When you think about it, nobody ever knows anything for certain, and nothing ever makes any sense. How can it? Our home in this universe is a massive spinning rock, circling an even bigger, hotter rock, and while we’ve completely cluttered up the place with inventions and opinions, we still haven’t figured out why we’re here. Where were we for the billions of years before we got here? Where do we go after we’ve gone? Does anyone know? Not us. We’re too busy imprisoning ourselves in an almost constant state of distraction. Occasionally – and only in the event of a national emergency – we feel panicked enough to put our phones down and do something truly important, like stockpile toilet paper, before going back to staring at our screens. Vacuous celebrities have become the gods we worship, and while all the evidence would appear to point towards a global plummet in intelligence, we remain remarkably knowledgeable when it comes to discussing what everyone else is doing wrong.
As a part-time serial killer, my spinning rock experience is somewhat different to most, and considerably harder than you’d think. Because it’s not just the hoarding of toilet paper or celebrity worship that confounds me – irritating people find new ways to be irritating every day. And, with so many to deal with, I often wonder: why am I doing this only part-time?
The problem is, I have rules. One rule, really. The Rule. I only kill people who look like ghosts just before they’re about to die. I know it’s all in my head – a trick of the light perhaps – but it’s always felt like my gift. The permission to kill. I see them fading before they’re gone, and that’s when I know it’s time. Ending the life of anyone else would feel unnatural. And wrong.
For years, the system worked. The ghosts appeared, I sent them on their way, and got on with my true passion: art. Then my dad died, and grief did something to my gift. Broke it. Suddenly, too many people looked ghostlike, and I got reckless. Almost got caught.
And now? Nothing. A three-month dry spell. No ghosts, no kills.
Which would be fine – except people seem even more annoying than ever. Case in point: the woman I met yesterday in the supermarket, who appeared to be sane until she started talking to me about avocados. About how she’d tried to make herself like them but just couldn’t get used to the texture or taste. Why did I need to know that? Why does anyone need to know that? Is it any wonder that I look forward to getting into bed each night? It’s my favourite time of the day, those moments when I quietly anticipate the uninterrupted hours stretching out ahead of me, free of contact with ordinary people.
So you can imagine my irritation when someone bangs on my front door, waking me from blissful sleep.
‘Claire! Can you hear me?’
Who is that?
‘CLAIRE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?’
Why is she shouting?
‘I can’t believe what just happened.’
What time is it?
‘Something awful has happened.’
Bloody hell, it’s only six thirty!
‘I’m calling the police, Claire!’
What?
‘Can you hear me? I’m calling the police.’
I grab my hammer.
My neighbour, Mrs Davis, is standing on my doorstep – crying, shaking, looking bloody awful. And weird. Why does she look so weird? I’ve only opened the front door a fraction, keeping my hammer hidden from view, but her ancient face is millimetres from mine, glistening with snot and tears.
‘They took him, Claire,’ she snorts, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her coat.
‘Who?’
‘Rufus.’
Who?
‘And you know Rufus, Claire.’
Do I?
‘He couldn’t be more devoted to me.’
Couldn’t he?
‘How am I going to survive without my Rufus?’
Who the fuck is Rufus?
‘Are you OK?’ she asks, teary-eyed.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. Are you angry?’
‘Of course not, Mrs Davis,’ I say, tightening my mouth into a smile. ‘This is just my face. My morning face.’ I rearrange my grip on the hammer. ‘I’m not a morning person.’
‘Is it still morning?’ she asks, blinking in confusion, and I start to wonder if I’ve woken up in a parallel universe where ordinary people no longer understand the basic concept of time.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘It’s six thirty-four, Mrs Davis,’ I add, checking my watch, hammer still hidden from view. ‘Six thirty-four in the morning.’
‘We’re always up at the crack of dawn,’ she says. ‘Up with the lark, Rufus and me. Early to bed, early to rise – that’s how we like it.’
Swift and brutal. A glance at my hammer. That’s how I like it. Though if I kill Mrs Davis I’ll have destroyed the world’s most fruitful source of clichés.
‘He’s never been very social, you see. Likes to keep himself to himself. Prefers running around on his own, and that’s why we always go to the park early.’ She’s sobbing again. ‘So he can run off lead.’
Oh, is Rufus the dog she’s always walking? That’s why she looks weird. I’ve never seen her without her dog.
‘All of a sudden, these men in a big, dirty grey van drove right up onto the grass and jumped out! Two of them, faces covered, and they grabbed Rufus!’ She raises her hand to her heart and breathes deeply. She’s clutching a red dog lead. ‘There was so much noise. One of them was saying, “Nice doggy, nice doggy.” And Rufus was barking, but he’s all bark and no bite – my lovely boy,’ her voice cracks, ‘and I was screaming my head off but there was nobody around to help. And then the bigger of the two men put Rufus in the back of the van. He was huge, as strong as an ox. And the other man, he wasn’t nearly as big, or as strong, but he was probably still about as strong as a gorilla.’
Is an ox stronger than a gorilla?
‘He sent me flying, Claire. Knocked me over like I was light as a feather.’
Because if it came down to a fight, I don’t think I’d put my money on the ox.
‘And then they got into the van and drove away.’
I mean, the gorilla’s got hands, hasn’t it?
‘I was in shock, Claire. Shaking like a leaf.’
Although I suppose the ox could try to trample the gorilla.
‘I gathered my wits as quickly as I could and came here.’
But it would need a bloody good run-up.
‘I didn’t know what else to do.’
And the element of surprise.
‘Can I come in?’
To be honest, I can’t see a gorilla being caught off guard.
‘Claire?’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I need to get out of the cold. I can’t stop shaking,’ she adds, moving her hand towards me to prove her point. The dog lead slips through her quivering fingers, and as I pick it up, I read the words Pampered Pooch printed at intervals along the entire length.
‘Thank you, Claire,’ she mumbles, taking the lead from me, before almost dropping it again. ‘Look at me, I’m all fingers and thumbs. Can I come in out of the cold?’
‘Er,’ I look over my shoulder into the living room. It’s a mess. A large, half-finished canvas leans against the wall. Paints are scattered over the coffee table. Sketchbook pages litter the floor. And a rude woman is still tied up and gagged in Dad’s old armchair.
‘I’m not ready for visitors,’ I say, turning back towards Mrs Davis. ‘I need to hoover.’
