Untitled

By Jake Kale

I’m honestly not sure what to title this. I can’t think of a title that doesn’t sound like a cliché—I’d considered “My Confession”, but that’s not particularly fitting as I don’t intend for anyone to see this. At least, not yet. Not until I’m ready. I think I’ll leave it untitled for now.

My story begins about five years ago. I used to be a journalist, freelance of course and mostly restricted to local matters. But I was good, and I was respected. One day I got an email from a former colleague of mine who’d gone on to become a fairly successful writer in London, inviting me to a conference there. It sounded like fun, and it was a chance to meet up with old friends and make new contacts. To network, as the saying goes. So I booked a hotel and off I went. But by the end of the second night I’d had more than enough of my companion’s lack of humanity. Truth be told, I was at a bit of a crossroads, and was seriously considering switching to a new career. The conference made up my mind, and after foolishly spending a further two hours in my friend’s company at a bar (“for old times’ sake”) I left the on the pretence of having to go home early the next day. Which was true, but it wasn’t the real reason. I just had nothing in common with the man, and found myself wondering what warped part of my mind ever thought that I did.

While the bar had been a pretty upscale joint you’d never know it from the alleyway that led to it. It was like something out of Whitechapel circa 1888—dark, dingy and much more intimidating now that I was alone. The narrowness seemed to funnel the shadows towards me, eliciting a claustrophobic reaction so intense that I almost went back to the bar. Like a fool I ignored this perfectly rational, sane reaction and kept going, reasoning that the alleyway was short and I’d soon be out on the street. I couldn’t have taken more than five steps before a shadowy figure emerged from an offshoot that I didn’t even know was there.

“Give me your wallet,” the figure demanded, and at first I didn’t respond. Not so much out of fear, more because I couldn’t believe this was happening. In an absurd way I almost thought it was a joke. Then I saw the glint of a blade in his right hand, and my blood ran cold. Now it was fear that arrested my motor skills, and I found I couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything other than stand there like an idiot, eyes wide and lips moving noiselessly. I could sense my aggressor’s impatience and thought I was about to die, then the door to the bar opened behind me and I saw his face in the dim light—a teenager, or perhaps in his early twenties, with narrow, bony features partly obscured by a dirty stubble and long, stringy hair, wild, frenetic eyes staring out from sunken eyes sockets, the classic junkie countenance. I saw fear in those eyes, fear of getting caught, and for a second I thought I was saved. Then he advanced and, grabbing my arm, yanked me into the offshoot he’d secreted himself in, hissing at me, “Get in here or I’ll cut you’re fucking throat!”

He held me against the wall, the knife right at my throat, and I dared not draw breath in case my expanding airway caused the blade to puncture the flesh of my neck. A man and a woman, both stumbling and giggling like toddlers, somehow made their way past, not even noticing the smaller alley where my life now hung by a thread. The drunken imbeciles must have seen me being dragged in here, but either that didn’t fully register or they were just too entranced by chemicals and rampant hormones to care. I felt my anger kindling. Once they’d gone the kid moved back round to face me, holding the knife just under my jaw line. “Now give me the wallet!” he ordered, but his brush with discovery had obviously taken its toll on whatever nerve he had possessed. The depth had disappeared from his voice, and he stuttered while saying the first two words. He both sounded and looked terrified, he was even shaking! I started to shake, too, and I felt cold beads of sweat on my brow, my heart expanding and contracting rapidly in my chest as the adrenaline flooded my system. As the darkness froze my heart and swallowed my soul. And in that moment, whether I lived or died, I knew one thing.

This snivelling little shit wasn’t getting my wallet.

Like a lot of people, I suppose, I’ve often wondered how I’d react if I were mugged. And, like a lot of people, I’ve even planned what I’d do in that situation. One idea I’d had involved “accidentally” dropping my wallet and then tackling the mugger whilst he was off-guard. I knew it would be risky, but thought that if I acted quickly enough I might be able to disarm or at least incapacitate him long enough to get away. This was the strategy I used that night. Doing my best to appear as terrified as he was (I was still visibly shaking, but that was entirely due to anger), I reached into my jacket pocket and made a big show of groping for my wallet. I finally pulled it out, and I think I did a very convincing impression of fumbling with it before it “flew” from my grasp. It landed a couple of feet away to my right, and so far my plan was working perfectly. I was all set to tackle the kid when the unexpected happened.

The stupid little sod actually bent down to pick it up!

I’m not sure what came over me in that instant. It was like a rapid-fire of impressions and emotions—surprise, apprehension, glorious anticipation among others, experienced at a rate that made it impossible to keep track of them all. I saw the opportunity was right there in front of me and in a moment of seductive impulse I wondered if I could actually do this. If I could actually get away with this. Then I acted.

I kicked him in the head, my foot connecting just beneath his jaw hard enough to bruise my calf. The kid’s head whipped to the right and his body spun with it, and he dropped to one knee but didn’t fall any further. I knew I couldn’t stop now, so seizing my chance I circled behind him and grabbed his right arm, forcing his hand into the floor at an angle and snapping the blade clean off the knife. At this point he tried to stand, so I adjusted my grip on his arm, keeping him doubled over, and ran with him, using his own momentum to drive him headfirst into the wall on the opposite side of the alley. This time he did go down, slumping on his left side before rolling onto his back, and I caught a brief glimpse of his dirty, withered, hopeless face, his dull, half-open eyes registering shock, and then I was on him, kicking his head repeatedly, over and over, and then I was stamping on his face and neck, and I felt a soft squelch and then a satisfying crack as first his nose and then his lower jaw yielded to my heel. And I kept kicking and stamping, I couldn’t stop myself, and I wasn’t angry anymore, I was euphoric—I’d never experienced a thrill like this in my life!

Finally I stood back, shaking harder than before and gasping for air. It felt like there was a hurricane in my head, carrying my thought processes away in a vertiginous mix of terror and excitement. I knew I’d killed him. I almost couldn’t believe it, but I knew it was true. Jesus Christ, I’d actually killed a man! I never imagined I’d be capable of murdering someone. I’m just an ordinary guy. But obviously there was more to me than I realized.

That sounded boastful. Sorry about that, I didn’t mean it that way. It was just a thought.

Just a thought. Maybe that’s what I should call this—“Just a Thought”!

No, that was distasteful. To continue in this vein would cheapen the entire thing, and I don’t want that.

So . . .

As the adrenaline wore off reality set in pretty damn quick, and I saw what I had done and wondered what the hell had come over me. I felt sick, and I had to get away from there, so I turned and ran through both alleyways and into the street where I stopped and bent over, sucking in deep lungful of clammy air, trying to stop my gorge from rising any further. I knew I had to get away, so once I was satisfied that I wasn’t going to throw up I stood and started walking. Fortunately there was no-one else around, but still I forced myself to walk as slowly, as nonchalantly as I could on wobbly, aching legs, even as every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation of flight, as my anxiety-ridden mind screamed for me to get as far away from here as I could. Somehow I willed myself to keep calm and keep walking. I got perhaps another fifty feet when I remembered I’d forgotten to pick up my wallet.

I froze, terror once again seizing my body in its icy death-grip. I had to go back! The idea of going back to that alley was repellent, and my body resisted it violently. How could I have been so stupid? I knew I had to go back, I couldn’t leave the wallet there. As afraid as I was, as much as I wanted to get away, as much as I didn’t want to see what I’d done to that kid’s face, I knew I had no choice.

I had to go back.

I turned around and started walking, and my terror was almost overwhelming. I thought, What if I’m wrong and I haven’t killed him? What if he’s waiting there for me? Or, worse, what if he is dead, but there’s someone else waiting for me instead? Someone in a uniform? But even as these possibilities occurred to me I knew they were not the real reason I was afraid. I simply did not want to confront what I had done. What I had become.

When I reached the scene of my transformation from everyday man on the street to cold-blooded killer I saw that nothing had changed. The kid was lying where he fell, mostly hidden in shadow. You might even think he was sleeping, at least until you looked closely enough. Steeling my nerves and carefully averting my eyes from the crumpled, still form of my would-be assailant-turned-victim I searched for my wallet. It lay on the ground next to a dustbin where I’d “dropped” it, about five feet from the kid’s right foot. I quickly bent to pick it up, then stuffed it right down in my coat pocket and stood. As I did so I couldn’t stop myself from turning to look at the body.

I don’t think I had time to wonder about how I would react when I saw it, though I do remember thinking that I might vomit and end up leaving trace evidence behind after all. The body resembled a heap of old rags arranged on the floor in a spread-eagled humanoid form, with only tattered shoes and greasy hands to indicate that there was an actual human being hidden within. The skull was little more than a dark, slick-looking pancake framed by stringy hair and punctuated by irregular shards of broken bone. A faint but noticeable metallic scent hung in the air. Strange as it may seem, I no longer felt any revulsion at all. I not sure what I felt, but it wasn’t revulsion. Once again a powerful urge overtook me, and I honestly don’t know why I did this, why I even thought of it. But as before, once I had, I couldn’t stop myself.

I pulled out my mobile phone, flipped it open and took a picture of the body.

I left the alleyway for good then, though I had no idea where I was going to go. I knew I couldn’t go back to my hotel yet—I probably had blood on me, and my shoes were bound to be covered in it. Fortunately they were black and as it was dark I was confident no-one would notice. I was more worried about leaving bloody footprints on the hotel carpet. I tried to wash the blood off my heel in a puddle, but then I decided to let it dry. I spent the next few hours wandering the streets of the capital, trying to sort through everything that had just happened. The fear was unreal. I became very aware of traffic cameras, and froze when I spotted the flashing blue lights of a passing panda car. CSI-inspired fantasies plagued my mind, as I imagined revellers stumbling onto the corpse, and perhaps catching a glimpse of my fleeing form. I imagined swarms of glum-faced and determined police officers descending upon the scene, followed by clean-suited forensic technicians armed with tweezers, cotton buds and spray cans filled with luminol. I visualized seated silhouettes scanning CCTV screens in darkened rooms, the images before them flickering rapidly as they watched the attack and tracked my movements afterwards.

Eventually I worked up the courage to go back to my hotel. When I entered I ignored the clerk’s cheerless “Goodnight, sir,” (which I immediately regretted, certain my sheepish behaviour had aroused suspicion) and swiftly made my way to my room. I was relieved beyond measure that my shoes left no bloody tracks. When I got to the room I took off my clothes and examined them. There were indeed a few spots of blood on my trouser legs, and the soles of my shoes were caked in it. It had dried, but was clearly visible as a dark brown flaky coating. I debated dumping the lot, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the room. In hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t—dumping my clothes in the vicinity of the hotel quite likely would’ve led the police straight to me. Instead I packed them into two plastic shopping bags and stuffed them right at the bottom of my luggage. Then I took out my mobile and decided I had to delete that picture. But I didn’t. As incriminating, as damning as I knew the picture was, I couldn’t bring myself to even look at it.

Afterwards I showered and put on fresh clothes (I didn’t bother changing into my pyjamas as I knew I wouldn’t be getting any sleep, plus I wanted to be ready to get away quickly in the morning), then I sat down on the bed, drawing my knees up to chest, about to begin a night-long battle with paranoia. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep a wink that night—I kept expecting a knock at the door any moment. When I thought about what I’d done I started to shake all over again. I’d never committed a crime in my life, I had never so much as got a parking ticket. Now I’d thrown myself right in at the deep end. I was a murderer. And the truly frightening thing was I’d enjoyed it. The next morning I paid the bill for the hotel, checked out and caught the train back home to Cranford. Throughout the journey I expected to see police officers entering the carriage, or to feel a tap on my shoulder.

When I got home I dumped all the luggage that was in the bag with my bloodied clothes, along with the bag itself, well away from my home. Then I tried to get back to the usual routine that was my life, and as the days, weeks and months passed I gradually stopped expecting that fateful knock at the door. You might wonder, as I did, whether the killing of a random junkie would be considered “newsworthy” in our jaded modern times. In fact, it was—but not for long. Pretty soon the papers went back to swooning over “celebs” and calling for immigrants to be forcibly ejected. Maybe if the mugger had been a former actor or musician fallen on hard times, or a refugee from Afghanistan or Iraq, he might have merited more attention. Luckily for me he was neither, and of the scant coverage his murder received, I didn’t bother to collect any press cuttings or tape any news reports. I didn’t need to.

It honestly surprised me that I felt no guilt. Don’t get me wrong, I lived in a state of constant nervous tension for months afterwards, but that was purely a fear of getting caught. I didn’t feel sorry for the kid—he’d brought it on himself. He was just another worthless, apathetic junkie who’d given up on his life and was simply waiting for it to end. I did feel some sympathy for his family, but they no doubt expected this to happen some day.

So that’s my story. I still can’t think of a title for it—I think I’ll leave it untitled. I have to wonder, assuming somebody else is reading this, what you might make of it, and of me. Most people who know me consider me pretty well-adjusted. I’ll go further and state that I actually consider myself to be a very well-adjusted person. I had a very happy childhood—I’ll admit I’ve been bullied at school, once quite badly, and I’ve been a bully, too, but nothing serious. I’ve built up a good career in which I am respected and, I hope, liked, and have a good home. I’ve never had any mental problems, not even depression, which everyone seems to get these days. And my relationships with others—family, friends, lovers—have all been healthy and fulfilling. In fact, throughout my life, both up to that night and beyond, I’ve gone out of my way to help people. I’m not a sociopath—I have empathy for other human beings, I don’t see them merely as “objects”. And that’s what confuses me.

Because I’ve killed six more people since that night.

Creative Commons Licence
Untitled by Jake Kale is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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3 thoughts on “Untitled

  1. OK, let me start my commentary by stating again that the above was entirely fictional and any resemblance to real events is hopefully non-existent! It was written in late 2008, and the original concept obviously centered around someone who you’d expect to be the victim of a terrible crime instead becoming the perpertrator. Yeah, I know, real original! Cut me some slack, it was one of my earliest efforts! Anyway, as I was writing it kind of morphed into the origin story of a character I planned to come back to at some point. I haven’t yet, but if I can find a good way to weave him deeper into the Cranford story I still might. I know it’s not perfect, but I like it, mainly for the last line, so I’m posting it anyway. But again, I want to reiterate that it is entirely fictional!

    Note: If you’ve read “Frigid” and are wondering if the protagonist from “Untitled” is the antagonist in that story, the answer is maybe – I haven’t made my mind up on that yet. I quite like the idea that there might be two unrelated killers stalking the streets of Cranford.

    Next week I’m gonna post the first two parts of a new serialized story, called “The Treehouse”. When I first completed this story I wasn’t too happy with the end result. But after rereading it, I’ve changed my mind and am now pretty pleased with it. Hope you look forward too it!

    Jake

  2. Oh ho – this was really good. I think you should – as you suggest you will – go over it again.
    Liked the idea that you’re leaving the bar to preserve your moral high ground, before killing someone.
    The last line… I like the idea of it, but I wonder if leaving it more open might work too?
    “Because he was just the first…” That way the reader id not pre-warned about the number of killings to come.

    • Interesting point on the last line, I hadn’t considered that. I’ll give that some thought. Thanks as well for putting my mind at rest on another thing that bothered me, which is the character’s attempts to put over what a moral person he is. I wondered if that was stretching credilbility a bit. After all, would a real serial killer worry about that?

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