Cuffed Page 2

  Cassandra’s coming over later. I don’t call her that to her face, I call her ‘Love’ instead, a ploy of mine to make me seem distant. By now she shouldn’t be disappointed that I appear not to remember her name. She knows what goes on in my head and that we’ll never get serious. At least, she’s told me that she understands that. But women aren’t as straight with you as blokes. They keep stuff in and lie to themselves. You can have a laugh with me and enjoy some rough sex. That’s it.

  I’ve enjoyed just ten minutes of my favourite pastime when the doorbell rings. The stupid cow is twenty minutes early. I spend a minimum, absolute minimum, of thirty minutes in the bath. And ten minutes on the shitter. These timings are inflexible. The bell ringing continues. I am not getting out of this bath.

  I call it a doorbell, but she’s actually outside the block, pressing my flat number on the intercom. It’s a buzzing sound really. After a lot of racket in my flat, I can hear her buzzing my neighbours...

  ‘Razors!’ she calls through the letterbox a couple of minutes later. ‘Get out of the bath and open this bloody door!’

  I sink deeper into the water, my hands behind my head, and close my eyes. This experience is meant to be a silent one. I hear my mobile phone ring. I purposely left it in the lounge, but forgot to switch it to silent. She cancels the call before voicemail kicks in. I temporarily shut her out of my life. She will not affect my time here. I ignore the shouting and ringing.

  Twenty minutes later, I empty the water, and, dressed in a robe, open the front door. She’s sitting on the ground. She ignores me for a few seconds, then stands up, barges past me, calls me an ‘arse’ and stomps into the lounge. I close the door and follow her. She sits on the sofa, her feet under her bottom.

  ‘You would make a fine catch for some deserving young lady!’

  ‘I’m Moby Dick,’ I respond, just as sarcastically. ‘I can’t be caught.’

  ‘What a waste.’

  She’s a good-looking woman. Beautiful in fact. Many of my mates can’t believe she’s content to be my fuck-buddy. They’ve tried to steal her from me, tried to make her ‘see sense’, citing my coldness and her far superior attributes, and once one of them even foolishly squared up to me over her, but their ‘thoughtful’ efforts have so far proved futile. She’s obsessed with me. I like to think I’m not an arsehole – I made it clear from the start that I’m not, nor would I ever be, the relationship type. She’s had a whole year to realise how authentic that statement was – I’ve never misled her or given her reason to believe there’ll be something more. She’s made her choice.

  ‘Why were you so early?’ I ask.

  ‘No one is ever on time. You’re either early or late. It’s rude to be late, isn’t it?’

  She looks at me with her deep blue eyes. I like that look. It’s a look of lust. She’s a highly-sexed women and I drive her wild. I’m a good-looking fella myself. I keep my body hard and defined. I’m clean-shaven with a chiselled jaw; short, spiky, blond hair and dark brown eyes. She likes my scars, too. I sport a six-inch scar across my back and a three-inch one on my right arm – both knife slashes.

  She’s a brunette with shoulder-length hair and a bloody good physique. Unfortunately though, the early sensations her looks aroused in me have not continued to the present day. It’s still sex, average sex, but the mind-blowing orgasms have passed. That’s the price of repetition. Another positive reason for steering clear of commitment.

  We have sex. She enjoys it much more than I do. I could finish it quick, but that would be selfish. As I said, I’m not an arsehole. She deserves an orgasm.

  She always lingers after sex. She’s pretty good company, but I prefer to be alone. And right now I’ve got lots to think about.

  ‘The tapping’s stopped then?’ she says from the kitchen.

  I sit up. ‘You heard it?’

  ‘Of course I did. You told me it was the pipes.’

  She heard it − not my mind then. ‘Yeah, it stopped.’

  She returns to the lounge and sits beside me. ‘Cliff told me you got in trouble with the superintendent.’

  I stare at her. ‘He’s a prick.’

  ‘I thought you got on with him. You said he’d helped you out in the past.’

  ‘No, Cliff’s a prick, he’s trying to get in your knickers.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s because he cares about you?’

  ‘No... What’s your name again?’

  She gets up, grabs a piece of printer paper, and writes on it with a black biro. Then she stands it on top of the TV and sits back down.

  ‘... Okay, thanks. No, Cassandra, I think, in fact I know, that he wants you to think he cares about me.’

  She starts to gently pinch my hair. ‘Are you feeling jealous, Razors? Are you concerned that I might jump into bed with him?’

  I return her smile. ‘Cliff’s wife might be.’

  ‘You know your friends think I’m wasting my time with you?’

  ‘Yeah I know. You’ve told me before.’

  She laughs. ‘You’re a real challenge, Razors. I’ve never met anyone like you.’

  ‘That’s what you like about me, you dirty slut!’

  I reach over and pinch her thighs – her soft spot. Always makes her giggle.

  *****

  I decline her request to stay the night, as I have too much on my mind. After she leaves, I update my journal and then think about the letter. ‘STOP WRITING JOURNAL’. Who sent it? What’s the incentive? I’ve stitched up a lot of slags in the past. They deserved it, every one of them, but they resent me for it. And the new bloke, forgotten his name… Satan… he worked with me today. He saw me writing my journal, even asked me about it. Could it be him? Could he have the brazenness to fuck with me like that? Why would he do that? Is he a mole? Is he fucking with me to further his own career? If so, he’s pretty good. I can read people well, and he seems a bona fide, fresh recruit to me. Or is it one of my mates who wants – I glance up at the TV – Cassandra? Cassandra... I lean forward. Then I spring from the sofa and grab the piece of paper sitting on top of the TV.

  It’s her.

  It’s the same fucking writing!

  4

  The worst crimes occur in the mind. Within the skull atrocities happen. Unprecedented acts, even by mankind's barbaric history. It's my job to find these fuckers before they find their victim. And it ain't easy to prevent the crime, not these days when jurors and judges deem it justice to reintegrate slags with the community rather than deny them such contact. Times have changed. Thousands of years of civilisation and we still don’t know how to stop crime. My view? You hang a murderer, he won't murder again.

  Why didn't I kill Clinton Goater? Just as I've stopped hundreds of these killers, I stopped myself. Not for Goater's benefit, mind, for my own. I'd have been the prime suspect. He killed my old man.

  As I say, the worst crimes occur in the mind.

  While I wait for a bus, I watch a fox dash into the road. The middle of the day and this 'cunning' animal plays Frogger with the traffic. Frogger's an ancient and highly addictive arcade game. You controlled a frog that had to cross from one side of a dual carriageway to the other. Assisted by some emergency stops, the fox makes it across. This fox wasn't cunning. I rub the stubble on my chin and watch the animal scurry into an alleyway. Could it be that I'm running out of space? Maybe I'm overloaded and can't maintain control. Perhaps I've forgotten that a fox is supposed to be cunning. I'm breaking up and everything is in disarray. This fox was not true to type – it was stupid. Foxes get run over, I know that much, but rarely in broad daylight on a busy high street. I whip out my notebook and record my observations.

  All this is leading me to a place of clarity, I know it is. It has to be, cos nowadays nothing makes much sense to me.

  I get on the bus, flash my badge for free travel, then sit in front of some old guy. He mumbles something as I shuffle up to the window. It may well have been ‘Cock’, but I’m not sure so I let it pass. The
bus pulls away. A few seconds later, we pass some birds smoking outside their offices. They're dressed in black, head to toe, and all five of them are rather plump. One of them waves at me. I don't know her, but I flash a quick smile. People say I look like Alan Smith, the ex-Man United and Newcastle striker. He's a looker apparently.

  I get checked out a lot. I know that, because when girls walk past me in the street and I turn to stare at their arses, most of them catch me doing it.

  In front of me is a glass window that shields the bus exit doors. In its reflection I can see the passenger directly behind me − the old geezer. He's mumbling to himself. When the bus driver stops to let someone out of a junction, the old geezer calls him a wanker. I study him via the screen. His eyes are fixed and hateful, his white hair cropped and his weathered face pockmarked. I think he’s staring at my reflection. Always hard to tell if it’s a reflection square up. He could be looking through the glass, through my face, at something else. He could be watching the road ahead. But then my Hell Bell starts to ring. Whenever that bell rings in my head, it means Hell’s about to claim me. I must stay alert. Must try not to get too distracted...

  I slap my fingers onto my face, splay them and watch the nutter through the gaps.

  ‘Come on, you prick!’ geezer shouts. This is because the driver’s waiting to overtake a cyclist. He’s a cautious driver, no Schumacher, but getting a hard-on about it is pointless.

  Yeah, I think the geezer’s caught my eye. Definitely. He looks away, shouts, ‘What a wanker!’ – might be talking about me. I relax my muscles, focus on the screen, on every pore of his body...

  ‘Fucking piece of fucking shit!’

  He bends down. I can’t see his face. I hear rustling, then he sits back up. Out comes the knife. A steak knife, serrated edge, six-inch blade, rigid looking – not one of these bendy cheapo numbers. Holds it so it’s pointed downwards. Lifts his arm, grabs the back of my seat with his other hand to help direct the strike. His upper teeth clamp down onto his chin. Eyes glazed over, frothing at mouth, frantic, irregular breaths. The knife soars towards my right shoulder blade. I lift my elbow and grab his wrist. The knife stops dead an inch from my back. My free hand grips the wrist too, then I hurl the geezer over me. His feet smash through the screen. There was a time that such incidents would unfold in a haze until suddenly everything stopped and I’d gradually regain control and reflect on what had happened. That was a dangerous time, in the very early stages of my career. Now, I am wholly focused. The geezer’s hair is in my left hand. My right hand holds the blade against his windpipe. He grunts and groans and slowly wiggles his fingers.

  Other passengers have backed away. Some are hysterical. I should console them, announce that I’m a copper. Instead, I whisper into the fucker’s ear, ‘I’m gonna saw your neck in half.’

  His eyes meet mine. He whimpers. What he sees is intent and what he feels is helplessness. I’ve crushed his survival instinct. He succumbs, just as a lion succumbs to the bars of his cage. I am his future. And I choose to redirect his path. Not before I run the blade across his neck, applying just enough pressure to cause a permanent scar.

  ‘I’ll be watching you every time you use a mirror. And whenever that fucked up head of yours starts to think bad thoughts, remember where this one took you.’

  He mumbles something. His body trembles. Thick drops of blood trickle like lazy raindrops towards his chest.

  Surely by now, Hell must feel like giving up.

  ‘Is he dead?’ someone asks.

  ‘No.’ I turn and smile at the crowd. Not quite so terrified now. They’ve inched a little closer.

  ‘Good job I was on this bus. I’m a cop. If I hadn’t been here one of you would be dead.’ I hold out the knife for the benefit of the many startled eyes. And then, I let out a childish chuckle when I receive a round of applause.

  5

  Saturday morning. Two dead kids and a sick poet on our patch.

  With a gloved hand I pick up the note.

  ‘Don’t walk on the fucking crime scene!’ I warn Noah, as he inches closer to the boys.

  ‘But–’

  ‘Fuck “but”! Get out the fucking way. You’re spitting over them!’ He backs away. ‘They’re dead. We have to find this fucker. Get SOCO down here now.’

  Note reads: “Two by two, they leave the clue”...

  What clue? It’s neat, relaxed handwriting. Written in fountain pen after he killed them – there are specks of blood under the ink. I stare at the corpses, both of them were shot in the head at close range. Something about their togetherness had prompted the killer to act. If the words contain any truth, that is. My hunch tells me the killer thinks he’s invincible. Thinks he’s too smart for me.

  Phone calls or texts. Perhaps he intercepted the message, learned of the meet up point and the routes. Some kind of scanner–

  ‘SOCO’s on route,’ Noah says. ‘What about informing the parents? Shouldn’t we–

  ‘No, not yet. We’ll wait for forensics. Once he’s done taking samples, then we can interfere with the bodies.’

  Blaring sirens screech to a halt. As soon as I told the control room what we’d found in Bishops Park, the whole world made their way here. As the officers run over I shout out to them, ‘Stay back. Don’t contaminate this fucking crime scene!’

  Everyone heeds my warning, except the duty officer, Inspector fucking Haynes. Just got made up, wants to prove who’s boss.

  ‘I need to call people, Razors,’ he says as he strides closer. ‘I need to know what we’ve got.’

  ‘With respect, sir, get the fuck away from my crime scene.’ I glare at him and he stops. ‘Myself or Noah can tell you what we’ve got. The kids are dead and we need forensics.’

  Haynes nods. ‘Okay, Razors,’ he says, ‘we’ll talk about that later.’

  Fine by me. He can bollock me as much as he likes. As long as I’ve done what I wanted to do, I don’t give a fuck what he says. Haynes backs away.

  ‘I asked for air support, dogs, CO19 and search teams. Our boys need to contain the area and find witnesses. That’s what I asked for, not a zulu charge.’

  ‘It’s all in hand,’ Haynes replies.

  *****

  After the commotion and a long day, I decide to walk with Noah to the tube station. Since this morning, since discovering the double murder, he’s been very quiet.

  ‘Unfortunately, son, sick bastards won’t wait for you to prepare yourself.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s probably the worst you’ll face in your whole career.’

  He sniffs. One of those sniffs that’s projected as a laugh. ‘Is that supposed to cheer me up?’

  ‘Listen,’ I say as we cross the road, ‘I know what I’m doing and I get mad when someone tries to fuck it up. That’s why I shouted. Not just at you but at the governor too. I would have failed myself if I’d let some copper contaminate that scene. A bit of saliva can destroy the forensics, confuse the dogs, and ultimately it’s ammunition for the defence.’

  ‘I know, I know. You were good, Razors. It’s just... harsh... waiting so long to tell the family.’

  ‘Those minutes might mean we catch the killer. That delayed misery might mean closure to them.’

  ‘Perhaps, if we catch him.’

  ‘We’ll catch him. He’s challenging me.’

  Noah stops and faces me. ‘Challenging you?’

  ‘Yeah. I was first on scene. I read the note. It was meant for me.’

  ‘It could have been anyone... a member of the public–’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘This is for me. This is my case.’

  ‘It’s Special Branch’s case.’

  ‘I need to solve this. This job requires immediate action, not idle chat.’

  ‘... Let’s talk about it tomorrow...’

  At Earl’s Court I get on a tube and find a rare empty seat. The carriage soon fills up and as the tube pulls away I listen to two foreigners standing in front of me. T
hey’re tanned, probably Spanish or Portuguese, unshaven with thick, black hair...

  ‘Did youuuuuuuu... get aaaaa... er-er... a-a telefono?’

  ‘A phone?’

  ‘Si. Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How-how... how much... it... cost?’

  ‘Twenty... twenty pound.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A mar... ket?’

  ‘El mercado?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you-did youuuuuuu... need errrrr… er... identificacion?’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head ‘No. No question, just sold me phone.’

  ‘What-what-what errrrrr... number?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Call me. Your number...’ He points at the mobile in his hand. ‘I will errrrr... I will see it.’

  ‘I don’t... have your number.’

  Gritted teeth and a grunt. ‘Mierda! I don’t have my number!’

  I caress my scrotum in the bath. What a day... What a week to be more precise. My journal’s become very popular – I regularly have lots to write about.

  If this is my world, then what was the purpose of the madman on the bus? Why the fuck would I want to expose myself to that danger?

  Am I supposed to die? Will death make sense of everything? Is my self-preservation holding me back? I sink a few inches into the bubbles. I can’t let some fucker kill me. It’s against my instincts. Razors can’t go out like that...

  And what about that bitch? Why is she fucking with me? Is it some relationship thing? She wants me to commit. She’s tried everything to encourage me, but nothing can. So is this just another tactic? Or is it more complex, involving more people? I take deep, steady breaths. I have to be cool to crack it. I have to suppress my anger.