Chapter 1
It
was 3.00 p.m. exactly and as the afternoon sun cast its hazy glow down onto the
sloping roofs of St Andrew’s Primary, reflecting lazily in all directions, it
was easy to imagine the building itself throbbing and vibrating with the force
of three hundred children bursting to spill out of the doors and begin their
summer holidays. As Kathy looked on from the top of the hill, gripping the
handlebars of her nan’s ancient bike, she remembered the feeling well; those
six weeks went on forever and not a single day was rainy; she was sure that
there wasn’t a child in the whole building who didn’t have a head full of rope
swings and streams, mown grass and ice lollies, roller skates and butterflies;
although she conceded that kids these days probably dreamt of filling their
holiday with Big Macs and Grand Theft
Auto.
She looked at her watch then back down
the hill at the school – no movement yet – except that pregnant trembling of
the building, but it wouldn’t be long. She had to move quickly, but she didn’t
seem to be able to will her body into action. She had to move right now, but
instead she looked down at her watch again. Why wasn’t she moving? They would
be tidal-waving out of the door in seconds, spewing life into the silent, dusty
playground and colouring-in the roads beyond the gates with the costumes they
were allowed to wear for the last day of school. Why wasn’t she moving?
She gripped the handlebars tighter and
fixed one foot on the pedal. The other remained firmly on the ground, taking
her weight. The bike had come with her nan’s house and probably should have
been buried along with the old woman, but it would do the job for one last
mission and then it could be laid to rest. Its diseased body groaned as Kathy
shifted her weight, as if it knew that this would be the ride of its life but
all would be well after; it would be placed in an earthy bed for heroes, a
place where the rot would be forgiven and forgotten.
Kathy looked down at her watch for the
third time and then over to the school – still nothing – and then she finally looked
down to him. Malcolm Scott was his name and she could smell him even at this
distance, some 100 metres away. She couldn’t quite see the expression on his
face, but she imagined his hungry eyes to be fixed on the school gates, his
pupils dilated, intoxicated by the mere idea of three hundred children running
towards him. His lips would be moist and he would be so fixated on what was to
come that he hadn’t noticed the droplets of spit on his chin. They would stay
there, dribbling downwards, a visible symbol of the vulgarity existing inside
of this man. Sweaty palms, deep breaths, a cap to hide his features, a shoulder
bag to hide his erection. Kathy was nearly sick as she considered it all and
gripped the handle bars tighter still, pushing her feet hard against the pedal
and the floor, ready to push off.
The smell was now unbearable – that was
how she found them in the first place. It attacked her full in the face and
lingered in her nostrils afterwards. The only way of describing it was to imagine
an abandoned house, one that had once been lived in and full of love. Everything
is left exactly where it was before whoever lived there disappeared. The beds are
unmade and covered in dust, a child’s homework lays unfinished on the dining
room table, the TV would be on if the electric supply hadn’t ended some time
before; the family who lived there could almost be imagined, frozen amongst
their possessions, silenced by the innumerable years that had passed. Now imagine
that there’s a fridge in the corner of the kitchen that hasn’t been opened
since everybody left years and years before. The food inside has rotted and
festered with such commitment that when you open the door, the smell is a
whole-body experience that attaches itself to your face and crawls in through
the nose, trickling down the throat, choking, strangling the gag reflex and
poisoning the body – rancid, thick, green milk and hairy fish. This was what
Kathy smelt when she was near these men and it was the first indication that
they belonged on her list.
She touched her backpack to make sure
that it was there, the list. This had become her life’s work and she let out a
sigh of relief to feel that it was still with her.
“Right!” she told herself, her voice
full of determination, and pushed off, but before she had travelled a full
metre, her phone rang and the handlebars wobbled in her hands as she made a
poorly balanced emergency stop. “Son of a …” She let the words trail off. There
was a time when she wouldn’t have dreamt of swearing, but now it seemed a small
thing in the grand scheme of things. In fact, maybe a great big swearing
session was exactly what she needed. Maybe she should just go home now, shut
herself in her bedroom and paint the room blue with all of the Fs and Cs that
she could think of. Maybe it would be just the release she needed and she
wouldn’t have to be doing this. She would feel relaxed and restored and somehow
the world would be a better place. That’s what other people did, wasn’t it?
They got upset about something, had a swear or a cry, talked it over and went
back to their lives. This was doubly true of the big problems in life –
homelessness, poverty, organised crime, terrorism – the list was endless and
anyone imagining that they could do anything to combat the big issues was
deluding themselves. We are all powerless. Best to swear in a room and then go
back to your little life and the little problems that are easily solvable by
contrast. But not everyone could smell the smell and hear the thoughts – hear
the disgusting, depraved, inhumane, monstrous thoughts of the evil people. It’s
not quite as easy to ignore when it’s throbbing in your veins, oozing from your
pores and marring you with its filth.
Kathy just about steadied herself and
took the phone from her pocket. It was a phone that was too old not to be
laughed at by the children who were about to break up for the summer holiday
and too new to yet fall into the category of retro cool, but close. She flipped
it open and the tinny ringtone ended. Her phone didn’t allow for photos or a
designated tone for different callers, but the name flashed up as ‘Brady’. She
quickly forced it to her ear and spoke. “Brady, I’m–”
But her friend interrupted with a pure
mix of joy and excitement in her voice. “Have you done it yet?”
It was this contagious energy that had
first attracted Kathy to Brady, although she was too young to articulate
exactly why she liked being around her. At five years old, she just knew that
Brady was the kid in the class that ran around with a huge smile on her face
and although she didn’t do a single thing that the teachers asked her to do,
she was so endearing that they could only laugh with her and let her get on
with wreaking whatever havoc was on the menu for that day. By contrast, Kathy
was a quiet girl who was fearful of doing anything to draw attention to herself
or get into trouble. The thought of being told off by the teachers terrified
her until she saw her young friend shake it off as if she were the mini queen
of everything and the teachers could kiss it. They were now thirty-two (Kathy
two months older) and had been inseparable ever since. The fact that Brady had
been in active service on and off since they left school hadn’t damaged their
relationship; it just meant that they saw each other less. This phone call was
coming from Malaysia, at least that was where Brady had been posted six months
ago – something to do with aiding the transition of peace post-Taliban. Kathy
didn’t know any more than that and didn’t want to. Equally, she didn’t worry
about her friend. She had been to Afghanistan and Iraq and come back without a
single scratch. Kathy had a vision of her friend, strolling through no-man’s
land in just jeans and a T-shirt, no weapons, helmet or protection, while bombs
went off around her and bullets flew past her head. She just smiled and carried
on walking. Sometimes she would catch a bullet and eat it, which is when Kathy would
stop imagining because it had all gone a bit weird.
“Have you done it?” Brady repeated
impatiently.
“I’m just about to, Brade, if I can just
get off the phone. You’re okay aren’t you? You’re not hurt? I’m just about to
do it.”
“Well, call me afterwards.”
“Are
you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay, so stop chatting
and get on with it. It must be kicking-out time your time by now.”
“It is. They’ll be out in a sec.”
“Why aren’t you doing it then?”
“Because I’m on the phone to you.”
“Hang up then.”
“But why are you calling?”
“For fucks sake, Kathy.” Brady liked a
good swear, too.
“Okay, I’m doing it. Chat later,” Kathy
told her friend and slammed her phone shut. “Right!” she repeated, with a
heightened determination that Brady always brought out in her. She was actually
going to do it; she had to do it – everything had changed. They couldn’t just
threaten or report these men anymore; action needed to be taken and she pushed
off again. Her body was immediately overtaken with the adrenaline that was so
familiar from her childhood, when she had done all sorts of things that
terrified her with Brady – from jumping out of trees, off shed roofs and in
front of cars, to nicking sweets from the corner shop and camping in the park
with the wild animals of their imaginations. There was not one of those things
that Kathy regretted and she wasn’t going to start now, so as the bike hurtled
down the hill and the wind thrashed her face and tooted in her ears, a massive
smile spread out over her face. She stood up on the pedals and pedalled as hard
as she could so that the handlebars were jarring quickly from left to right and
the slightest bump on the pavement would send her flying. In fact, in that
moment, she could have been a ten-year-old again, playing out with Brady,
taking on a hill that even the boys her age feared, both girls screaming and giggling
as their bikes propelled them ever on, out of control. What a rush! Brady would
always be out in front, but Kathy eventually learnt to take the hills without
pumping the brakes, without fear. And here she was again, thirty-two years old,
no fear, no brakes. As she passed the school gates, she could hear the alarming
shrill of the final bell and a dull rumbling of children’s feet and expectant
chattering and laughter. She was supposed to have done it by now. They would be
out in a few minutes, but there was no time to dwell on it. This was it and she
was travelling at such a speed that the posts of the school fence were strobing,
air popping in her ears between each one, making ‘whooping’ noises and almost forcing
her off the bike. But no, there was no stopping or turning back now. This was
it!
She could see that Malcolm Scott had
turned to acknowledge her fleetingly, but he hadn’t moved from the spot. The
fact that the children had been unleashed from the school was clearly keeping
him too busy to pay too much attention to the woman on the bike hurtling
towards him. And now the smell was unbearable. The fridge door was wide open
and there was rotten chicken crawling with maggots and bowls of unidentifiable,
pus-filled fur. Just as Kathy was about to throw up, she took a deep breath,
now just metres from the pervert, and shouted, “No brakes!” The fact that she
was still pedalling hard would forever go unnoticed.
With no time to react, Malcolm could do
nothing but throw his hands out in front of him, as if they were going to offer
some kind of protection against the wild woman on the bike on course to hit him
head on. An animal-like noise also burst out of him, which offered equally
little protection, and then he was hit. The bike took his legs out from under
him with such force that the sound of his head cracking on the pavement rang
out over the din of the children. A thin trickle of blood crawled out of his
ear, but this was the only movement left in him.
Kathy had imagined this moment for days,
but it all happened too quickly for her to enjoy or see anything of the actual
smash. In her mind, she had been an observer; up close, she was just as
vulnerable as her prey and her grip was useless against the force of the
collision. As the front wheel buckled under, her fingers slipped off the
handlebars and she would swear that they came alive, rose up and smashed her in
the face. It all happened too fast to know more than this. In reality, her body
performed a manoeuvre that would have been a perfect gymnastic ten if not for
the lack of finesse and the terrifying crack as the dismount was landed. And
then everything went black.
