DREAMS NEVER END
by Michael Keenaghan
One thing Ruth will probably never understand is this – I did it for us. For our future. To give us a chance again. I just wanted things to be perfect – how they used to be. Maybe I went about it the wrong way, could have been more careful, more cunning, not let emotions override – but all the time I was thinking of us. What we had. And what we’d have again.
Between us, something happened. You became diseased. Corrupted. Poison slid in, filled your veins; you became a desperate whore. But it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I take full responsibility. I neglected you, went wrong somewhere. You should have told me, said something, but you didn’t. Things slid and you kept it all to yourself.
I used to follow you to where you’d meet him by the woods. I used to watch you from the trees. Sometimes in his car, sometimes in yours. Can you imagine what that felt like? A ghost at the sidelines, in the dark, watching you pause for rest, for cigarettes, for words, then begin the process all over. Rage suppressed, shocked into silence.
I’d hear the sounds of your sex and turn away. Sometimes I’d gaze deep into the woods, wonder how many people were lying dead at that very moment beneath the forest floor. Sometimes it would be wet, raining, and I’d imagine I could feel them, smell them, their decay; the bones of whores, bones of men; and I’d wonder if this was where he’d meet his death. But this was early days. I wasn’t sure. Wasn’t ready then.
***
Work life, home life, carried on, but thoughts of pain, of murder, consumed me. At work staring at the screen or looking out of my window overlooking Broadgate, I’d find myself in another world, reality shutting off around me. At night making love to Ruth, I’d imagine there were maggots inside her, her body a sick putrefying vessel into which I’d thrust, merging poisons, the poison of hate and the poison of betrayal, holding myself back from grabbing her neck in both hands and extinguishing everything we ever had. But I’d finish and slip into sleep, a sleep always turbulent, nightmarish, knowing the day would soon come when I’d have to act, have to solve this.
At work my performance deteriorated. The boss suggested I take some time off. I agreed. But I didn’t tell Ruth. I’d get up as normal, take the train from Chelmsford into London; Ruth following on half an hour later for her job at Canary Wharf. I spent the days walking around central London, stopping off at cafes, coffee shops, pubs, trying to formulate a plan; the daunting task weighing down on me. I started visiting shops, looking at weapons. It was a start at least.
One afternoon I let the 5.07 from Liverpool Street leave without me. Drunk and depressed I sat in a strip bar on Shoreditch High Street, numb to all the loveless sex around me, unable to even raise an erection after I accepted the advances of a breast-enhanced Oriental girl and put down payment for an hour in a room upstairs. Dressed in stockings and heels she ran cocaine along my gums, promised me the best time of my life; music thumping through the floorboards. I sat in a chair as she pressed her breasts and backside into my face; getting down on her knees simulating moans of passion as she attempted to fellate my half-flaccid penis.
In a rage I threw her off. She cowered in the corner in distress. Fearing she’d raise the alarm I quickly apologized, threw her a bundle of notes, and left fast. I headed into the East End. I sat in near-empty pubs, drank, moved on. The deserted streets felt doomed, marked for destruction; everywhere the smell of urine, spices, decay. Looking closely I’d notice figures languishing in the shadows, hooded spectres almost clouded in the aroma of skunk, but at this point nobody touched me, wanted to know. It felt as though I was dead, a forgotten ghost moving through a forgotten part of the world. I laughed, half expected Jack the Ripper to step from the shadows, shake my hand then disappear into the fog.
After the pubs kicked out I headed back in the direction of Liverpool Street. Walking beneath a railway bridge I finally heard the sound of footsteps. I turned – two youths, hooded. One of them threw me up against the wall, spat something about cash, a blade, how he’d cut me; the other stood back, grinning. As a train thundered overhead the youth up close suddenly flung his mouth open and gasped. I’d plunged my murder tool deep into his torso. I gave it several more thrusts before tossing him aside with the vigour of a madman. Knife in hand I laughed, but his friend spun on his heels and ran. The youth on the floor was clutching his wounds and rasping at the mouth. I kicked him hard in the face and walked away. I felt sober and alert now, my mental functioning never so fluid as I disposed of both my bloody overcoat and knife in a builders’ skip sure to be unloaded the next day. Washing my hands in the station toilets I caught my eyes in the mirror, a new fire to them. Jesus Christ, I’d tasted blood and I felt alive. I caught the last train home.
That night, climbing into bed next to Ruth I slept a full deep sleep, and in the morning logged on to check the news. Nothing. He must have lived. Maybe he was hospital where they were cutting and reshaping his intestines right now. I imagined his friend shaking his head in bewildered shock as he described the attacker. A respectable white man in overcoat and suit. I imagined the police laughing.
Evening time, Ruth set off in her car to visit her sister, something of a habit of late. Miranda was planning to marry her air steward boyfriend and Ruth was helping with the wedding plans. In other words, she was heading to the edge of the woods.
I waited a while then phoned Miranda. I told her I couldn’t get through to Ruth’s mobile, asked if she was there. Yes she was, but she’d just popped to the loo. I’ll get her to call you back, she said. Jesus, I wanted to reach through the air waves and tear out the bitch’s vocal cords. Instead I told her it was nothing important, honestly, don’t worry; issued a friendly goodbye.
I got into my car. En route to the woods I stopped off at Miranda’s. She lived alone in an inherited cottage outside Shenfield with her two cats – her fiance only around probably two nights a week. I stood looking in at her from the back window as she sat on the sofa watching television. I almost felt like tapping on the glass just to see the bitch’s face. I held back. Took deep breaths. Got in the car, drove.
I parked around the corner from the lane, close this time, made my way on foot through the trees. The car was rocking on its axis, my wife’s palm flat against the window as she laboured noisily upon him. I waited for her to finish. After Ruth drove away, he leisurely leant back on his seat making phone calls. I had a blade on me, a shovel in the boot, I could do it right now – but no, not yet. As he turned on his ignition I raced back to my car and tailed him at a distance. Within minutes he was on the road to Brentwood. He turned in at The Crooked Billet, a country inn that annexed a popular restaurant. I’d been here before. Several times in fact. With Ruth. What was he doing here?
Parking in, I followed close behind as he walked towards the pub; so close in fact that he held the door open for me – Here you go mate. Witnessing him so up close I almost flinched. He was early forties at least, hard features like a criminal, somebody who had served time. Entering the din of the pub was like bursting up from water; men talking, laughing, all around me. I watched him strut across the room, patting shoulders as he went, then walk straight in behind the bar, pouring a customer a pint. I stood there in shock. The man fucking owned the place.
Driving home it all became crystal clear. Some months back, while I’d been away on business, Ruth and Miranda had been to a birthday party there. That was it. That was how they’d met.
‘Where have you been?’ Ruth asked when I got in. She was sitting on the couch with a book and a glass of wine. Classical music played gently from the stereo. Chopin’s Nocturne. Her feet were up, legs bent at the knee, and I wondered if his semen was still leaking from her. ‘Are you okay?’ she said, lifting the glass to her lips. ‘You look stunned.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I said, pouring a glass for myself. ‘I just popped out for a pint.’
She continued reading. ‘That’s not like you. Popping out for a drink on your own.’
‘An old friend called.’ I sat on the couch and leant back. ‘Old school friend. I haven’t seen him for years. I tried phoning you but couldn’t get through. Miranda said you were in the loo. Didn’t you get the message?’
‘Yes, of course. But you said it wasn’t important.’ She carried on reading her book. ‘I’ll have to get my phone seen to. It’s been up the blink lately’
I drank the glass then began stroking her legs. After a while she brushed me off: Oh come on, darling, I’m tired… but after persuasion she suggested a compromise. I watched her finish her glass, tie her hair up, then position herself on the floor in front of me. She began to undo my belt. She reminded me of a whore.
I grabbed hold of her and threw her onto the sofa. ‘You’re my wife and I want to fuck you.’ I tore my belt away, ripped my trousers down.
‘Easy tiger,’ she attempted, but her confusion was clear: surprise at my having transgressed usual propriety. But fuck propriety. I wanted to make love to my fucking wife.
‘Take your clothes off,’ I ordered, ripping my shirt away. I was naked now. ‘Take them fucking off.’
‘Jesus, what’s wrong with you?’ she said, removing her top.
I stood there, the blood boiling through me. Her voice sounded disembodied. I wondered if it was even her voice atall. I wondered what her real voice sounded like. If I had even ever heard it. Spreading her legs, I moved on top of her, pounding away the hate, the cancer deep inside her, inside us, trying to kill it, drive it away; but finishing fast. Still on top of her I lay in a breathless heap. Face turned sideways she said nothing. Then she wriggled out from beneath me, said she was going to bed. I watched her go.
On the remote I turned up a Wagner piece, and naked I lay back drinking wine from the bottle and massaging my penis. Somewhere in the background Ruth was showering herself clean of me. Washing away the poison. Good. As the music intensified I realized I was pumping my hand with vigour. Ruth would be in bed now. Soon I’d go in and fuck that cancer-ridden whore again.
In the morning I woke up devastated, loaded with regret. What had I done? I made her breakfast in bed, told her I was sorry. As she dressed I said I didn’t know what had come over me: ‘It was the stress. The stress at work has been unbelievable. And that old friend of mine, he’s just split up with his wife and it made me think of us, how much I love you… I just wanted to be close to you.’ I was pleading, terrified of losing her.
Finishing dressing she turned around and walked up to me, put her finger to my lips. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
Ruth loved me. I could feel it as I held her close. Nothing had changed. The love was still there. Still strong
As I commuted into London I swore to myself that nothing would kill this love between us. I’d worked it all out. The source of the problem was external. Nothing to do with us atall. What we had was intact. The solution was simple; like a tree at the bottom of the garden that needed felling; a contaminated pond that needed draining. Two people needed to be eliminated from our lives and fast. It was as simple as that. Number one, Jack Taylor, proprietor of The Crooked Billet. Number two, Ruth’s doting sister and fellow conspirator Miranda. Definitely. That bitch had to go also.
This was the kick I needed. I’d waste no time now. I started to frequent the pub. Sitting in the corner of a late afternoon with a pint and a paper. If Taylor’s car wasn’t there I didn’t stop by atall. Occasionally he’d be behind the bar, but mostly he’d leave that to the dolly birds, be over in his corner quietly discussing business with his cronies. On Saturday Ruth did some overtime and again I headed over there. This time I saw him leave through the bar with his wife and two children. His wife looked late thirties, well dressed. Boy and girl I estimated between seven and ten; impeccable. I felt sorry for them. All tricked into believing they belonged to a normal loving family. I thought about the result of my forthcoming actions.. The children would suffer, but they were young, probably not old enough to properly absorb tragedy – they’d get over it. His wife, though, I pitied. Out in the car-park I watched her round the kids into the car. Climbing in Taylor cracked a joke and she smiled. She was living in the dark. But maybe one day learning the truth she’d be glad.
I followed them to Chelmsford, the shopping centre, a family outing that almost filled me with heartbreak knowing that as a complete family it would be their last. They browsed around the shops, visited McDonalds, and I imagined myself and Ruth with our future children doing the same thing. I could watch no more, I left them to it. The man was practically dead already.
Sunday. At home with Ruth. It was the first warm day of Spring, and we sat outside in the garden reading the papers. At one stage she phoned Miranda, had a chat and mentioned 8.30pm. So this was it. I feigned an excuse and set off early. I was hidden in the woods before the arrival of either of them. I sat by a tree eating sandwiches as they fucked in Ruth’s car, checking my watch for their estimated finish. Just when I thought Taylor was stepping out to return to his own car, I watched Ruth step out also. They were laughing and cuddling in the open air. I’d never seen this before. This was new. I watched her get down on her knees, take him in her mouth. Then I watched him position her over the boot as again they fucked. This was torture; I turned away, wanted to kill him there and then.
When Ruth had gone, he leant by the back of his car, smoking a cigarette in the mild night air as he made his usual phone calls. The sound of his voice, of his casual banter, sickened me. Contentedly clicking his phone shut he turned to enter his car. Seeing me he let out an audible grunt of shock. A double-barrelled shotgun pressed hard into my shoulder.
‘Hands in the air, you filthy bastard, now.’
The sense of power was unbelievable. I finally understood why people fell in love with these things, went off to wars to risk their lives using them.. I could feel it running through my whole body. Power. Control. I’d got the weapon off my brother. He’d been in the army, but now ran a farm. I told him I was worried about burglaries; a local spate of them. Worry no more, he smiled, handing me a present. Look at this thing, he said. Feel it. The sight of it scares the shit out of even me, he said. He took me around the farm one afternoon and we took shots at birds. I watched him tear one out of the sky. Don’t tell Ruth, I said as I went on my way. Women, he laughed.
‘Please,’ Taylor begged. ‘Take the car, please, but don’t shoot.’
The car? Who did he think I was, a common robber?
‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ I said.
He squinted at me in the night. ‘The pub…’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you in the pub…’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘And that’s my wife you’ve just been with there.’ I stepped closer. ‘My fucking wife…’ I was spitting now.
He was sweating, begging and pleading, saying he was sorry, I’m fucking sorry, saying he didn’t even know she was married.
God, I had to hold myself back from blowing him apart there and then. ‘You lying bastard.’ I motioned to the woods. ‘Get in there.’
The moon was cutting through the trees in a scenic blue. I led him to where a noose hung from a strong majestic oak, a fold-up chair positioned beautifully beneath.
By now he had tears in his eyes. ‘Please… don’t do this… I’ve got two kids…’
‘Get up there or I’ll murder the both of them, that’s a promise.’
He shook his head at the ground as the tears flowed; he was offering me money, offering me anything I wanted…
‘Get up there now, you bastard, or I swear to God I’ll fucking torture them, your son, your daughter, bury them right where you stand.’ I cocked the gun with force. It echoed through the trees. ‘Do it!’
Climbing the gallows he cried and blubbed about how sorry he was, spluttering about his kids and how he loved them and to take him but not them; please don’t touch them, please, it’s been my fault, all mine. With the noose around his neck he looked like a man suffering all the nightmares of hell.
‘Was it really worth it, you bastard?’
I left him standing there facing death, wanted to relish this, moon shining down, owls twittering in the trees; a little beauty spot I’d remember forever. I felt a killer’s joy, killer’s intensity, an affinity with all the people who had ever killed, ever murdered. But I was a mere child in this arena. A mere visitor. Simply a husband putting things right.
I kicked the chair from beneath him; neck taking the weight, body shuddering. I stood there watching him die. It took some time but, God, it felt good.
Taylor was discovered the next day. I found a local news report on the internet. Popular Pub Landlord Found Dead. ‘Jesus, have you seen this?’ I said to Ruth on the Monday evening, staring at the screen. ‘The landlord of the Crooked Billet has topped himself. Discovered hanging dead from a tree….’
Ruth looked at my laptop, cold in shock. She quietly gulped, face frozen. I could see her shrinking inside herself, yet her exterior was impressively composed. That was Ruth: ever professional to the last.
‘Grisly, isn’t it?’ I said, staring at her.
She said she had a headache and was going upstairs to rest. I could hear her up there making phonecalls. I sneaked up at one stage and heard her crying. I left her to it. Left her to get her head around it however she liked. I sat in front of the television, drinking red wine, having a quiet celebration.
That night, cold and subdued, Ruth refused to make love. The next night also. But the night after that she ran out of excuses. I pounded within her for an almost interminable time, Ruth like a silent surrendered animal beneath me, afterwards turning away to secretly cry as I lay in a spent breathless heap. The ingenuity of my suicide plan filled me with a satisfaction unspeakable. Taylor was revealed to have been heavily in debt, a secret he’d kept from his family; and with a gambling problem, drink problem and prison record he seemed literally led towards that grand majestic oak by fate. I was in the clear. Life could carry on – things soon normal again. Lying in bed having just enjoyed passionate sex with the love of my life, I felt so happy I could have almost laughed out loud.
I attended the funeral. It seemed as if half the suburbs of East London and Essex were there. Big strapping Cockney gangster-types in ill-fitting designer suits, wives like tasteless sluts from Scandinavian porn movies. I wanted to see the bastard buried deep. Dumped in the earth where he belonged.. There were tears from the women and stern faces from the men, and as the vicar recited prayers by the graveside it all felt surreal. It was me. I had done this. All of it.
At the drinking session afterwards I mingled with the crowd, one of the chaps, even shook the hand of the grieving wife, describing myself as ‘an old business friend’ – which to her and everybody else was enough said. There were men that worked in haulage, metal supply, import/export, the wealthy sons and grandsons of East End scrap merchants and barrow boys who had only good words to say for Taylor. But quite honestly I was impressed with them, enjoyed their company. I had a good time, shook alot of hands. Arriving home worse for wear, I told Ruth I’d been entertaining a client.
Ruth still seemed down in the dumps, but that would pass. It was only natural after all. The next night sitting together in front of the television I noticed she’d again started crying. I put my arm around her, asked if she was okay. She sniffed and said she was fine, it was just hormones. She shook me off and disappeared upstairs. I sat back. Let the tears flow, I thought. Get it all out of your system. But sadly the killing spree wasn’t quite over. There was still one more trauma Ruth would yet have to overcome.
On the night of the kill I made Ruth a bedtime drink. There would be no wild lovemaking session tonight, that was for sure. The tranquillizers crushed into her cocoa had her so deep in slumber I’d probably have difficulty waking her for work. Dressing into a black boiler suit that I would later burn, I slipped off into the night.
I drove to the edge of a field a good distance from Miranda’s and made the rest of my way there on foot. The night was moonless, roads empty. I reached the cottage, Miranda sleeping soundly somewhere within. Her boyfriend was nowhere near; in fact he was currently on an air liner on its way to Dubai. Good luck to him. I worked on one of the back windows and broke in with surprising ease. Standing in the kitchen I noticed one of her cats staring at me. Shooing him away with my foot he started hissing. I was impressed with his protectiveness; also with the way he scratched and clawed at me as I lifted him into the air. I squeezed his neck until he was still as a statue. Miranda liked to call these things her babies, loved them more than life itself. Dumping the animal on the kitchen table I bore that in mind.
I prowled through the house, shotgun in hand, a bag over my shoulder containing Miranda’s noose. It would be the same thing – a Valium addicted whore who suffered battles with anxiety. No suspicion. Maybe I’d even force the bitch to write a note. Who knows. Who cares. One thing was for sure, with Miranda dead, Ruth would maybe realize just how tenuous the link between life and death can be, and how love and togetherness are sacred, should be cherished. Poor Miranda. Her fiance grieving for the wife that never was.
I made my way upstairs, meeting the other moggy halfway up. This one fought like bastard. No contest though. I did him with one hand then carried his body upstairs with me, deciding that throwing him upon a startled Miranda would be my little introduction: scream all you like bitch, there’s no-one around. Her bedroom door was ajar. I kicked it open, flicked on the light.
Her bed was empty, duvet ruffled. I felt the mattress. Still warm. Then I heard her footsteps on the stairs, running down. I chased the sound back down through the dark, but all was still. Both front and back doors still bolted. Miranda was hiding. I started calling her name. Cursing her. I threw the dead cat off into the gloom, heard it hit the wall and drop with a clatter. Come out you bitch, I know you’re there. Come out you scheming little slut. I was moving through the dark smiling, actually enjoying myself. It felt unreal. Felt like a game.
What never occurred to me was that I was about to fail. About to lose everything. Out she leapt from the shadows, a lithe animal bombarding me in a spray of mace. Disorientated, I powered off a shot, but it was too wide, my eyes burning, lungs gasping for breath. The overhead light suddenly blazed, and she tore into me kicking and screaming as I writhed on the floor. I felt the butt of the shotgun come down on me several times. I was bleeding from the head, in desperate pain. I lay in a delirium as a frantic voice somewhere called the police.
So that’s how it happened. That’s where I failed. Over-confidence, belief, a definite lack of planning. Taylor’s death had ran so smoothly that perhaps I’d felt invincible. Perhaps I shouldn’t have targeted Miranda atall. Perhaps it was revenge over necessity; I don’t know. But I don’t like to think like that. I regret nothing.
I’m in prison now. HMP Belmarsh. I’ll serve at least twenty years. I was done for Taylor of course – it all came out. I fought hard but the verdict was guilty. In court Ruth wasn’t reprimanded atall. I took the brunt.
One thing I do chuckle about, though, is the other murder I committed. Do you remember that? The youths who tried to rob me in the East End? Well, yes, the little parasite died. I discovered all this later of course, the whole story. “An East London teenager who was stabbed six weeks ago in a vicious street attack has died in hospital.” Initial reports described a hard-working student who had much to live for. But what the police had was this: two teenagers well-known to them – one stabbed, the other witnessed running away. They burst into his house one morning and charged him with murder. The jury’s verdict was unanimous. He is currently serving a life sentence. British Justice. Best in the world.
Well, that’s me and I have to go now. I have a clockwork regime to adhere to, and it’s soon dinnertime. Then maybe I’ll read, watch TV, dream perhaps. I’m Category A so I have my own cell. It’s not too bad. It’s a long stretch, one I don’t believe I deserve, but after all, time is what you make it. Maybe after twenty years it will all seem like a blip, a blink of an eye. Maybe one day Ruth will understand that what I did with Taylor was right; had to be done.
I look at her all the time. Her pictures cover my wall. I gaze and I dream and the love grows stronger every day. I’m not bitter. I believe in hope. It’s what keeps me going.