted the stile.
I felt terrific – streetwise and tough – but I daren’t linger in the station. I pictured him in his glass box, phoning the railway police. I hurried back up the platform and out to the street.
When I got back to my doorway somebody was there. I didn’t see him till I kicked his foot. He leapt up. A six-footer, as wide as the door. ‘What’s yer problem, wack?’
‘I – I was here first.’ God, what a stupid thing to say. He poked me in the chest. ‘Sod off, kiddo, before I drop yer.’
‘But I’ve been here two hours,’ I protested. ‘I just went in the station for a –’
‘Sod off – now!’
I knew I’d have to go too. This was no chain-smoking runt you could knock down with a feather. This guy was what I’d been kidding myself I’d become – a streetwise tough. I turned away with a lump in my throat. I felt like I’d spend the rest of my life being pushed around. ‘It’s not fair,’ I choked.
What a wally I was. Fair! If I’d gone straight away he might not have spotted the watch on my wrist, but he did. He grabbed my sleeve. ‘Nice watch. Gizzit.’
‘No!’ The watch was my last treasure – a present from Mum before Vince came on the scene. I tried to pull away but he tightened his grip. ‘Gizzit, if you don’t want your face smashed in.’
I thought about calling for help. There were plenty of people passing, but I guess I knew it would do no good. Who’s going to risk a fist or a knife to help a dosser? I took off the watch and handed it over. It was a struggle not to burst into tears. He grinned. ‘Ta, wack. Very nice of yer. Now piss off.’
I went.