jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

One

My wrists hurt, inexplicably. Perhaps I slept funny, funny peculiar. Last night I dreamt of a cramped police cell, my hands folded behind my back. My eyes are glazed and the mountain of coffee cups perch precariously on my desk, ready to topple with the slightest of nudges. In my past life I was a rapist, or a traitor. Maybe I raped the queen, I definitely did something vicious and evil; it’s the only explanation for this existence. In this life I’m just a poor sap who ended up in the wrong job, with the wrong people, fantasising about tropical beaches and statuesque, tanned women serving me drinks in coconut shells. I talk to myself a lot. I used to wonder if I was unwell, but now I just blame it on the pills.

There’s a lady who often sits behind me. She’s mid-thirties, a couple of kids and a bored husband. She isn’t attractive but every time she leans over my shoulder to help me with an account I feel my dick get hard. She knows this; she plays to it, bending over in front of me and discussing her absent sex life within earshot. She knows I want to fuck her. I haven’t had physical contact with a woman since my girlfriend left me a lifetime ago, and because of that I will fuck my colleague at some point, probably in the toilets on a wet and windy lunch break. It’ll be disappointing and I’ll have to move to the other side of the office to escape any awkward exchanges. It’s the only reason I’ve abstained thus far, that I like my spot. Its right next to the window so I can gaze mournfully at people out on the street, free of gainful employment, begging for scraps. How I long to be in their torn and tatty shoes. At the very least they have a dog to keep them company, as much vitamin D as they need and the occasional rock of crack to see them through the night. I’ve got a five figure income, a pension I hopefully won’t live long enough to claim and haemorrhoids. I bring my own cushion into work; it’s a source of mystery and gossip throughout the office. Maybe one day before I leave I’ll show them all why I need it. Just drop my pants and give them a full uncensored view of my discomfort.

I’ve been here for five long years. That’s the same sentence handed out to drug dealers. I knew from day one I’d chosen the wrong career path. I would’ve made quadruple the amount I clear peddling coke to teenagers.

I lock my work station and walk to the toilet to take a piss. Some cretin I once asked for a lighter from tries to engage me in conversation as I unzip my fly. It’s unacceptable. I grunt and focus on emptying my bowels. There should be a sign on the door instructing people to shut the fuck up the minute they walk in. It’s a sanctuary, not a nightclub. If I wanted to talk to you whilst I had my dick in my hand I’d ask you out for a drink.

I sit back down, and as I do my boss approaches. If this place really is hell then she is the devil, dressed in Primark, attaching her action plans and personal development programs to her pitchfork and shoving them so far up my pained backside that I’m coughing up numbers and figures and pie charts all over my loafers. She wears glasses that magnify her wonky eyes, tiny little spongy balls that bounce around inside her malformed skull. Her hair is like straw, tied back to her head with garden twine. She has a lisp that grates on me so much I’d offer to pay for her speech therapy if she wasn’t such a cunt. The only thing I want to give her is a new super drug I’ve invented in my mind that makes her womb barren. I call her the lemming, on account of her being a small rat like creature. She tells me I was late for work this morning. I already knew that, I had a joint before I started and couldn’t tear myself away from the news. Some giddy little prick giving his smarmy views on the days current affairs is like opiates to me. She tells me to buck my ideas up, that if I’m late again tomorrow she’ll be forced to act, because it’s becoming too much of a regular occurrence. I nod solemnly, without saying a word. None of the words I would like to say to her seem appropriate in this setting. She leaves; I daydream about what it would feel like to sink a kitchen knife in between her shoulder blades.

My friend enters the building. He’s a charming, affable loner, perennially dressed all in black and with a penchant for Canadian electro-metal music. Everyone at the company thinks he’s weird, I consider him the only other person like me in a ten mile radius. He takes his usual seat just opposite mine, and smiles sweetly.

“Morning Desmond” I whisper. Our conversations are conducted at the lowest possible decibel level, so as to avoid anyone else interfering, or actually clocking on the nature of what we discuss, as more often than not the topics would be deemed taboo, or discipline worthy. We talk about a book I earlier recommended him, on a subject matter we both find deeply interesting. Desmond is what some might call ‘a troubled soul’. I’ve always found it offensive that the human race has an unwavering ability to categorise others into either good or bad. Sometimes it isn’t that simple. Desmond isn’t a bad person, but his thoughts are dark, a lot darker than your average young adult conjures. He isn’t particular good either, but he’s been the only consistent friend I’ve had in this place. He mentioned once before that he sees me as something of a kindred spirit, which alerted me to my own shortcomings.  Our lives have been parallel. Both lost our parents far too early, both mercilessly bullied throughout our formative years, both vulnerable. We turned out remarkably similar. But whilst my daydreaming can be on the verge of homicidal, Desmonds daydreaming is disturbed. When I introduced him to anarchism, he introduced me to the occult. We have a bad cop bad cop relationship, and it makes the hours pass faster. His voice is soft, unlike his exterior. A unit of a man, possessing a body built to bring pain and suffering upon anyone who should cross him. What was once a source of mental anguish is now a key component in his arsenal. He doesn’t suffer fools easily, and his weight and power stop him from having to. Even the lemming is scared of him, and leaves him to conduct his daily business s in peace. His eyes are wide as he talks about the book, about the things it’s taught him and, indirectly, about his plan. To the untrained ear his words are mumbled and indecipherable. I understand every garbled syllable, but the women that sit either side of him are clueless. They simply sip their camomile tea and talk to each other through him about Coronation Street. I’ve never watched the show but I know everything about thanks to Gillian and Mary, it’s like their porn. I imagine them masturbating to flickering images of Ken Barlows sweater vest, climaxing just as the credits roll, then it’s back to a cross-stitch art piece of a kitten chasing a ball of string. Then I daydream of their cold, dead bodies as I stand over them. Desmond put that image in my head weeks ago, and it’s been pretty difficult to shift. The thing about Desmond, the thing about him that intrigues me as much as it frightens me, is that he’s dangerous.

Desmond has been talking about his plan for the last eighteen months or so. It started as idle musings and has snowballed to its current state, not yet fully formed but fairly advanced. He speaks of it often, dropping it into any conversation he can, except for between working hours of course. This time spent making allusions to it without actually mentioning it. Not that Mary and Gill or any of the other ladies of a certain age would have any fucking idea what was going on even if he detailed it out to them. They could have Kim Jong Il sat across from them explaining his nuclear programme and plans for global domination and they’d still try to talk to him about whatever wank was on ITV last night. Still, he is whispered and careful. Though a friend, he frightens me. And though I should’ve tried to stop him, or alerted someone about his plans, I haven’t. If it makes me an accessory then so be it, I’m too tired and depressed to care.

The clock ticks over. It’s time to go home. I bid farewell to Desmond and walk through the automatic doors, passed the troll of a security guard who spends more time leaching at the young girls than he doors providing any kind of security, and into the pinkish glow of the autumnal night sky.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Two

My flat is a fifteen minute feet drag from my place of work. If I sit on the roof I can see the building. It’s a hulking brick structure that looks more like an army base than the national headquarters of a corporate giant. I climb up to the roof often; it’s quite comforting to look at the place that you spend the majority of your life in from the outside; you feel a sense of liberty. It’s a false sense of course, but it is comforting. I live alone. I have one of everything I need, no more and no less. Except for shoes; I have two of those. I sleep in a single bed, with one large fluffy pillow. I’ve never decorated. The previous occupants were an elderly couple, heavy smokers, so the ceiling and the kitchen cupboards are yellowed. The carpet is a patterned brown and the lace curtains that cover the windows are tattered. They died here. It still smells of them. I had a girlfriend once. Her skin was soft and her laugh infectious. She was my hope. But my relentless negativity eventually wore her down and she left me for a rugby player called Jason. I dream every night of them together, coiled in embrace, passionately kissing and touching. I’d kill him if I could, if I knew where they were located, in real life rather than in my subconscious. But they hide from me, like voles from a vulture, and I awake every night in a cold sweat. I settle down in front of the television and swallow a couple of Valium, some of the only things available to me on the planet that offer my life some semblance of calm. I’ve been a habitual user of narcotics since the age of fifteen, starting with cannabis and rapidly spiralled towards harder and stronger substance. Cocaine, Ketamin, most of anything off white and powdery. But hedonism is for the young, these days I’m happiest at home dosed up on prescription pills. Anti-depressants, around three or four different kinds. Citalopram, Amitriptyline, Fluoxetine. I smoke about a quarter of an ounce of cannabis every week. Not much but enough to keep me in an almost permanent state of vegetation. I have a goldfish in the corner of the living room I call das fish. His tank requires a clean but I’m too comfortable by far to do it this evening. It will have to wait. He is the only other life form that has been in my living quarters for over a year. I like it that way. Whilst the general population surround themselves with hangers on, people to eat all the cheese in their fridge and tell them that their bathroom is dusty, I remain in solitary confinement, cheese stacked to the rafters, blissfully unaware of the dustiness of my toilet. There’s less noise that way and the fish, for the most part, remains silent.

My sleep is sporadic. I wake up at 3.15, 4.40 and 6. I start work again at 10. I fail to recall the last time I had an uninterrupted night. It was likely before Sara left, but even those nights were predominantly restless. As I lay in bed, with just an hour before I’m required to rise, I think of Desmond. Soon it will be too late to stop him, not that I want to at present. I ponder the moral dilemmas of holding on to such information, knowing that I could prevent something and not makes me as guilty as he will be, even if I am a silent partner in his endeavour. I am just as culpable. There are times I feel he should be applauded for such a fearless venture, other times I feel a pang of regret that I have ushered him towards this path. I’m not a bad person, I tell myself, but many of those who may suffer are. I’ve seen their sins first hand.

Chris, the reluctant forty year old who colours his hair, who cheats on his wife with Emma the blonde divorcee. They laugh smuttily in the photocopying room as they arrange sexual encounters. He has three children; he keeps a photo of them on his desk, as if the reason for his presence in this world is to provide for them. Every late meeting, every weekend team building exercise in Bristol is a slur upon their names. Would it be better to grow up with a living liar of a father or with the memory of a decent one?

Brian the northerner, member of the national front, on casual days he wears t-shirts emblazoned with the cross of Saint George. Inserts casual racism into nigh on every conversation, and conversation does not come easily to him. He spends his weekends posting pamphlets, recruiting the narrow minded and the easily corrupted to join his abhorrent organisation. To whom would he be a loss?

 Not to say that everyone who is gainfully employed by the same company as I is inherently bad, just that if it was as simple as categorising them in such a manner, the balance would be tipped firmly in that direction. If I continue thinking my day will be ruined, so I alight from my bed, light a joint and switch the television to the mornings news. I’ll take the disciplinary action, it matters not an ounce.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Three

Desmond is already at his desk when I arrive. He is early, confusingly so, as he is rarely ever even on time. I wish him a good morning, as I do each day, and meander slowly towards the coffee machine. His eyes did not meet mine and he didn’t acknowledge my greeting, he simply ruffled his hair and slid into his chair. Unusual, but I’ve long suffered with paranoia, and I’m less taken to asking questions than I used to be. I press some buttons, a whirring noise precedes a flush of hot liquids and dried coffee beans. It tastes like warm, melted polystyrene and it’s the only thing that keeps me functioning throughout the opening scenes of the day. When I sit back down, his head does not lift. He pushes a folded piece of note paper across the desk and continues working. I pretend like nothing has happened and coolly take a sip of my beverage.  Nobody gives a shit, but I quite like the idea of it being really dramatic. The note is scrawled in red biro, different sized capital letters giving the impression of desperation and mania. It says, simply, ‘they’re on to us’. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Firstly his plan is so secretive even I don’t know the full extent of it, and secondly the use of the word ‘us’. The implications could be catastrophic if I’m seen to be aiding and abetting his deranged views. I’ve only partially encouraged him, indirectly, by not telling him to stop. I’ve never considered myself to be an integral part of it all, more of a confident than an ally. I quickly tear the note into tiny pieces and drop them into an empty coffee cup, which I dispose of in the recycling bin. The day passes without further incident and the only thing I say to Desmond is to meet me in the park at sundown. He nods in acknowledgment and we continue with our mutual, uncomfortable silence.

Desmond has never owned a mobile phone. Aside from a lack of contacts to make one worthwhile, he is a deeply paranoid individual. So I wait for him in the park, on the bench which I have shared joints with him on in the past, with no way of knowing when he is to arrive, if he is to arrive at all. I’m panicked. He is serious about it all. In some way, deep down I knew it, but I never allowed myself to believe it. I shiver, I’m in trouble. I’m going to have to do something.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Four

He was what some people call a ‘Nan kid’, raised by his grandmother May in her poky bungalow on the edge of town. The carpets were thick, luscious to the bare feet. The wallpaper overpowered every room, a constant focal point. Clutter and chintz swamped the hallways, the radiators turned on full pelt even throughout the summer. A constant smell of musky antiques and elderliness, a window into a past he had never lived but was stuck in, Desmond would grow inverted, socially awkward, and strange. His mother Chloe was the youngest of six, and just fifteen when she fell pregnant. A child herself, scared and alone she drank throughout the pregnancy. His birth was met with indifference; she was so numb from the ordeal that by the time Desmond came kicking and screaming into the world, Chloe was already too far gone. She discharged herself almost immediately, ran and never looked back, leaving her own mother to pick up the pieces. Desmond’s aunts and uncles would be seen from time to time, giving him some semblance of a normal upbringing by getting him away from his bedroom and out into the world, but as he got older he withdrew even further from reality. Desmond and May never spoke of his mother, but she was a ghost that haunted the home. They were disconnected, two generations at odds with each other, confused by one another’s ways and too full of sadness to unite over the one thing they had in common, Chloe. May died when Desmond was seventeen. He didn’t cry at her funeral, he felt a sense of relief that the only thing reminding him of his childhood was gone. He moved into a small flat above a shop, filled it with the things that made him feel comfortable, modern chintz like superhero collectables and video games. The floors were vinyl, and the walls were paperless. The engulfing smell was of incense, and self-rolled cigarettes. Whilst you could rarely call Desmond happy, he at least had something he could call home for the first time in his life.

I can see it from the bench where I wait. It overlooks the park. I’ve been watching it for the best part of an hour, straining my eyes in search of some movement, a curtain twitch or a light being switched on, but nothing happens. A small black dog walks over and sits on the grass next to me. It doesn’t jump up, it barely acknowledges my existence, it just sits staring up at the same sight as I. Desmonds lifeless flat, and the grey clouds forming above it. I pat it on the head as I stand and get ready to leave, it looks up and its eyes meet mine. Our minds connect for a brief moment; I wish it luck, and walk home.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Five

My sleep, usually sporadic, is tonight non-existent. I toss, turn and toss again. I sweat under the covers, remove them and freeze. I walk from kitchen to bedroom, smoking and cursing, punching walls and praying to someone else’s god for rest.  By 6am I concede, flick the television back on and watch cartoons. I should call in sick to work, keep the curtains drawn and fester. But I’m on my last warning, and I need to be employed. The alternative is not something I like to contemplate. Unemployment would bring with it either homelessness or moving back with my parents and teenage sister. I contemplate which would be the lesser evil. My sister is a demon in sunglasses and high-tops, shagging little teenage boys and pumping hard jungle music throughout the house at all times. My parents are oblivious, blithering old fools, defined, restricted and destroyed by their religion. I’d rather live under a bridge. And besides that, I need to go to work; I need to speak to Desmond. I make a pot of coffee, shower and get dressed.  Today I’ll be early. Today I’ll put an end to this so that tomorrow I can start sleeping again.

A security guard smiles at me as I walk through the big glass automatic doors. I look back with suspicion. He must be new, what the fuck is he so happy about? I curb a scowl and force a half smile. Don’t want the new guy to think I’m an arsehole. The building is soulless. Whilst I’m sure it looked fantastically futuristic in the 80’s, it now just looks tired, much like myself. Not trendily vintage, just old. I conduct my work on the fourth floor, sandwiched between projects on third, and fraud prevention on fifth. I don’t think there’s any significance to the layout, although it bears noting that the chief executives reside on the top floor. The penthouse of the ivory tower, surveying the clientele from above, vultures looking for easy pickings. They skim enough from the top to drive supercars, and frequent young prostitutes while their wives drink wine poolside in the leisure centre. They think they exude power and success, but I’m not the only one that can smell the bullshit.

Desmond is at his desk, between Gill and Mary, pouring tea from his thermos. He doesn’t look up at me, even after I wish him a good morning. Gill turns and gives Mary one of those looks, the look that implies they have something to gossip about but they have to be patient before they can indulge. I sit down, boot the computer and blackout. He’s spoken about how he’d like to kidnap them both, tie them up in his living room and watch them go into body-shock. I thought he was joking at first, and when I realised he wasn’t I awkwardly left the room. Whenever I see him concentrating like that I wonder what’s going through his distorted mind.

Hours pass as I sit bolt upright in a dream-like condition. My colleagues stay as far away as possible; they’ve learnt from past interruptions that if my eyes are bloodshot and my hair is combed over on the wrong side then I’m in no mood for idle chit-chat. The lemming waddles over, holding a large binder, she looks serious. I gulp my drink down, lower my head and pretend I’m deeply into my work. But it isn’t me she wants to see, it’s Desmond. As she approaches he rises from his chair, hulking over the desk with clenched fists and a look of scary determination upon his face. She beckons him to an empty meeting room, they walk in and as he turns to slam the door behind him he looks over to me. I can’t work out his expression; somewhere between angry and bored. I send him an email telling him to meet me at the bench after work, and take the opportunity to speak to the lemmings PA and sign myself off for the rest of the day citing a mystery migraine. I’ve been here for three hours, that’s long enough; any longer and I might actually have had to speak to someone.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Six

The rain beats down hard onto the corrugated iron roof of the clubhouse located behind the bench in the park. My hood covers my head, my coat wrapped around me like a cocoon. Its forty-five minutes since Desmond left work, providing the meeting he was dragged into earlier wasn’t to sack his sorry fat arse. If he read and understood my email he’ll be walking through the gates any minute. If he didn’t then I’ve just wasted another hour of my life staring up at his darkened window.

“Were you followed?”

He approaches me from behind and scares the life out of me, I drop my can of extra strength lager onto the floor and it spills across the mud.

“You couldn’t just use the normal entrance?” I shout. He motions for me to keep quiet by placing his finger on his lips, and ushers me through the park and into his flat.

The place is creepy. Its dark and dank, the lights flicker off and on reminiscent of a slasher movie. There’s an ancient tabby cat in the corner of what I assume is the living room, licking itself with a leg in the air as it stares menacingly at me. Desmond points at the sofa, directing me to sit. It is old brown leather, ripped to pieces with yellow foam hanging out of every orifice. There’s nothing on the walls besides black paint, and scratch marks. The curtains are drawn, I don’t expect they ever allow light to enter. He strokes his beard and speaks for the first time since we’ve been in his home.

“Drink?”

I sit and sink into the old cowhide.

“Please. Something strong”.

Desmond slinks off into the kitchen and I start rummaging around his living room, looking for clues, blueprints for plans, anything to give me the slightest idea of what he has up his sleeve. All I find is dust and sweet wrappers. When I hear his paces back I return to the sofa so as not to raise suspicions. He brings me a mug of neat vodka, which I down in one fell swoop, and takes the seat opposite me. There is a short period of silence, awkward and hanging around the room, one of us has to speak soon.

 “Desmond” I stutter “what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t make eye contact, simply sips from his cup.

“You know what I mean. I’m worried. You need to talk to me.”

“What are you worried about, we’re friends.”

I wonder if we truly are, and what constitutes a friend anyway.

“Can I have another drink please?”

Whilst Desmond is in the kitchen I reach over and quickly grab a small black notebook from the pile of papers in the corner of the room, and shove it into my back pocket just before he returns.

A second mug full goes down and we sit in the same positions, waiting for movement, for a confession or some truth. None are forthcoming, so I stand up and set myself to leave.

“Desmond, whatever it is you’ve got planned, I don’t want any part of it. And I want you to know that I oppose any violence or criminality, and I won’t stand by and let you hurt anyone”.

He glares at me and rises to his feet, towering above me.

“I think you should leave now”.

I heed his advice and walk out into the rain. I hear the door slam behind me and locks slide into place. I may have just lost one of the only true friends I’ve ever had, but I’ll sleep soundly knowing that I am free of any wrongdoing, and tomorrow I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent Desmond from becoming infamous.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Seven

I didn’t sleep a wink. Not a single solitary wink. No z’s were caught, no rest for the wicked. The same thought ran through my restless head all night, the same one that I had been unable to shift for a number of weeks. The time was coming, creeping up on me like a vicious stalker, and I had a decision to make. If I went to the police now they would surely consider me an accessory, question me as to why it had taken me so long to approach them with the information I was privy to, and I would buckle under their inquisition as I had never been able to stay cool in high pressured situations. My only other option was to take the law into my own hands and, with the information I had stolen from Desmonds flat, halt him once and for all.

 I studied that notebook, his handwriting was almost illegible but I managed to make out bits and pieces. The important stuff, the people he was targeting, what he was intending to use to cause this destruction. The only thing I didn’t know was when, and because of this I had no time to stand on ceremony. It was 7am; the HR department at work would be just reaching their desks, so I called in and adopting my best gruff and poorly voice, spat out a list of excuses as to why I would not be present in the office. Sickness, diarrhoea, a migraine, a chest infection, one of them would stick. The truth of it was that the minute someone says diarrhoea, the other person stops listening. Nobody ever wants details.

I pack a small satchel. In it I place Desmond’s notebook, a wool jumper, some gloves and a kitchen knife. I close all the curtains in my flat and make sure all electrical appliances were turned off. Desmond left for work at the same time each morning, leaving him a few minutes to make through the park and to the bus stop. I had a small window of opportunity to confront him. The park would be deserted that early, save for the odd dog walker, and from growing up in the area I knew every nook and cranny, every blind spot in the fields. I had that as an advantage, and I needed all the help I could get since in a straight fight I stood no chance.  It would become my gladiatorial arena, the place I would pit myself against my friend, where I would become a hero. I took a long last look at my home, not knowing if I would see it again, at the pictures of my family on the mantelpiece, at the newspaper clippings of my father I had kept. He was a real hero, a fireman who saved lives. I always felt as if I was in his shadow, even after he died and left us with nothing. I’d never compare to him, but for the first time in my life I felt as though I had a chance to do something that would have made him proud. I sling my bag over my shoulders and walk out into the dark of the morning with trepidation and nerves, but overwhelming it all, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Eight

The ground is soft from the rain, I wear all black to blend in with the dusk. I cover my face in mud like a commando and lay beside what used to be the toilet block, before the endless vandalism forced the council to abandon it and leave it a dirty husk. My bag is beside me, my knife in the waistband of my jeans, the binoculars pressed up against my eyes. My focus is fixed on the gate that Desmond walks through every morning. I knew he daily routine, and by god was he a creature of habit. 7:45 every morning, his feet would hit that pathway. He would always cut across the field, through the thick grass and passed the disused toilet block. That was my opportunity. As he shifted along, hopefully not noticing me, I could jump up behind him and slide my knife between his shoulder blades, fast, over in a couple of heartbeats. I meticulously plotted it out in my head in the days, weeks before this moment. There is no fear, just the thought of Brian the Northerner, and Chris the adulterer, whose lives could continue, whose lives I would save. Just the way my father did.

I breathe lightly, maintaining a sense of calm, knowing there is absolutely no margin for error. In four minutes time Desmond will begin his walk through the park. The seconds pass slowly, almost painfully, stretching out to what feels like a lifetime with every single inhalation. I check everything is in place one last time, knowing full well it is, as I’ve checked every minute I’ve been laying in the shrub. No margin for error.  My thoughts drift away to the moment I first met him, my first day at the company.

It was the first days of spring. I had spent the previous six months on my mother’s sofa, watching repeats of cheers and eating orange potato snacks. Unemployment is bliss for the layabout, but there comes a time in every bums life when he knows the gig is up and employment beckons. I had been to every job agency in town, put on a shirt and tie to speak to every bored recruitment officer, every stuck up blonde twenty-something who looked me up and down and decided I wasn’t good enough to sit in a shitty office and hammer away at a computer for eight and a half hours a day, until finally one thoughtful, caring and understanding lady agent agreed to put me forward for an interview with the company. It was a chance I wasn’t prepared to let slip, and I swotted up for days before hand. I studied their history, their annual turnover, how many employees they had in the many different countries in which they operated. I knew where the fire exits were in the building, I knew the name of the managing director and the exact nature of their business on all its various levels. I awoke two hours before I was due to be seen, scrubbed my body, washed and conditioned my hair, pressed my suit and polished my shoes, and arrived for the interview nearly forty-five minutes before I was due to be seen. My interviewer was a choad of a man, five feet tall and wider than a VW camper van. He had large, prescription strength spectacles and a musty old tweed suit. But he was pleasant, and welcoming, and I completely blew him away with my knowledge and preparation. I wanted that job, not just because I needed it, but because all of the reading I had done before made me realise that they were a good organisation to work for, an ethical organisation, people that took care of their employees and offered them a good chance of progression. He offered it to me on the spot and I was delighted. I called my mum with the good news immediately, and her relief was palpable. I would start the following Monday, and I couldn’t wait to get going.

 That Monday, that first day, didn’t so much as burst my bubble and take an axe to it and totally decimate it. I met Gillian and Mary first, and their misery was evident from the first glance into their haggard, yellowing eyes. Then I met the lemming, and she didn’t try to hide the fact that she was a bitch of the highest magnitude in the slightest, she simply pointed out my desk and breathed a fire that burned off my eyelashes. And then, just as I began to tremble, and the thoughts of regret and longing for the sofa began to set in, I met Desmond. He stomped in to the office late, which would be the only time in the five years that I knew him that he wouldn’t be on time, and he looked angry and upset and not in the mood for talking to a total stranger. I avoided his gaze and sat behind my computer, praying that he wouldn’t speak to me or ask me any questions. And he didn’t, for the entire morning, until just before lunchtime.

“Aye, new lad, do ya wanna come to the pub for lunch?”

We sat for the whole hour, whilst he drank pints of strong bitter and I sipped on a tonic water, and discussed his life. His girlfriend was breaking up with him, he was going to be evicted from his flat, he had barely £50 in his bank account until payday and he was on his last warning at the company. He would have at least ten more last warnings in our time together, I found out more about him in that time than I knew about some of my closest friends. He didn’t pry too much into my life, he simply needed a friendly ear to bend, and that’s what I offered him. As the day went on I felt that he was relaxing more and more, that the abject rage he had felt towards humanity at 9:25am had all but drifted away and he had opened himself up to someone that he had never met before, and that didn’t seem like the sort of thing a man like Desmond did very often. When the time came to go home he slapped me on the shoulder with his big, hairy bear hand and thanked me, telling me to have a good evening and that he’d see me in the morning. I went home knowing that as badly as the day had started, I had made a friend, and that was all I could’ve hoped for.

I lay in the shrub on the soft ground and think about that day, about how grateful I am to Desmond for being a shining light to me during my initiation period into the company, and about what a good friend he has been to me for five years. I think about all those things, and how about the next time I see him, I’ll plunge a dagger into his back.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Nine

The sun is beginning to rise over the council blocks. The dusty bricks are momentarily lit up giving them a shine they never deserved. I’ve been laying on this patch of grass for the best part of an hour. It’s time. I look up to Desmonds window and see the light of his bedroom turn off. I place my binoculars back into my satchel; they won’t be needed any longer. I see his hulking frame walk to the park gates. 7:45am just like clockwork. He stops at the gates and cranes his neck, circling a small area like he’s looking for something, it’s highly unusual, and he barely steps onto the well beaten path before turning around and running back towards his flat. Something is happening, something I hadn’t anticipated and something I’m definitely not prepared for. I have to make a snap decision so I jump to my feet and stalk my way through the field towards my troubled friends home.

I reach the stairwell. All is calm and deathly quiet. I tip toe towards his door. The number 157 in scratched brass has gone unpolished for decades. My hand rests on my waistband, ready to grab my weapon. A thousand thoughts rush around my mind like go-go dancers in a chaotic swirl.

The heavy wooden door is ajar, my whole body trembles. I can hear water rushing inside, the sound of a tap left on. I push the door open slowly, one hand on the grip of my knife. Seven inches of sharpened steel primed to inflict maximum punishment. The door creaks, I stifle a gasp. My actions in the next moment are crucial and I must hold my nerve. I slide through the small gap I have created. The hallway is tidy, which alarms me, as Desmond is usually possessed of the most cluttered domicile I’ve ever stepped foot in. His collection of bulky black boots are neatly stacked on a shoe rack I had no idea he owned. The rug is straight, and the eerie silence is at once serene and terrifying. I slowly turn my head to the left, to the bathroom, and the sink is overflowing, gushing water onto the laminated floor. I catch my reflection in the mirror, my face covered in dirt, perspiring, bloodshot eyes indication of the early hour and my lack of sleep. He’s not there. I take a step forward, careful not to make a whisper. I reach the end of the hall. The connecting door is open.  The rest of the flat is open plan. On the right is the kitchen, the left the living room. I have to see him before he sees me, or else its game over. I have one last big, vital decision to make. He is too powerful for me, without a surprise assault this has all been for nothing and he will crush me. I choose right, the kitchen, it will give me the upper hand. If he’s there, one thrusting motion and it’s finished. If he isn’t, at least I’ll be able to stop him from grabbing a weapon to counter my attack.

 I move quickly, through the door, onto the kitchen lino. As I do I flick the light on and pull out my blade in one swift motion. I turn. Desmond is standing in the front room, looking right at me. He looks somehow bigger than usual. He smirks. Time slows to a glacial pace. He is standing over what looks like a body. His eyes are wild.

“Cheers pal” he says. And as he does he thrusts himself towards me. I shut my eyes and raise my knife. He grabs my arm and directs the point towards he shoulder blade. He pushes it deep into his flesh and lets out a groan. I open my eyes, he is still smiling. He pulls away and staggers back, lifting and opening his hand and allowing a scrunched up piece of paper to fall out and drop to the floor. He follows it down, crashing to the ground. The knife still in my hand, covered in his blood. I look down and see the lifeless bodies of Gill and Mary.

I shudder.

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Ten

“Dearest Alex,

If you’re reading this then it’s all over, hopefully by the time they get round to verifying this I’ll already be where I need to be. I suppose I just needed to get some things off my chest, and you probably feel like you need some answers, at least an explanation as to why. I’m not going to give that to you. But I will say sorry.

I’m sorry for dragging you into all of this. I’m sorry that you’re the one who has to take the blame. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better friend to you. You deserve more, and you certainly don’t deserve to be held accountable for my actions, but it’s really the only way. They had to go. They had been lying about me Alex. They had been trying to get me sacked for months, they had been talking and gossiping and spreading malicious rumours about me. AND NOT JUST ME EITHER! You too mate, they’re out to get you! They want rid of you. Trust me. If it’s the only thing I can do for you to get you through this difficult time, it’s to give you my assurances that this isn’t all for nothing.

When they find them they’re going to accuse you. That’s how it’s been planned. I didn’t mean to make you look foolish mate I really didn’t. I’m sorry I’ve had to lead you down this path. And I don’t want you to suffer too badly but it’s the only way. And it won’t be forever. Sooner or later they’ll find out it really was me that did it, and you were an innocent bystander, and this note really was written by my hand and not yours. By then I’ll be so far away mate, I’ll never be found.

I had to tell you all of this. Do you know how it feels to have to bite your tongue for 7 years? Do you know how it feels to have to put up with their shit and their fucking LIES? They said I was paranoid Alex, they said I was dangerous. I showed them eventually, I proved them right. To have to go into the same office and stare at their faces every day, knowing how they betrayed me and lied about me and turned me into this monster. I’m not a monster Alex, I’m a good man. We are the gods of our own destiny mate. I could’ve sat there for the rest of my life and did what they told me, been a good little boy and not caused any fuss and I would’ve died as nobody. I’ve known this was going to happen since the first day I met you. The only thing I regret is that it’s taken me 5 years. When Sarah left me and I got kicked out of the flat that was just the start. You were there for me, and that really hurts me. That’s what hurts me. Not the thought of their cold bodies. Having to do this to you is what hurts. But it had to be this way, I promise there wasn’t any other way.

They’re going to tell you things about me Alex, and you’re going to hate me for this, but I can live with it.

I hope one day you can forgive me, until then, know that I’m free.

Your friend,

Desmond.”

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Eleven

The police are on their way, I can hear the sirens. I didn’t call them. Desmond is unconscious. I’ve spent the last couple of minutes doing everything I can to wake him up, I’ve slapped his face, drenched him in cold water, screamed into his ear. Gill and Mary are dead, but not for long it would seem, their bodies still warm to the touch. They have lacerations across their throats, each one almost identical. I can’t even begin to process what has happened here before they burst through the door. Four of them with heavy boots and the venom and spite of the law. I don’t say anything, don’t have a chance to, they wrestle me to the floor. I put up no fight. I am in handcuffs, an ambulance arrives to take Desmond away. I try to speak but nothing comes out, like my tongue has swollen to the size of a small rodent and wont lift off the base of my mouth.

“Mr Cole we are arresting you for the murder of Gillian Davies and Mary Miller, and the attempted murder of Desmond McPherson. You don't have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence. Do you understand?”

Not even a little bit.

I nod, and strain my neck to make sure they see the letter on the floor. He wrote it on a computer. It’s the only piece of evidence that will lead to my exoneration, but he was savvy enough to print it rather than using his own handwriting. Everything has been meticulously planned.

This was his intention all along. This is what he had been plotting. He’d been using me, keeping me close, allowing me snippets of information so that I followed his blueprint and walked right into his trap.

I stare into the distance as I’m led out to a car. Neighbours rubber neck. The sun has risen and is breaking through the clouds. I wonder when I might next see it.  

[jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude]

Twelve

It’s taken a long time but I’m starting to speak again, more than that, I’m starting to think properly after the shock. They moved me to Broadmoor. They said I was suffering from Schizophrenia. They said I had imagined Desmond was planning to kill people, that my drug addiction and heavy use of marijuana had caused me to lose all sense of reality and that in my state of hallucination and paranoia I had brutally murdered two of my colleagues and had attempted to kill my best friend. They said I had written Desmonds confession letter myself whilst in a trance. They said that Desmond had first lodged a phone call to the police a few months prior to the events claiming he was worried about my mental health, and that he had been subjected to a campaign of harassment and that he just wanted to help me. That call hadn’t been followed up, and the authorities were quite culpable of allowing me to continue living in the community and working in close proximity with people that I had threatened. They said I was vulnerable, and that whilst my crimes were abhorrent, I was a danger to myself if left in a correctional facility and I needed around the clock care and surveillance.

It’s nice here, tranquil and peaceful, apart from all the nutcases. I don’t feel any particular hatred towards Desmond, or feel the need for vengeance any more. They’ve got me on all sorts of medications to help with my moods. I’ve been through every emotion you can think of in the last few months, not least anger. I’m angry at myself for getting caught up in this all, angry at Desmond for managing to fool me and the police and just about anyone who would listen. It rages inside of me for most of the day, but I’ve managed to keep a lid on it. I just have to bide my time until I can prove my innocence. The web will untangle soon enough and they’ll catch up with him.

There was a time; a few weeks ago, where I started to believe that maybe I had invented it all, maybe I was crazy after all and I had committed those awful acts. I wondered whether I had really killed Gill and Mary in cold blood, kidnapped them and taken them to Desmonds flat and cut their throats before turning the knife on to him. I had been smoking a lot, and mixing some of my anti-depressants, but was I really capable of such a thing?

There’s a mist outside, and some of the other residents are being walked around the grounds by the wardens. My window is small and has bars covering it to prevent my escape, but I get some sunshine when the weather is clear.  They let us watch television occasionally; nothing with violence or sexual content, mostly nature documentaries and daytime quiz shows. Some of the other residents get a bit agitated by countdown, so we only ever get about five minutes of that every week, but that’s enough for me.

I want to write a story about my experiences, but they don’t allow us pens or pencils.

My mum came to visit me a week or so ago. Amid the sobbing and the censure, she notified me that Desmond had been awarded twenty thousand pounds compensation by the metropolitan police for their failures to interject and protect him from a person suffering from mental illness who was looking to endanger his life.

I imagine him on a tropical Island, being waited on by statuesque, tanned women and bathing in the cool breeze, all the while relishing his freedom.

I laugh aloud, I do that a lot. It’s the only thing that stops me from feeling like I’m going insane.