Haterz (3 page)

I tried explaining this to her, sensibly and rationally, but she was having none of it. She was just screaming words at me, fingers snapping. I tried saying how I’d just gone for dull crackers, and not the nice nuts, and how, surely, if they were wrapped in a shell, then that was like they were sealed and...

Yes, okay, I had been babbling at her. I think saying “nice nuts” may have been the giveaway.

She was staring at the little dirt worms I’d scraped from my fingers. They lay on the table and she looked like she was trying to edge away from them with disgust.

“How could you be so thoughtless?” she screamed. I believed I’d just demonstrated that I’d been quite thoughtful. But no. Noise and words. I’d touched something that had been made in a factory that contained nuts. I’d not thought about it. I could have killed her.

The words went on and on. It was like a wall. When you see on the news five protesters with guitars and a party streamer facing up against armed guards with bulldozers and tear gas? That kind of onslaught.

I realised that what had excited Danielle so much was that she’d realised she had an advantage. She’d spotted a flaw and she was slicing through it. Diamond-cutting.

“What were you thinking?” She pushed the glass further away from her, nudging it with the tip of her phone. Shove. Shove. Shove. “I can’t drink this! You’ve touched it, you’ve touched it with your hands!” She was screaming at me with fury. Loud enough, her voice raised, her fingers snapping, just enough to ensure that she was getting attention over the mingling, the conversation, the spontaneous karaoke and the Coldplay. Danielle was it.

“You knew, you knew I’m allergic and you still touched peanuts—you stupid freak!” She tried to make the last word hang there, but, let’s be frank, any sentence that contains ‘peanuts’ in the middle of it, the concentration is going to hang there a little, isn’t it? It’s such a silly little word. It’s hard to get around.

She fished out wet wipes and started scrubbing at her hands with them. A scouring like Lady Macbeth until the air reeked of clean baby-bum. “I’m really sorry. I was so thoughtless,” I stood up. “I’ll get you another drink.”

She flung a wet wipe at me like a gauntlet. “Wash your hands first,” she hissed. “They’re disgusting.”

N
OW, WHEN PEOPLE
talk about getting angry, they talk about the red mist. Their jaw sets. There’s a singing in their ears as though someone has twanged a wire and it’s all happening and they’re not in control and it’s a rush of marvellous wonder. Somewhere lost in there, there’s a regrettable action. Something wrong. But for that moment, when their system is full of amazing chemicals, they are off and away doing something splendid.

I’m not like that. I walked to the bar. I bought Danielle another drink. I decided to kill her.

I
T JUST HAPPENED
along the way. I don’t want you to think that I’m a psychopath. To be honest, I don’t know what the word means. I’ve not looked it up on Wikipedia. That’d be like using the internet to self-diagnose. I just knew, as I walked to the bar, that the easiest way out of this situation had presented itself. It didn’t even seem like murder. Just the easiest thing to do.

I
T WAS ALL
really simple. Danielle’s shouting match had attracted a little attention, but not much. Someone looked at me sympathetically as I walked to the bar, and I made a little ‘it’s just her’ grimace. If anyone would remember the conversation, they’d remember her mention of a nut allergy. It was as easy as that. They wouldn’t remember me. Hardly anyone ever did.

And how would they describe me? Oh yes. A man in a long, cheap, red wig.

I went to the bar. I waited for someone to serve me. I ordered a cocktail. As I waited to be served, I took a handful of peanuts. And, while the cocktail was poured, I ground that handful of peanuts in my palm. I couldn’t say I powdered them, but I crushed them. Tiny little chips that slid neatly into the glass as I walked back with it. Then I cleaned my hands with the wet wipe.

I
SAT DOWN
opposite Danielle. She was still steaming with triumph. I knew what she was going to do. I knew that as soon as she left the bar and went home, she would do several things.

She would tell Guy that I had tried to come on to her.

She would put up a post on my Facebook wall, probably with a lot of lols and exclamation marks about bumping into me and how I’d accidentally tried to poison her. ‘Som ppl are so SAD!!! Lol.’ Yes. That is how it would begin.

It would all be so very difficult.

This, this was easier.

S
HE SAT, SUCKING
her cocktail through a straw like it was a kid’s milkshake. In between slurps she smiled at me, a nasty little smile. You could see inside her head, like it was as clear and brilliant as the Koh-i-Noor. Her thoughts were that she’d be nice as pie to me now, finish her drink, leave and then unleash hell. She was smirking at the simple cunning of the idea. It delighted her. It shone. And all the time, she sucked and sucked away.

I had a qualm, then. A little worry that she’d get down to the bottom of the glass and there would be, among the little melting diamonds of ice, the shards and chips of nut. She’d see and she’d know. Was that an actual crime? It probably was.

But she talked about holidays and hotel bookings and cheap flight operators. And I smiled and said how nice, and what a bargain and aren’t they criminals.

And while all this happened, the level got lower and lower, the sickly orange syrup pulling itself down and away from the ice and up into her straw. My guilt revealing itself slurp by slurp.

Then her straw rattled and Danielle coughed.

“Bit of ice... sucked it up... swallowed.” She worked her teeth, crunching away. And coughed again.

“Are you okay?” I asked her. I don’t think, I really don’t think there was hope, or triumph in my voice. I’ve often been told that my voice is too flat. I grew up near Wolverhampton, and while I don’t have that accent, I’ve somehow got no accent or intonation at all. When I was at school, someone used to call me Speak-Your-Weight. I wonder if they still have those machines now? Or is the idea of having your weight read out in public the modern equivalent of being thrown in the stocks?

“I feel sick,” groaned Danielle. “I’ll go to the loo...”

“No,” I offered. “I’ll help you.”

I was firm. I was helpful. I gathered up her handbag, and her jacket. I left the glass behind. It gnawed at me as I led her through the crowd. Would anyone notice? I tried to work out. There was maybe a three per cent chance that someone would notice ground peanuts at the bottom of her glass. If I didn’t draw attention to her. And, if they did notice peanuts, and there was no connection, they’d just assume someone had dropped them in, bored like they were tearing up a beer-mat or folding cigarette packet cellophane into shapes. You wouldn’t see it and think that I had tried to kill her. Would you?

But still, my guilt hung there. A worry as I led Danielle to the loo. She was coughing, and her hands were clawing at the air. I was careful to make sure she didn’t make contact with the flesh of my arms under my shirt—I realised then, coldly and clearly, that I did not want her to have any of my skin under her fingernails.

There was a queue outside the ladies. The disabled loo was locked. Danielle shook her head at going to the gents. Well, who wouldn’t? So I led her out on to the fire escape. As I pushed the door bar, someone looked at me and asked me if I needed help.

“She’s had a bit too much,” I said, “You know... breath of fresh air.”

After the fire door banged shut behind us, I wondered who had asked that question. Would they recognise me?

The sharpness of the night hit us. Danielle turned to look at me, her face twisting in pain and bewilderment. “Breath of fresh air,” I said again. She tried out words, but just gasped. She was grabbing at her own throat now, squeezing it as she coughed. Her face was red, red in the dark, showing through the layers of careful make-up in ugly blotches. She staggered against the metal fire escape, her feet drumming on a step.

“It’s okay,” I said, holding her, comforting. “I’ve got you.”

She vomited. It wasn’t much, but it hung in strings down between the metal steps like sticky stalactites.

Her shoes pattered against the stairs like rainfall and then stopped.

I
HAD KILLED
Danielle. Interesting.

The night was cold and quiet.

I stood there, collecting my thoughts.

It really was, genuinely, without the shadow of a lie, God’s honest truth, the first time I had killed anyone. I’d thought about it at school. I think we all have.

But doing it for real had been so easy.

I felt a rush. I can admit that. I guess now came that sudden, unhelpful wash of chemicals. But I thought my way through them. It wasn’t going to help me. I needed to be absolutely sure I was doing the right thing.

Did I need to go back into the bar? No. I had everything. If I tried to go back through the fire escape, maybe someone would ask me how Danielle was. Or remember me. Or something.

What about her drink? Leave it in the bar.

What about the red hair? Tricky. I would slip my wig off, and place it in a Boots carrier bag. But not now. Not just now. If there was CCTV covering the fire escape, then the wig would help to hide my features. There was a risk, sure, that it would attract attention. But I’d stride it out.

I stepped around Danielle’s body. If anyone stopped me now, I could say I was going for help. If anyone stopped me now, and if anyone knew about the peanuts, I could swear it was a stupid, drunk practical joke gone wrong.

I was going for help. I was going for help.

I repeated that as I walked up the metal stairs from the basement club. I pushed open the tiny gate at the top. I didn’t touch the ironwork with my fingers. I just nudged against it with my sleeve, like I was opening a toilet door and feeling fussy.

And then I was up and out into the street. Walking purposefully.

I was going for help, I was going for help.

I was going home.

I
POPPED THE
wig in a bag. I got off the tube a stop early. On the way, I passed a charity clothing bank and slipped it in there. There were a lot of students in the area. Lot of fancy dress. Lot of charity shops. Someone would soon be wearing... well, not quite a murder weapon, but still... something.

I walked back into my flat. I fed the cat.

I still felt calm.

I felt very calm.

I put the kettle on. As it boiled, I wondered about a drink. There was some kind of fun rum from a party in a cupboard. Maybe I’d have that. I poured it into a glass. I sipped it. Not quite right.

Then I smiled and dropped some ice into it. And then, as the finishing touch, a peanut.

I sipped it and laughed.

It felt good.

I thought about tomorrow. About how Danielle would no longer be on Facebook. I had made the internet a better place. I really had.

I may have killed her, but I had made the world a better place.

I
SAT DOWN
in front of my notebook, ready to see if there was anything on iPlayer. An old
Top Gear
, or
Buzzcocks
. Something simple and cheering. My mind kept pulling back into itself, telling itself how pleased it was with itself.

Idly, I checked Gmail. There was a message from an account I didn’t recognise. I wonder how my life would have changed if the spam filter had picked it up?The message was just a link to a site. I knew better than to click the link. But hey, live a little.

The page it took me to had just one line on it. Small. Dull. Times New Roman.

We know what you’ve done. Killer.

INTERLUDE

WHEN CATS STOPPED

BEING FUNNY

T
HIS IS A
picture of a cat.