Haterz (7 page)

Brian and Suze clapped. Brian wolf-whistled. He was the type.

Eddy sized up the rope and threw himself into the air. He caught it, which was brilliant. I’d concealed another electric cable inside it, with a rather stronger current running through it. He yelped and fell into the mud pit. And vanished.

I had (and believe me, this took time) dug the pit a bit deeper than it was supposed to be. A foot deeper.

FastEddy surfaced to the cheers of Brian and Suze. They were taking pictures. Bugger me, they were taking pictures.

“My legs!” screamed Fast Eddy.

“Oh, it’s cramp, probably.”

“No it’s not,” Eddy wailed. “They’re not working! Help me!” His arms thrashed weakly about and his head slid under the surface.

Supporters: These Are Your Rules

DO NOT shout namby-pamby encouragement (ie “You can do it, mate!”)

DO shout “Try harder, you Muddy Funster” or “Go ahead and drown, weakling”

NO HELPING. NEVER ANY HELPING.

A
THICK, TREACLY
bubble broke the surface.

Brian and Suze, unbelievably and wonderfully, asked me to take a picture of them next to the mud pit. They positioned themselves, and I took the shot when Eddy’s head bobbed up again. I’d actually framed it quite nicely. They posted it immediately.

“Help me! For God’s sake help me!” Eddy cried.

Brian and Suze looked at each other, concerned for a moment.

“Try harder...” Brian started a little self-consciously, but then found himself. “You Muddy Funster!”

“Go ahead and drown!” bellowed Suze, a little fiercely.

They both laughed, and checked their phones to see how many likes their selfie had.

Eddy gave a screeching howl and tried to lift an arm out of the mud. Brian and Suze faltered in their chanting, wondering if something was wrong.

“Something may be wrong,” I suggested. Brian and Suze nodded, reassured that someone else had said it, and carried on chanting. Eddy, standing on tiptoe, just about kept his head up, but he was grunting with the effort. The muscles in his legs were failing. He was trying to say something, but mud was coming out of his mouth in big, thick gobbets.

“I’ll go and get an official,” I volunteered.

Brian and Suze looked quite pleased about this, and their chanting grew in volume, almost drowning out Eddy’s frantic bellows. Brian and Suze weren’t worried. They knew an official was on the way to assess the situation.

I ran off into the woods, stopping after ten yards. I paused only to reach up to the rope, and tug out the concealed cable. I then watched Brian and Suze.

Pleased that Officialdom was being informed and that Help was on its way, they were doing what any other concerned bystander would do. They were filming Fast Eddy’s struggles and imminent rescue, mugging away at the camera with thumbs-up and everything, all the time keeping up the chants of “Try harder, you Muddy Funster” and “Go ahead and drown!”

From where I stood, I couldn’t quite see his head go under for the last time, but that was alright. I’d see it later on YouTube.

G
OD BLESS
B
RIAN
and Suze. They’d uploaded the video without thinking what it was. The spectacle of a charity fun runner being chanted to his death by his friends was a massive hit. The
Daily Mail
screengrabbed and analysed almost every frame like it was the Zapruder footage, but then again, the
Daily Mail
do this with a video of a kitten sleeping.

No one noticed or even thought about me. Muddy Hell came in for a lot of flack for torturing their contestants to death. Jackie Aspley wrote a column titled ‘Who are the sick people who sign up for these Nazi death camps?’ which got charity fun runners and a fair few World War II historians enraged. Brian and Suze (‘Are these the nastiest people in Britain?’) were hounded, a little unfairly, I thought.

No one even thought about me. I think I was mentioned in an early report in
The Independent,
which claimed that the ‘Death Pit’ was only manned by ‘an unpaid volunteer who was unable to find someone to bring help.’ The Death Pit soon became ‘A Plague Pit’ after chemical analysis. The QuickSet did show up, but the press were more interested in the sexier ingredients I’d added. The night before the race I’d gone round all the mud pits adding pigswill and cow manure. The organisers of Muddy Hell claimed, quite rightly, to have no knowledge of this. No one believed them, and they soon found themselves fighting lawsuits from former contestants who weren’t happy that they’d signed ‘I don’t care, Break Me’ contracts.

Fast Eddy, annoyingly, emerged from all this as a martyr. That was the one thing I’d got wrong. Well, until someone spoke to Guy, to ask him what he thought about the person who’d raised nearly ten grand for his dead girlfriend. Bless Guy, he said, “Who? I’ve never heard of him.” There was a small exposé of Eddy’s financial shenanigans, but it wasn’t very thorough. Everyone was a bit too transfixed at the sight of the man drowning slowly in mud.

I’d finally got something done. My first planned murder. I’d done good.

I’d watch that video, late at night, and think,
I did that.

CHAPTER THREE

GIRLS, GUNS AND GAMES

I
DIDN’T KILL
Guy’s next girlfriend. Actually, I rather liked her. I really liked her. The problem was it was Amber Dass, the girl I’d met in the bar the night I’d killed Danielle. I’d always hoped to bump into her again, and when I did, she was going out with Guy.

And she was great. So great I had no problems remembering her name this time. Her family were rich Malaysian lawyers. You’d imagine this would mean she was confidently petite, graceful in a gown that flowed in straight lines, with a smile as delicately balanced as the rest of her. Actually, Amber was a shambles. Confident, yes, but the Cinderella of Stoke Newington constantly looked as though she’d just got out of bed to sign for a delivery, and yet was still ridiculously hot. She was always wearing yesterday’s t-shirt, which raised the question of when she ever got around to changing it. She drank like a fish, she sometimes dyed her hair, played in a band and was amazing at video games.

Guy was in love with her from about three seconds after he met her. “Can you believe this girl?” he hooted. “She’s just such fun.”

“Yeah,” I said. I was pleased we were talking again (Amber’s idea). I was pleased he’d moved on. I just... well, why did it have to be with her? All of a sudden, I was having no trouble remembering her name.

Amber made Guy so happy. Almost without trying. Which was a complete contrast to Saint Danielle, who had made him miserable by either clinging to him or belittling him. Danielle had constantly told Guy what he couldn’t do, but Amber was delighted by what he could.

“He is an
amazing
cook,” she told me one evening, which was a bit of a bombshell. She caught my glance before I could hide it. “Augh! I know what you’re thinking. Malaysian girl, brilliant cook. But I’m not a walking takeaway. I can turn on the rice cooker and that’s about it. At home we had people to do that. No, seriously. Staff.”

That was Amber’s issue. She just couldn’t help reminding you about her family life back home. It sounded pressured. “Such a big house! So many Aunts! All of them with a different lecture about eligible young accountants or the even more eternal torments of pincers in hell. You should come out and visit. Dad loves to have the driver take visitors through the slums. Just to show what it’s really like. I’m not sure what they think when a limo comes crawling through their shanty town with tourists taking pictures. But la! Anyway, all that family pressure’s eased off now that my three lovely brothers have got married to rich girls. That’s the line taken care of, and so I’m free to come to London and get a little job and stay out of the way.” She rolled her eyes. She’d tried working for a proper global firm, hated it, and was now someone’s PA. She just liked the irony (“I’m someone’s staff!”). “It’s handy for them, me being in London. It means I’ve always got a cousin somewhere in my flat. But that’s okay. So long as they don’t ask too many questions or finish off my scotch.”

It was one of those evenings—Guy had got in from work shattered, found the energy from somewhere to cook dinner, and had then fallen asleep on the couch. So it was just Amber and me, talking over his snores. I liked it when this happened.

Yes, I can see what you’re thinking. But she was so bloody cool. I couldn’t help having a tiny crush on her. More than a tiny crush on her.

The thing was, not everyone loved Amber. Guy hadn’t changed his Facebook relationship status, but she had started appearing in pictures. And madly, people started to object to this:

Didn’t take you long to move on lol. 2 hours ∙ Like

NO RESPECT :(:(:( 1 hour ∙ Like

Mail order? 52 mins ∙ Like

She’s Not even cold. 46 mins ∙ Like

Disappointed. 15 mins ∙ Like

Looks foreign. 8 mins ∙ Like

Little snide comments from friends of Danielle’s who were Facebook friends with Guy, and seemingly unable to cope with the idea of him moving on, of being happy. He did what he did when Danielle was alive, and knuckled down to ignoring it all very hard, like a well-trained old hound who didn’t put up a fuss when someone kicked it.

One evening it all got a bit much for him. I don’t like drinks after work—I’d far rather rush home, have some food—but Guy had asked. He looked a mess, his hair all-over-the-place and his eyes baggy. “People are mental,” he said, taking a drink of what was clearly not his first pint. “Mental. Right. I mean, I get that not everyone is going to be thrilled that I’ve got a new girlfriend. And I can see that, yeah, a few people might have a pop at me on my wall... but this is...” He pushed his hand through his hair, found a tangle, and tugged away at it repeatedly. “Right. So some people I don’t even know have got an opinion about it all. That’s fine. Wrong, but fine. That’s what the web’s for—having the wrong opinion. Say what they like behind my back. ’S fine. But they’re yack yacking about Danielle turning in her grave, and me dancing on it and so on... and someone tags me in the post. So I log on, and I just have to read it. And every time that updates, I get more of it. And they’ve tagged Danielle as well. So it appears on her wall... I mean... why would you even do that?” He shrugged. “I’ve kept my privacy settings open, you know... after she... er... anyway. The point is, you know, I’m now having to lock my profile down. And I’m even getting flack for that. Mental. Just ’cause of Danielle.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why?” he shrugged. “It’s not as though you’ve done anything.”

For a moment, I felt really guilty. I probably shouldn’t have killed his girlfriend. Then again, I hadn’t actually planned to. And he was waaay better off with Amber. For an insane moment, I nearly told him what I’d done. That I’d killed Danielle, and you know, also the idiot fundraiser. But that was all. Just the two. And they’d made his life much better.

We sat there, looking at each other across our drinks, utterly at peace in Lloyd’s No1’s. If there was ever a moment to tell your oldest friend you’d slaughtered his girlfriend and it had all worked out for the best, this was it. And I did. I very nearly told him.

But I didn’t. I doubt he’d actually have thanked me. He should have done, but he wouldn’t.

“Anyway,” Guy said. “Just getting if off my chest. And telling you. In case you see anything. Just don’t tell me. Okay? I’m really better off not knowing. Really.”

I nodded. That’s me told.

“Right then.” Guy drained his pint. “Another?” He sauntered off to the bar. Well, sort of sauntered. Little bit of a drunken lurch. But he seemed more his normal self. And at least we’d had the worst of it.

We were wrong.

A
MBER POINTED AT
the screen.

“I can’t ignore that, can I?” For once, she looked helpless. Utterly so. I mean, she must have been, to ask me for help.

“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked.

She glanced up then, sharply. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “I mean, there’s nothing you
can
do, Dave. There’s nothing anyone can do. And anyway...”

I finished the sentence for her. “...it’s not like people like me ever solve anything.”

“No.” Amber was quiet, not looking at me. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

E
VERY TIME SHE
logged into a multiplayer game, it happened. A team assembled: ‘TEAM DIE PAKI WHORE.’ And they blasted Amber’s character to pieces. And as she went down they shouted at her. The kind of stupid threats we used to do in improv sessions at drama school (“Now then, guys, imagine you’re football hooligans on your way home from a match, yes?”). Only these people were shouting these threats without any sense of middle-class guilt or any hang-ups. They just wanted Amber Dass dead.

I
WAS GENUINELY
angry. My instinct was to find these people, go round to their homes and...