Mick stripped out of his clothing and placed them in a plastic bag. He’d dispose of them soon. He jumped in the shower to wash any remaining blood off him, sprayed the shower with bleach and rinsed out the water. Mick was sure he’d seen something on one of those CSI shows: bleach would get rid of evidence. His tub was filthy anyway, so even if it didn’t work, it might clean the place up a bit. Mick was surprised at how calm he felt, considering his days were numbered and that bitch, Lucy, would recall him for being in a relationship. He looked at his hands and turned them over, feeling the sting of the scrapes and cuts on his knuckles. He’d have to figure out a way to explain these to the police. He thought for a minute and then settled on an idea: maybe pick a fight when he went to the pub.
Mick grabbed a pair of jeans off his floor, put them to his nose and breathed in. They could last one more day, despite the stain on the knee. He chose a dark T-shirt and threw on his black hoodie. Put his ear to the door, listened to the silence outside. The streets were quiet for a change and Mick thought perhaps his luck was in. He might just get away with what he’d done to Vicki.
I only slapped her around. She’ll have a headache and a few bruises at most. No big deal.
Mick didn’t want to be seen leaving his flat; that way he could choose his reported time of arrival at the pub. It would be heaving tonight, and he could get lost in the crowd. Darts nights always drew the crowds. He’d usually avoid them, but tonight it would give him the perfect opportunity to create an alibi.
He put Vicki’s money and spare key in his pocket, making sure everything else was removed from the clothing he’d worn earlier. He was planning on dumping them in a large rubbish bin that sat near the entrance to the underpass, where some local homeless people had set up camp.
Mick took a chance and peered cautiously out of the door. Satisfied, he sprinted along the pathway and headed down Browning Street towards the underpass. At this time of night, most of the homeless people would be too drunk, or fast asleep, to remember him. It was just his luck that as he approached the waste bin, one of them headed towards him.
‘Spare change, mate?’
Normally Mick would have told the drunk man to fuck off, but tonight he didn’t want any trouble. He pulled out some loose change from his pocket. The man swiped it out of his hand before, Mick could say anything, and then headed in the direction of the shops.
No one saw him dump his sweater and tracksuit bottoms in the bin. Mick stared into the underpass, lost in his thoughts about what had just happened.
‘Oi. You! What are you doing there?’ shouted one of the homeless men. A few others sat up on their cardboard beds and eyed Mick.
‘Nothing, mate, just getting rid of some rubbish. That all right with you?’ Mick gave him a hard stare. The man lay back down and turned over, grumbling incoherently. Mick carried on through the underpass, without looking at the folk who called this place their home. Fucking saddos.
When Mick arrived at the pub, he looked through the grotty window, satisfied that he’d easily blend in. As he pushed through the door, he looked at the bar to make sure that Kevin had not spotted him. Kevin had a memory like an elephant and if he saw Mick now, he’d clock the time, and any chance he had of pulling off an alibi would be scuppered.
He headed towards a group of men he’d chatted with before. Although he’d never class these guys as his mates, he often enjoyed banter with them over a few pints. ‘Mind if I join you, lads? I was over the other side of the room and those wankers are just talking shite.’ Mick laughed. He had picked up a half-empty pint glass off one of the tables, on his way across the room, to make his story believable.
‘Hey, Mick! Good to see ya, mate! Don’t normally see you here on a Thursday,’ Billy noted. ‘Jesus. What’s happened to your hands?’
‘I pop in on a Thursday now and again, but only stay for a pint or two because of all the noise. I ain’t no spring chicken you know!’ He looked at his hands. ‘I had a bit of work on a building site. Let’s just say, manual labour and I don’t mix.’
Billy laughed and raised his glass. ‘Can I get you a pint, Mick?’
Mick reached into his pocket and pulled out a tenner. ‘It’s on me, if you don’t mind getting it? Just don’t fancy standing in that bloody queue.’
‘Sure thing … and thanks!’ Billy took the £10 note and patted Mick on the shoulder.
While he waited, Mick put the half-filled glass down and mixed in with the other men around the table. He hated small talk, but knew he needed to shore up his alibi. Best to spend Vicki’s money, too. He offered to buy a round. The men at his table soon took him into their conversation, and he smiled to himself.
Can I really get away with this?
Billy arrived back at the table with the pints. ‘Kevin was asking when you arrived,’ Billy said casually.
‘Oh yeah? And what did you tell him?’ Mick’s voice was loud and he felt his hand shaking.
‘Calm down, mate. Not sure what’s got your knickers in a twist, but I told him you’ve been here ages.’
Wondering why Kevin was so curious, Mick looked over to the bar and raised his glass. He gave Kevin a nod and got one in return. Probably just being paranoid.