Killing for Karma

Killing for Karma

I had been feeling like killing someone for a long time before that day. The only thing that was delaying me was choosing the right victim.

I am, and always have been, a great believer in karma you see. Whatever you give out will come back to you, and all that jazz. At the same time, I have battled murderous urges, justified anger and hatred at the rest of this ridiculous midden we call reality.

However, after a long time of dwelling on this conundrum I suddenly realised something vital, something life-changing. It came to me as I walked through a beautiful park one day, basking in the warmth of the sun and drinking in the subtle music of nature.

Perhaps, I thought, I could work with karma, rather than against it. Perhaps if I find people who are deserving of a horrible death, people who have really hurt the rest of the world with their actions, I would be acting as karma’s representative on earth. Nothing would come back to me, since I would only have doled out a justified punishment anyway.

This particular thought pleased me greatly. No longer did I have to toil and labour under my own desires. No longer was I conflicted. No longer could the world impress it’s paradoxical rules upon me.

I began to search for my first victim. At first, the obvious sprang to mind. Vacuous celebrities, conniving politicians and ruthless businessmen all scoured my senses daily, begging to be freed from their misery. But I was clever enough to think for a moment before rushing into such a rash decision. I thought of all those who had gone before me; Wilkes Booth, Boston Corbett, Oswald, Barry George. Each had met with an unpleasant fate, a fate that I wanted to avoid. Famous people were just too hard to kill, if you wanted to get away with it that is.

So, I eliminated my delusions of grandeur, and focused upon more humble goals. I searched the world around me, hunting for someone so evil, so twisted that no right-minded person could have faulted my actions.

If I saw someone committing an act I would have called “wrong” I would follow them for a while, praying not to catch a glimpse of any redeeming qualities. If I saw a fight or an argument on the street, if someone hurled racist abuse, I would tail the protagonist, until they arrived home to a loving family, or redeemed themselves through some small act of kindness. Then I would curse, and break off.

Back to square one.

One day, after many weeks of searching, I stumbled across Mr Right.

It was by pure good fortune that I happened to be standing in the queue behind him that day. He was a head taller than me, and dressed in tautly creased black trousers topped with a rough woolen sweater with patches on the shoulders and elbows. The logo just below his left shoulder read “Reliant”. He seemed unremarkable enough, holding a grotty tabloid and a packet of chewing gum disinterestedly in his spade-like hand. It wasn’t until he spoke to the burly man next to him that my interest began to pique.

“Aye, bunch of arseholes ye get in these vans, I’ll tell ye. Shouting, screaming, kicking up a fuss” He snarled to his companion, “but I ken how tae deal wi’ them.” His lips curled into a cruel grin.

“Oh aye, how’s that?” His friend asked, feigning interest.

“Well, that depends on the day I suppose. Some of them, I’ll just throw the van through a few roundabouts at 40. Get the leg irons digging in a bit. That’ll normally put the frighteners on ’em,” he chuckled.

His friend added a conspiratorial snort.

“Others, the ones who think they’re hard, get a little special treatment.” He leaned closer to his friend, lowering his tone. “Last week, I had a lad who just would not shut up. I pulled the van over in the woods, and knocked him about a bit. Little bastard still wouldn’t quieten down, so I whapped it out and took a piss on him.”

His friend burst into momentary hysterics.

“Yeah, I was chuffed wi' that one. Think the boy was mental though, after that he just sat in the back knocking his heid aff the side o' the van.”

Again the companion let out a giggle.

That was enough for me. I waited for them to leave, put my items back on the shelves, and followed. The two men split further down the road, and I stayed with the more vocal one.

He walked briskly, and I struggled to keep up. His stride was that of a giant, feet pounding the pavement with a determined slap. I was careful not to get too close for safety's sake, although he was fixed on his destination, never looking back. Eventually, he turned off the main street and into a run-down council estate.

Children played amongst broken glass and piles of fly-tipped rubbish. The imposing concrete towers rose out of the floor like the gnarled, stained fingers of some long-buried hand. Every second window was boarded up, a permanent reminder of the polar repulsion that everyone except the most desperate had for the place.

The tall man swiped a plastic tag against a metal panel at the base of the tallest tower, and stepped inside. I quickened my pace to a jog, barely catching the door before the magnetic lock reengaged. I checked behind me to make sure no-one was watching. The children carried on unaware of my presence, blissfully absorbed in their games. I stepped inside.

The door to the stairwell was swinging closed as I entered the neglected lobby. Elevators sat idly to my right, tattered "out of order" signs hanging forlornly from yellowing sellotape. I paced quickly across the room, feet sticking slightly to the well-worn linoleum. As I entered the stairwell, I could hear the giant's footsteps a few floors above.

Tap..tap..tap..tap......scuff....scuff....tap..tap..tap..tap...

I started my ascent, careful to step lightly on the grey concrete. I listened to the footsteps above, hoping to hear which floor he entered. I had ascended 6 flights by the time the noise changed.

Tap..tap..tap..tap.....scuff...scuff...scuff....creak...

I began taking the steps by three, racing to catch the door before it closed. After another four flights, I reached the landing. The door was just closing.

Perfect timing I smiled to myself.

I grabbed the cool metal of the door handle, opened it slightly and poked my head out into the hall. The giant was standing twenty yards away to my right, fiddling with the lock. I heard the cylinder click over, and he stepped out of view.

I made my way cautiously over to the door.

Number 11, 5th floor I repeated to myself, drilling it into my conscious.

I checked the door over. It looked substantial enough. Probably not much chance of forcing it, and I didn't really fancy trying to take the giant without the element of surprise on my hands. On looking harder, I noticed something that put my mind at rest.

Just a mortice lock I thought, the beginnings of a hope forming.

I turned and walked back down the corridor, reentering the stairwell with my mind racing. He would keep.

That night and the following day were spent in a daze. Many beautiful, horrible thoughts circled my mind. The people I talked to at work seemed bland, empty. It was all I could do to keep from screaming at them. But I held myself together. I had to, if I wanted to be able to complete my mission.

I began to think of Raskolnikov, that poor tormented Russian. I wondered if I would be better able to evade my own self-destructiveness than he had been. I had certainly not felt guilt or fear for many years before that day. I was not sure whether my borderline (soon to be well over the line) psychotic personality was inbuilt, or if I had developed it through years of living in this detached, impersonal, clinical, obsessive modern world. Regardless, it was there, and I knew it would prove a useful tool in the days to come.

As I left work I strolled into the shop as I had the day before. I was so lost in my own thoughts that it took me a moment to notice that the giant had stepped into line behind me, once again chatting to the familiar companion.

"I'll tell ye, she was nipping mah heid something savage. I tried telling her tae calm down, but she wisnae having it." The giant spat on the floor before continuing, "I just hud tae slap her, in the end. Only thing that'll make the daft bitch listen."

His companion grunted in agreement.

I couldn't help but allow a small felling of self-satisfaction to creep in. I was making the right choice. It would be tonight.

As I walked home all I could think of was how I would do it, what the best way to play it would be. I wandered through my front door barely aware of where I was, running over the options, adrenalin coursing through my body. I decided I needed to calm down and collect my thoughts. I got in the shower, took a deep breath and relaxed, the water tapping a soothing rhythm on my head. My mind relaxed, and it all came together.

I realised late at night would be the best time. I hoped I would catch him in bed, and be able to subdue him before he had time to get moving. I had plenty of black clothing, and an old balaclava from a skiing holiday. I decided to leave the dark specifics of what I would do once I had him till I arrived. The only thing I knew was that I didn't want it to be quick, but clean and quiet were essential. I dug a plastic sheet out of the shed, folded it and stuffed it into a dark rucksack together with some socks and a large roll of duct tape.

I ran over my mental checklist. A feeling I was missing something prodded at me with a soft insistence.

Then it dawned on me. Weaponry. I had almost forgotten the most vital part. I looked around the kitchen, considering the array of knives. He'll have plenty of them for me, best not to risk it I reminded myself. Then I remembered something I had seen while fetching the plastic sheet. I walked out to the shed, and fumbled in the dark for a moment before my fingers fell on the plastic handles of my brand new secateurs. Their stainless blades glinted in the glow of the security light. I had never been much of a gardener, but tonight they would definitely find a use or two.

Having collected everything I needed, I sat down on the sofa to begin the long wait. I decided 3am would be the ideal time, late enough to ensure he would be asleep, but early enough for me to have a bit of fun before the sun came up. I settled in, deciding to watch a film or two to kill the time.

I began with one of my personal favourites, the one about a disaffected New York yuppie who likes axes, chainsaws and Genesis. Not a patch on the book, of course, although I did prefer the ending in the film. There was always a doubt when I read the book, but the film seemed much more definite.

I raked through my dvd collection, but nothing caught my eye. I collapsed back to the sofa, resigning myself to the terrors of terrestrial TV. I surfed aimlessly over a few channels of the usual broadcasts, a mixture of dull and savage reality flashing across the screen. I eventually froze at random on a channel showing an American comedy about a bearded man and his retarded brother. They underwent various mishap-ridden adventures in the hope of correcting all the wrongs the bearded man had committed in his short, yet comically unsavoury life.

You be the right hand, I'll be the left I thought, the warm feeling returning again.

I checked my watch, and saw it was approaching half past two. I picked up my bag and strolled out the door. I was careful to avoid any busy routes on my way to the estate, picking my way through darkened back streets rather than risk a confrontation.

As I arrived on the estate, I noticed a few groups of kids standing around swigging out of bottles of cider. Younger children circled them on bicycles like a swarm of curious bluebottles. They barely even gave me a passing glance. As I arrived at the door to the tower I mentally kicked myself. The bloody maglock, you idiot. I tugged at the handle, but there was not even the tiniest amount of give. I thought for a moment, and was about to turn and walk away when a pair of stocking-clad legs stumbled out of the doorway that led to the stairs. The woman had clearly been drinking for a considerable time. Perfect, she'll probably never remember you. I waited for her to open the door, shrugging apologetically and trying my best to keep the nerves out of my faked smile. She stabbed around the door release, finally connecting on the third attempt. Her hand reached for the door, and she half collapsed out into the courtyard. I caught her under her armpits and steadied her.

"Oh, ta love" she slurred, her head lolling slightly, "you here for the party? It's pretty wild."

"Yeah, that's right, is it still going strong?" I stifled a laugh at my seemingly limitless luck. I reached out to catch the door before the lock reengaged.

"Oh yeah, everyone's there. I'm not surprised they didn't hear the buzzer. Is my wig still ok?" Her hands raised to the blonde mop on her head. It had slipped back slightly, a dark hairline emerging at the front.

"Here, allow me," I said, reaching out and shifting the wig forward, tucking a few stray hairs in as I went.

"Thank you," she grinned, "Marilyn Monroe, what do you think?"

"Oh, of course. Very impressive" I tried my best to return the expression.

"Who are you meant to be then?" She looked at me thoughtfully. "Got it. A ninja, right"

"I was thinking more SAS." I was in my stride, but painfully aware that this engagement needed to end soon. There was little chance of her forgetting me now.

"Oooh, an army boy, very nice. Well I'll maybe see you later then, eh?" She caught my eyes for a moment, then turned and walked away. I stepped inside, and paused to regain my focus. For a moment, I thought of abandoning this one, of moving on to another target. You've been seen, it's too risky. But then my resolve thickened. I knew that it was essential for someone to let me in, and the woman was so drunk she could never make a coherent witness. I walked to the door to the stairwell and pushed it aside, the smell of stale urine assaulting my senses. I counted every flight on the way up, my pulse rising with every step. As I reached ten, I made my way over to the door and stepped confidently into the corridor. I could hear the noise from the party further down the hall. Another useful coincidence. How fortunate. Perhaps I won't have to be so quiet after all. I felt unstoppable, my mind was razor sharp. I had total focus on my goal, tangibly close now. The noise grew louder as I made my way towards number 11, becoming a wall of laughter and music as I drew up to the door. Must be next-door, I casually assumed.

I paused for a moment to settle any residual nerves, then reached out for the door handle. I slowly began to tease it downwards, then remembered I had forgotten something vital. I slipped one arm free from my bag, and reached inside the main compartment. I pulled the balaclava out and stretched it over my head. The fabric itched my face, and small fibres wafted into my nose. I forgot how bloody uncomfy this thing is. I removed the secateurs and slipped them carefully into my left pocket, then stuffed the gaffer tape in my right.

Once again my hand cautiously approached the door handle. I moved it slowly downwards, careful not to make a sound, despite the barrier provided by the fracas to my right. I felt the latch disengage and the door moved slightly. I couldn't believe my luck. This guy is asking for it. The certainty was unbearable.

Fortunately I was relieved of it as soon as the door leaf slipped past the frame.

The noise from the party increased exponentially. Oh bollocks I thought, trying to subtly close the door before I was noticed. But it pulled against me, gently at first. Then, with a jerk, it dragged me inside.

“Bloody hell Sam, what on God's green earth have you come as?” The large swaying man produced an Olympic standard belch. The long white beard strapped to his face ruffled slightly, droplets of beer sliding downwards to rest on his projecting gut. The red suit stretched tightly over his massive bulk was already saturated with alcohol. Even from a few feet away, the smell alone would have been enough to stretch a breathalyser to breaking point.

“He's IRA, Am I right?” A second equally unstable but far less portly reveller joined the debate.

I was taken aback. For a moment I froze, torn between the primitive instincts of fight or flight. I chose the middle ground.

“I was going for SAS, but I guess IRA is probably better.” I laughed, more nervously than I had hoped.

“Nae bad, had me scared for a second like.” The larger man took a long swig of his beer.

“You're a total pansy Jim, ye ken that?” The smaller man turned back towards me. “Aye, is the accent a part of the act?”

“That's the one. What do you reckon?” I was beginning to settle back into the role.

“You sound Irish enough to me.” Jim drained his can, crushed it and grimaced. “Warm pish. You for a can Sam?”

I hesitated, wishing I had never left my house. I ran over excuses in my head, but before I could speak an arm wrapped itself around my shoulders and I was pulled further into the flat. My head spun as I was shunted down the corridor. My legs buckled slightly, but luckily the huge arm constricting my shoulders held me up.

“Having problems with your legs there, Sam? Sink a few before you got here, you bloody alky?” Jim’s arm gave me a friendly squeeze, drawing ominous clicks and crunches from my shoulders and ribcage. I mumbled vaguely in agreement.

As we crushed past the bodies crammed in the hallway, I began to run over my options. I had to get out of there, but simply running out wasn’t an option. I decided to wait until the fat man turned his back, and make a quick move for the safety of the outside world.

As we entered the kitchen, I caught my first glance of the giant in his natural habitat. He sat at a chair in the centre of the room, with a child sprawled over his shoulder, fast asleep despite the vibrant atmosphere surrounding her. He was regaling his guests with a slurred but recognisable rendition of “Danny boy”. The song had never failed to bring a tear to my eye, and agonisingly this time was no different. I was already feeling my cherished hatred for the giant slipping through my fingers. As he stumbled through the last few lines, I knew this was not Mr Right. There was no way I could kill anyone who could inject a song with that much emotion, especially one who could do so when clearly inebriated. It would have been a crime.

Jim released me form his suffocating grip, and moved towards the fridge. The people blocking his path moved aside without even being asked. He reached inside, grabbed two silver cans and turned, tossing one to me. I barely caught it, and smiled apologetically at him behind the rough fabric of my now very flimsy-feeling mask.

“Getting slow in your old age, Sammy boy?” Jim jibed jovially at me, daring a response, “or is that bloody balaclava getting in your eyes?”

“Bit o’ both, I suppose Jim.” I tried my best to forge an Irish accent, although I was convinced I had been more effective when not trying.

“Aye well, you’ll have tae get rid of it if you’re plannin’ tae enjoy that refreshing bevvy.” Jim cracked his beer and took a long, deliberate swig.

“Oh aye, right you are.” My mind raced, trying to find an escape route. “I cannae take it right the way off though, then I wouldnae have a costume. I’ll just pull it up past my mouth.” I reached up and, knowing the incredible risk I was taking but seeing no other option, rolled the balaclava up to just below my nose. I cracked my beer and took a long draught, the cool liquid serving to soothe my wildly vibrating nerves slightly.

“Sammy, ah’d just about given up on you, ya fanny.” The giant rose from his seat and passed the child’s ragdoll figure to the woman next to him, murmuring in her ear as he did so. She left the room quietly, patting the child gently on the back. As she passed me, I noticed a furtive glance in my direction. I smiled reassuringly, and her gaze shifted nervously back to her destination.

“Some get-up that eh?” The giant continued. “You could’ve put a wee bit more effort in, no? All you’ve managed tae do is stick on your work clothes. Only difference to normal is that balaclava, ya slacker.”

“Ken, there wisnae enough time after I got back from work. Forgot it was supposed to be fancy-dress.” I shrugged with what I hoped was an air of nonchalance. “Anyway, you’re one tae talk. You actually are just wearing your work gear.”

“Aye, well. It’s mah party, and I won’t try if I don’t want tae.” The giant stepped closer to me, peering at the bottom half of my face with an unwelcome curiosity.

“Fair play tae ye, captain,” I replied, trying to think of a way to shift the giant’s focus. I had always had a tendency to grind to a halt right when I needed to start sprinting, and this was one of those moments. The world came to my rescue in the nick of time.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” Jim had chosen to rejoin the conversation, adding to the river of booze flowing down his chest with every poorly-aimed slug from the can, “how’re the kids eh?”

Oh dear. A direct question was my worst nightmare. For a moment, I panicked. Again the urge to run crossed my mind. But I knew I wouldn't get far. I regained my focus, and told myself keep it generic, he's already given you the answer.

"Ach, you ken what like. They're the usual noisy little bastards." I gave a small laugh and took a swig from my rapidly warming can. I worked hard to gauge their reactions.

A quick glance passed between them.

"Is that right, Sammy boy?" The giant eyes remained fixed on the bottom half of my face, "how's your memory these days Sam?" His gaze moved upwards and fixed my eyes solidly.

"Nae bad when I'm nae pissed." I forced a laugh, but the giant's expression darkened.

"Is that right aye? Well, do you mind explaining to me and Jim how you've forgotten you phoned me earlier to say you couldn't come?" The giant's arms folded across his broad chest. Jim paced towards me, draining his can and tossing it out of the open window. I swallowed hard, but it stuck in my throat and I coughed slightly.

"And how come you've forgotten you don't drink?" Jim interjected, towering over me like Santa's evil alcoholic twin.

Again, my brain abandoned me to my fate.

"Umm....I....I.....it's....ummm..." I stammered, the adrenalin now pumping a much darker feeling around my body. I turned to run, but a meaty arm hauled me back.

"Just who the fuck are you?" The giant roared, ripping the balaclava off my head, "and what the fuck are you doing walking into mah hoose dressed like that?"

"Ummmm....I....ummm, heard the noise and thought I would join the party....I'm so sorry." I whimpered, all semblance of dignity washed away by fear.

"Aye, you will be ya wee bam." Jim countered, his face glowing red. A fist that seemed as large as my head swung towards me. Fortunately, Jim went for my double and I easily dodged the blow. He lost his balance and stumbled slightly, nudging the table across the linoleum.

Before I could turn the situation to my advantage, the giant caught me by the collar and rammed his battle-hardened forehead directly into the centre of my face. The world exploded into a vibrant display of light and pain. I dropped heavily to the floor, clutching my flattened nose.

I looked up, and through the tears filling my eyes I saw Jim had found his feet and was winding up to put them to good use. The first blow caught me in the chest, and the ominous cracking returned, much louder this time. Another swipe caught me on the chin, snapping my head back. The last thing I saw before slipped into comforting blackness was a black boot descending towards me.

I awoke on a cold, hard surface. My eyes fought to open, the blood forming a crust on my eyelashes. As my vision steadied I realised I was back in the stairwell, although the familiar smell of stale urine was no longer apparent. I followed the blood trail back up the flight of stairs. There were handprints on two of the steps. Guess I didn't walk down then. I tried to move, but my body screamed in agony. I rested, hoping the giant wouldn't return.

After a few hours, I regained enough strength to scrape myself off the concrete slab. I stumbled down the stairs, legs buckling, gripping the handrail as if it were my only connection to life. I staggered out of the doors into the estate. The kids had left now, leaving only a pile of litter and an eerie silence. I dragged myself home, each step an excruciating reminder of my bad judgement.

Once I arrived home and laid gingerly down on my bed, the anger came. I wanted to go back and show those grunting idiots who was boss. I ran over scenarios, dark, horrific fairytales of torture and death. Eventually I slipped into a restless sleep.

The sun rose the next day, and shone it's light upon the events of the day before.

So he wasn't the one. It doesn't mean you are on the wrong path. The world was just trying to teach you to be patient.

I knew I had to take more time in choosing my next target.

Only fools rush in.....

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Glossary


aff = off
ah = I
alky = alcoholic
bam = idiot
cannae = can't
fanny = good-natured insult
heid = head
hoose = house
ken = know, I know
mah = my
pansy = wussie
pish = piss
pissed = drunk
tae = to
wisnae = wasn't
wouldnae = wouldn't