Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.’ That was Gauguin, the accountant-cum-artist-cum-lover of natives fellow. And my spokesman.
Yes, I was upset. She upset me. It was that simple. So I planned to fuck her up. I dreamt of doing a Gauguin on her. It would be the perfect way to get at Mulqueeny, by getting at her. I wanted to laugh at her. Hand up to my mouth, mimicking her pretence of stifling the guffaws, I wanted to laugh at her humiliation. But how best to bring this about, that was the tricky bit.
The choice was between psychological and physical damage – with the latter striking me as possibly more satisfying. The problem with psychological damage – poisonous letters, anonymous phone calls, whispered innuendos and suchlike – was that the results were too hidden, too hard to quantify, whereas with physical damage there was the satisfaction of surveying broken legs, smashed hands, bruises, possibly even a permanent limp – the latter obviously providing me with many years of pleasure. On the other hand, rape is the first thing that thrusts itself forward to front of mind when one thinks of getting at women. They supposedly consider it worse than being killed. The problem is, I’m not sure that I’m up to it, being totally honest with myself, not sure that it’s up my street, my bag of tricks, my thing. Paying someone else to do it might be just as satisfying, so long as I could watch. Some Corleone lifted out of the phone book, or maybe listed in the Yellow Pages under GBH. There again, it might be more fun to be the instigator of the damage. To follow her home from work one evening might prove most satisfactory.
Watch her leave Mulqueeny’s office. See her walk against the stream of traffic and the dancing glare of wintry headlights. And, as I’m sure she does every evening, make note of how she stops at the post office to hand over a pile of A4 envelopes, her little recyclable carry bag chock-a-block with recyclable manuscripts – oh yes, we know all about those! She takes a short cut through an ill-lit Soho alley, past flashing strip joints, warmly beckoning bars and restaurants, newsagents and betting shops, on the way to the underground. The pavements, like the roads, are crowded and sometimes one or other of us has to stop or step out onto the road to let people past. I follow close behind her. It’s quite safe: she’s too caught up in her own little life, in her own miserable nine-to-five existence to bother to turn round. She has that young person’s walk I hate so much, with the arrogant, thrusting, you-keep-out-ofmy-way movement of the body. I hate her cockiness, her look-at-me superior air, and the confident, almost flamboyant way she holds her cigarette. Even that annoys me – smoking in the street. It’s so common, so typical of today’s young girls.
I enjoy her being unaware that I’m so close behind. She’s oblivious to the fact that I’m hunting her, bent on bloody revenge. I anticipate the look of shock on her face when finally I reveal myself.
We join the throng heading down the steps into the tube – it would be Tottenham Court Road, which is close to her office. She walks down the escalators, and I follow her. She goes to the Northern Line platform – obviously. I walk slowly past her, between where she’s standing and the edge of the platform. It’s a kind of test. I keep my head turned away as if I’m studying the posters on the other side of the track. My stomach muscles are cramping with excitement, like I’m some teenager about to come in his pants. When the train arrives, I get into the adjoining compartment and stand near the door. I keep an eye open at each station when we stop.
At her station, I follow her towards the exit, keeping her long black hair (which, I have to admit, I’m attracted to) always in sight over the heads of other passengers. She crosses the road to the bus stop. I stand a few yards away, but she never looks round. She gets onto the first bus that comes along, and sits downstairs. I sit upstairs where I can see the mirror showing the platform. When she gets off at her stop, I’m ready. I’m down the stairs and off the bus just as it starts to move away.
I let her walk a little ahead of me. I feel great, really powerful, and I want to beat my chest and send a war cry through the city jungle. I can do anything I want, and she can do nothing – she’s powerless. There’s no traffic around, and no people. Her heels sound loud on the pavement, an irritating, metronomic clicking. I speed up so I can catch up with her. My rubber soles don’t make a sound. It’s exciting to move in for the kill when she’s so unsuspecting, so blissfully unaware.
It’s dark – of course, absolutely. The street lights are lit, but the lights are far apart, so it’s suitably threatening. I’m walking right behind her now, right on her heels. I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to, but I’ll wait until the time is right. Although my shoes make no sound, she senses me there quickly enough – women hate it when men walk right behind them, I’ve often noticed that. She slows down hoping I’ll pass. But I don’t pass. I slow down, too. She half looks over her shoulder, but not directly at me, not into my face. Then she veers across the road, wanting to get away from me.
Her heels are clicking louder and faster. I cross the road too. I can hear her breath. Now she starts to panic, like an animal sensing the hunter closing in and feeling helpless. My heart’s going faster, too, but only because I’m elated. I stretch out my hand and touch the top of her hair, all silky and black. She whimpers, but doesn’t turn round. I think she’s too scared to turn round. She’s walking fast, almost running. To slow her down, I grab a fistful of hair and stop. She’s almost yanked off her feet. I whisper her name – ‘Ms Diane.’
We’re near a street light, but that doesn’t bother me. She can’t ignore me now, not any longer. With a kind of strangulated moan, she manages to half turn round. She gasps when she sees my face. Yes, oh yes, when she realises who I am, when she recognises me, how can she not gasp? ‘Oh hello,’ doing her best to make everything sound perfectly normal despite the fact I’ve got a handful of her hair in my fist. She knows the situation is far from normal. I say nothing, just stare at her. I think she’s mesmerised, like a rabbit transfixed by a fox. I let go of her hair.
‘Can I help you?’ She forces a little smile, but it’s a pretty feeble effort. ‘I didn’t know you lived round here, Mr … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten …’ She’s still into ellipses. It’s a bad habit, especially for someone working in a literary agency. She needs to be taught a lesson.
I still say nothing. She’s clutching her handbag to her chest as if it will offer her some form of protection. Her eyes are wide, and there are tears there, just beginning to appear in the corners. She can’t move she’s so frightened. I think it’s because I say nothing, that’s what freaks her out. I like that. I smile, although it’s probably more of a smirk. I’m really quite pleased with myself, with things running so smoothly. I don’t think it reassures her, my smile or smirk or whatever it is. It probably makes her think I know something she doesn’t, and that it’s not very nice. She’s right. She can obviously be quite perceptive at times.
My next move might be to step forward, right up to her. She’ll then back away. Yes, I can see it: up against a low garden wall with a hedge above it. There would be no lights on in the house behind the wall. I’ll move against her, just touching. She’ll be half turned away from me now, cowering, head down, bowed, panting, almost sobbing. I’ll say nothing. Silence is good, that’s definitely the way to go.
‘I’m sorry, but it wasn’t my decision.’
I’ll still say nothing.
‘I’m sorry, truly I am. If there’s …’
I’ll still say nothing.
‘You have to believe me … It wasn’t anything to do with me.’
Someone turns into the street. He’s at least a hundred yards away. I see him out of the corner of my eye. It’s someone walking a dog. Where on earth did he come from? Who thought of introducing him suddenly? But it’s too late to object now because she’s seen him too. She gives a small cry of hope, the little gasp escaping from her mouth like an upraised hand. But he’s still too far away to be of any assistance to her. I place a hand on one of her breasts. It’s very firm and young. I squeeze it hard nevertheless, yanking her back to face me.
‘Please don’t. Not that.’
With my other hand I squeeze her throat, raising her onto tiptoe, almost lifting her off the ground. She’s making strange gulping sounds, looking down her nose at me, screwing up her eyes as if she’s afraid I’m about to hit her. My face is only inches from hers. She’s not so confident now.
This is what I’ll say, and how I’ll say it. ‘You.’ Her mouth is a scarlet bridge. ‘Should.’ Black mascara, like the dots and dashes of Morse code, runs down her white cheeks. ‘Be careful.’ I can feel her breath against my face; sweet breath, still innocent and fresh, despite the tobacco. ‘Who.’ I let go of her throat and she lets out a small cry. ‘You laugh at.’
It comes out word perfect.
Then I’ll turn and walk off. She’s lucky someone came along (why did I imagine that?). I don’t know how it might have ended up otherwise. I don’t turn back. I make sure I look indifferent, casual as I walk away, as if I don’t care one way or the other. Only when I reach the corner do I glance back down the road. She’s collapsed on the pavement, huddled up, like a pile of discarded clothes on a bedroom floor, not looking back at me at all. The man with the dog is running towards her, the dog yelping excitedly, pleased that its evening walk hasn’t turned out to be as boring as usual.
Of course, as soon as I run that little scenario through my head, I worry that I hadn’t gone far enough with Ms Diane. I tried to think of other possibilities. My revenge should really have something to do with words. Mulqueeny had rejected my words and she’d laughed in my face. Kafka immediately sprang to mind – but of course! His short story about an apparatus that writes on the victim’s body whichever commandment it is that he’s broken, that would be perfect. But how could I go about finding such a machine? It would be difficult. Maybe I could get someone to build one for me – that bloke in Willesden Green who built my bookcase? I’d be able to set it up in the yard at the back of my Kilburn flat, next to the clothes line and rubbish bins. But the thought of having Mrs Dawes out there all the time, complaining about the state of her hubby’s legs, asking me what I was doing and could I keep the noise down and where was Bridgette and who was this new one, this Diane, made me think it might be better if I came up with another idea.