Bite
by Darren McCormick
Look-alikes always did seem to bring out a strange titillation in folk with nothing better to amuse themselves with. At work, the blokes would sift through the newspapers, looking for famous people that resembled the lads on site. They’d clip out the pictures and stick them on the wall of the canteen to roars of laughter. There was a Wayne Rooney, a Roland from Grange Hill, a Prince Harry, even an Amy Winehouse. But no-one ever found a look-alike for Gregory.
It was the day after Lorraine had left him, or possibly the second or third day, that the Photo-Fit picture was released. Time had been lost in a haze of booze, Gregory was killing a little more of it after work at The Purple Prawn on Church Avenue, draining out-of-date bottles of Stella. The beer was cold, cheap and not particularly pleasant. Nothing had tasted good recently; there was a strange sour tang in his mouth he couldn’t eradicate. He’d even tried standing in the bath, open-mouthed under the shower-head.
He sat slumped at the bar in his dirty site-clothes, thinking about how worthless his life seemed. The television, perched up high in the corner, was tuned to the local evening news slot. Bright and cheesy reporters and weather forecasters twittered like budgies. Gregory paid little attention to what was being said, he simply gazed into the neck of the bottle, wondering what exactly had caused Lorraine to leave. He remembered her constantly raising eyebrows at his bedtime precaution—turning the TV set around so that the screen faced the wall, but surely that was just a quirk; it didn’t make him some kind of weirdo, did it?
Raucous laughter cracked the air like a whiplash, making his heart jump; his forearm spontaneously knocked his beer over in the aftermath. He quickly picked it up and watched the froth rise and spill from the neck of the bottle. The whole place was howling including Rita the barmaid. Gregory felt a hand on his shoulder, he turned to see some stranger with an insane grin on his face, shaking him like he was an old friend returned from a lengthy jail sentence. His front teeth were missing and his breath smelled disgusting.
“Hey, look! That’s you up there, mate!”
Gregory turned to find fingers either directed at him or else the television screen. He smiled at first. The computerised image did resemble him, vaguely, he thought.
“Yeah, that’s me all right,” he chuckled. Now, all he wanted was to continue drinking, and muse over the sexy, dearly departed Lorraine.
Ernie Eight-Ball had been playing pool with some other bloke. He walked across and tapped Gregory on the back.
“Fuckin’ hell, Greg! Didn’t have you down as a predator! What exactly d’you do to those girls, eh?” Ernie headed for the toilets laughing so much he burst into a fit of coughing and ended up doubled over slapping his thighs.
Rita came over beaming. “I knew you were a bit of a lady’s man, Greg, but hey, this is a bit extreme, don’t you think?”
Gregory lifted his bottle, emptied it and slammed it down. “Okay! I get the joke! I look like the bloke, for fuck’s sake. Now just drop it. A girl’s been attacked, left for dead and all you pricks can do is laugh about it? You make me sick!” He picked up his coat and flung a tenner onto the bar. “Keep the fucking change. I’ve had enough of this place.”
Gregory stood in front of his hallway mirror. In all his thirty-eight years he’d never come across anyone who looked remotely like him. Not once. He had a large head on a flimsy frame of a body, the kind of head that appeared to wobble, that you’d expect to fall off with so much as a gentle push. But his eyes were tiny on that large, floury face, and dark like a couple of sultanas in dough. His mouth was sort of lopsided, rising from left to right on an incline. And he’d always kept his hair cropped close, as long hair naturally makes a large head look even larger. Not your classic dashing Adonis, but still he’d never had trouble attracting women. It was keeping them that was the problem. Maybe they felt sorry for him then finally couldn’t keep up with his intelligent mind. He wasn’t sure. He’d asked Lorraine many times what it was that attracted her to him, but she never told him.
The telephone rang, startling Gregory. He picked it up on the sixth ring.
“Yeah?”
“Gregory?”
“Oh, hi Mum, how’s it going…”
“Was that you on the telly? Oh, Gregory, just tell me it wasn’t! You didn’t do those horrible things, Gregory? Oh those poor girls!”
He hung up without speaking then took the receiver and tried to call Lorraine. Okay she may have been pissed off with him but surely she could lend a sympathetic ear. The phone rang and rang. Then he remembered—Lorraine had caller ID; she wouldn’t pick up. She was bound to have seen the news. She probably considered herself bloody lucky to have gotten out when she did.
Later, Gregory’s curiosity got the better of him and he tuned in to the late night news headlines. And there was that face again. He had to admit, the likeness was more than vague; that was him staring back, albeit computerised.
Two girls had been attacked, it transpired, the second one had come off worst; the attacker had been disturbed and ran off leaving her all cut up in a pool of blood. She was in hospital, critical but stable. She’d survive. The police were waiting for her to come round so they could interview her. The first girl had been stripped naked and raped. She’d kept quiet throughout the ordeal; the police said that’s probably what saved her from the knife. She’d provided the details that led to the Photo-Fit.
Gregory felt nauseous. He couldn’t bear to think of someone doing something similar to Lorraine, or any girl for that matter. Then the newsreader spoke in a grave voice.
“Police have said, if you see this man, do not approach him, he is extremely dangerous, but call 999 at the first opportunity.” He also said that the police had a few leads to go on but nothing concrete. Jesus, Gregory thought, nobody looks like me. Nobody.
He tossed and turned that night. Every time he heard police sirens in the distance he feared they’d be heading his way. It was only a matter of time. He tried to imagine what would go through such a twisted mind, what made a man attack women and submit them to such ordeals. Women weren’t that hard to come by and Gregory was a case in point. If he could get a woman any man could. But at the moment he was alone and he yearned for the intimacy he’d been used to with Lorraine.
He knew he’d never get to sleep so he got up, snatched a beer from the refrigerator and sat at his computer screen. He clicked on the BBC news website and got up the Photo-Fit image. The likeness, on close inspection, was uncanny. He saved a copy and printed it out, then spent hours comparing it to photographs of himself, going over the dimensions of the ears, the nose, their positions on the head; the distance between the eyes, the shape of the hairline, desperate for some inconsistency that would give him some hope, but the similarity was undeniable. If he’d been an impartial observer that had this evidence placed before him, he would say it was the same person without any doubt. Gregory burnt all the photographs and the Photo-Fit image in the kitchen sink, the green and blue flames seemed to calm him somewhat. He decided to take a shower to help him sleep.
Next day a third girl came forward, confirming the Photo-Fit as the monster who had attacked her. The Chief Inspector appeared on GMTV with a fresh appeal to the public. Gregory drove to work, feeling like the calm brought on by his ‘ceremony’ in the kitchen sink had evaporated. His foreman was waiting for him at the site entrance.
“Morning, Greg,” he said with a bleak down-turned face and voice to match.
“All right?” Gregory took out his security pass.
“You won’t be needing that today, mate.” The foreman looked from side to side and shuffled his feet, clearly embarrassed about something.
“What’s going on?”
“Well,” the foreman paused, then seemed to drag a bowlful of confidence from somewhere. “Aw, Gregory, we’ve all seen the news, read the papers. Now, we’re not throwing accusations around but the lads just feel that it’s best you stay away until this thing blows over, you know?”
“You think it’s me? How long’ve you known me, Jack? Since I was a fucking apprentice!”
“No, I told you, no-one’s pointing fingers. Just some lads don’t know you that well. It may be in your best, you know…uh, interests?”
Two blokes walked by and spat in his direction.
“That’s him! Fucking pervert! I’ll beat the shit out of the bastard!”
The foreman stepped in front of Gregory.
“Hey now, none of that is true. Just move on, Gregory just looks like the bloke, that’s all. I can vouch for him.”
“Taking sides with a sick fucker like, him? Ain’t you even gonna get the coppers?” One of the guys spat on the foreman’s boots then walked on site.
“You see what I’m getting at Gregory?”
Gregory said nothing, turned and walked to his car. He stopped at an off-license on the way home and picked up two bottles of cheap Polish vodka and a couple of six-packs.
Sitting in his flat drinking, the television set turned to the wall, he waited for the inevitable arrival of the police. They were probably watching him as he sat there. He decided not to take any more showers, nor flush the toilet. He’d developed a strange nausea towards running water, like the power of it would somehow overwhelm him or blow him to hell. Maybe that’s what he deserved. Maybe he did attack the girls, he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.
It was more than two days before they did arrive, at around eight in the evening on some day or other. Gregory hadn’t watched any telly the whole time, nor had his phone rung. He’d only left the flat to replenish his stock of alcohol. He had drank constantly since being turned away from the building site.
He saw the flashing blue and red lights through the curtains, could hear the noise of radios, evil voices. Then came the hammering at the door, shaking his apartment like a hurricane.
Gregory staggered to the door and flung it open, the coppers immediately dove upon him pushing him to the ground.
“Whoa, fuck me!” said one. “This fucker stinks! Jesus…”
“Whole place stinks,” said his associate.
“I havn’t been flushing the toilet,” said Gregory. “For obvious reasons.”
“Shut the fuck up, pervert! Growing a beard, eh? As if that could make a difference! You’re under arrest for the rape and attempted murder of…”
The rest of what the copper said floated away and out the door. Gregory couldn’t hear or see anything, but dead black night and white noise. Then the faces of the girls appeared. The ones they said he’d attacked, raped. They begged him not to hurt them, pleaded with him to stop, if he’d just let them go they wouldn’t say anything, their screaming hurt his ears…
The cell door creaked opened but Gregory, sitting cross legged on the floor, his elbows rested on his knees, did not look up.
“They say you are not the one. You didn’t do it, Gregory.” It was his solicitor. Gregory spat on the floor.
“You sound like you’re telling me something unknown to me. You also sound surprised.”
“Why did you confess to the attacks, Gregory?”
“Shit. They wanted me down from the start, didn’t they? I Thought I’d make it quick and easy for everyone involved.” Gregory spat on the floor again.
“You know, with modern forensics we could have done tests…”
“Fucking bullshit forensics! That’s the biggest scam going. Some prick in a suit gets up in the dock and says, ‘Oh, yeah! The defendant’s DNA matches that on specimens found… blah, blah, blah…”
“It’s very naïve of you to talk like that, Gregory.”
“I’m naïve? Bet it wasn’t DNA that got me off…”
“No, it wasn’t, you’re right. You won’t remember when they first brought you in, considering the condition you were in, but they took a mould of your teeth and photographs of your fingernails?”
“I don’t remember nothing about coming to this shit-hole. You got a drink for me?”
The solicitor ignored the request. “The girls were bitten and scratched badly during the attacks. But your teeth and nails weren’t even close in matching the wounds.”
Gregory laughed briefly in the back of his throat and shook his head.
“You’re free to go, Gregory.” The lawyer held out his hand. “Come on.”
Gregory sneered. “Shove that hand up your fucking arse!”
Gregory looked around his living room. What a mess. He turned around the TV so the screen faced outwards, then bagged up all the empty bottles and cans and flung them into the recycling bin outside. Maybe it would be good idea to take a shower. The bathroom stunk like hell; he flushed the toilet, put the seat down and waited, counting, one, two,…five, six,…eight, nine, ten… Nothing happened to him.
He took a deep breath. Held back his shoulders and smiled. Freedom. Power. He turned on the shower and watched that beautiful wide spray splash down onto the floor of the tub, checked the water with the palm of his hand until the temperature was just right, then he stripped off and stepped inside.
It was the greatest, most fulfilling shower of his life, his muscles seemed to grow and flex involuntarily as all the shit was washed away. And when it was over, Gregory slowly turned off the water and waited, running his hands over his face and over his head, taking long, deep breaths. There was a small face-mirror on the side wall; he rubbed away the steam and gazed into it for the best part of a minute. A new man looked back at him, and he was well pleased to meet him.
He walked into the living room wearing clean clothes. Maybe he should give Lorraine a call, he thought.
“Nah, fuck Lorraine. I need someone new. A fresh start.”
It was a bright Sunday morning, High Road wasn’t busy at all, there were hardly any cars on any of the streets. He headed for the junction with Hillford Road, for his triumphant return to the Purple Prawn. Those fuckers had some apologising to do. Those fuckers had some drinks to buy, he laughed to himself.
Then a white BMW pulled over and stopped at the side of the street just in front of him. A young blonde leapt out, kicking the door shut behind her. She walked to the meter and started feeding some coins into it. This girl was really something, she blew Lorraine and all the others right out of the stadium. You could almost see her knickers, the skirt was so short, and God, those legs. Gregory walked slowly towards her, taking off his sunglasses.
“Good morning, there,” he said when he got near. “And a fine morning too, isn’t it?”
The girl turned, took off her sunglasses and looked at him. Her chin dropped and she seemed to freeze in horror. She made a sound in her throat like she was trying to say something.
“I said, it’s a nice day. Would you like to have a drink with me? I know a place where they’ll be free all day. I’m owed, you see. What about it?”
“You,” the girl croaked. “It’s you. You’re that man they’re looking for? Stay away or I’ll scream. I swear to God.”
“No, no,” Gregory laughed, “it’s not me, honest. They said I look like him, even arrested me for it, can you believe it? But they were wrong. Come have a drink with me. I’m celebrating.”
“Fuck you, mate,” the girl’s voice quivered. “It’s you.”
Gregory stopped. She really thought he was the bloke. But the cops knew he wasn’t the bloke. He wasn’t. And this girl was so hot. So fucking hot. He wanted her badly. But she wouldn’t go with him. Gregory looked around. He drew closer to the girl, he thought he could see a tear in her eye.
“Hey,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. Long as you do things right.” He took her wrist, the girl tried to scream but nothing came out. Gregory covered her mouth. “You’re coming with me, little lady. Get back in your car. I won’t bite. I promise you I won’t bite…”
“Hey, look who it isn’t!” Rita shouted when Gregory walked into The Purple Prawn. “Our very own Lady-killer!”
Gregory smiled and took up his place at the bar. “Hey, you owe me a drink or two, bitch!”
“Good to see that smile back, we didn’t mean anything you know. The other day and all that. Just a bit of teasing, that’s all.”
“Oh, yeah! Of course. I believe you. Just get me a bottle and quick.”
Gregory rubbed his hands. This was some feeling. She had been the best leg-over of his life. He’d never known a girl struggle so much. She’d probably gone to the cops by now; it would be quite satisfying to hear about her on the news later. The Photo-Fit image would be flashed up again, a fourth girl attacked. He really would like to get his eyes on this fucker who looked so much like him. He hoped they didn’t catch him for a little while yet, there was plenty of fun to be had.
Rita came across with his beer.
“Fuck-head coppers, eh?” she said.
“Yeah,” Gregory took a long hit. “Coppers.”
“Fucking around with people’s lives…”
“Yeah.”
“And in the end the rapist didn’t look nothing like you, did he? I mean no-one looks like you, Jesus.”
Gregory put his beer down. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Well that bloke. The real one. They got him this morning. He’s confessed to all three attacks.”
“All three attacks? No, no it was four. He raped four girls.”
“Now what are you talking about, Greg? He was quite fit, I suppose. Well, I mean in a weird sort of way, dark and handsome you know? Nothing like you. Still, we love ya all the same!”
Gregory stood up, his heart thumping in his chest. Police sirens wailed in the distance. It seemed they were getting louder. It was only a matter of time before they came for him. It was inevitable.