Killing the Beasts

Chapter 25

October 2002

Carefully Tom raised the nail scissors to his face. As he started cutting away clumps of beard, he felt better and better. Now he had accepted that he was merely an instrument of the Masters, courage and confidence flooded through him. His life had purpose once again.

When the stubble was short enough, he filled the sink with water, then shaved off the remains with a razor that had lain unused for over a month. In his bedroom he kicked aside the pile of musty-smelling clothes that he had been wearing for weeks. He turned to the X-treme branded tracksuit and baseball cap laid out on the bed and put them on.

In his garage he stocked the cart with boxes of gum and competition entry forms. The minivan he'd hired was parked on the drive and he wheeled the cart up the ramps and into the rear of the vehicle.

Next he drove into Manchester, parking by the Student Union on Oxford Road. He hung about on the flight of steps leading up to the main entrance, waiting for a group of three students. Soon he spotted two lads and a girl. He walked over to them and asked if they'd each like to earn thirty pounds cash for an hour's work. Within seconds all three were in the van and he was heading towards the city centre.

En route he explained to them that, because of a mix-up, he hadn't received a permit to distribute goods. If any officials approached them, he said, be prepared to pack up fast.

By 2.50 p. m. he had wheeled the cart on to the end of the concourse leading up to Piccadilly station. Two of the students — now wearing the ice-blue tracksuits with bags full of gum packets over their shoulders — positioned themselves on the pavement. The girl manned the cart to supervise the filling-in of the competition entry forms. Tom watched as clusters of shoppers approached from the city centre, hauling their purchases towards the trains, heading back to houses already crowded with junk.

He watched them ambling closer, many idly chewing gum, arms pulled straight by the weight of the bags hanging from their hands. Boots, River Island, Next, Sainsbury's, JJB Sports, Primark, HMV, Tesco.

The Masters' voices pointed out how similar they were to cows, chewing the cud and plodding back to their sheds, shopping bags swaying like swollen udders. And looking at them Tom realized the voices were right: they were nothing more than beasts.

'Hello there,' he said brightly as two women approached the cart. 'I see you like gum. Care for a free promotional pack?'

'Citrus flavour? Sounds interesting,' one said, plucking the gum from her mouth and dropping it on the pavement.

Tom's stomach turned over. Swallowing hard, he said, 'How about the chance for a luxury holiday to Malaysia? Just fill out this form — it only takes two seconds.'

Tom knelt in front of the coffee table in his front room as if he was at an altar. After selecting the Swiss army knife's most slender blade, he lifted the first pack of X-treme chewing gum. He stood it upright and pushed the thin point of the blade under the triangular shaped flap of foil at its end. By wiggling the blade from side to side, he got its point underneath, then prised the flap upwards with a tiny crackling sound. The smell of lemons entered his nostrils. He turned the pack around and prised the other triangle of foil up as well. Now he was able to fold open the end wrapping, pushing it back with the blade until the ends of the seven sticks inside were exposed to view. Pushing the sealed end of the packet with his thumb, he eased the sticks upwards until the top of one stood clear. Grasping it with the penknife's tweezer attachment, he dragged the stick out of the pack and laid it on the table.

Good, the voices coaxed, good.

Gently he slid the foil-coated stick clear of the paper jacket it was encased in. Next he turned the fold of foil at each end of the stick backwards and used the blade of the knife to ease apart the serrated edge of the wrapper, revealing the stick of gum itself. Picking it up with the tweezers, he dusted each side of it with the special powder then relaid it in its foil wrapping. After that he followed the process in reverse — refolding the foil wrapping, sliding it back into the paper jacket, easing it into the pack alongside the other six sticks. Once they were all pushed properly back into the foil outer packaging, he folded the triangular flaps back down and sealed them with a spot of glue.

Turning it over in his hands, he noted with satisfaction that there was no way anyone could tell that the pack had been tampered with.

Pausing at the end of Berrybridge Road, Tom placed the briefcase at his feet, took the bag of powder from his pocket and allowed himself a pinch. As he continued along the street, he looked at the dozens of other commuters walking with bowed heads for work that morning. He smoothed the arm of his suit, glad he looked exactly the same.

He turned up the driveway of number fifteen, stopped at the front door and knocked twice. A few moments later, the door was opened by a young woman with spiky blonde hair, wearing a dressing gown. She looked at him and placed her hand back on the door in readiness to close it again. 'I'm sorry, I'm not interested in whatever you're selling.'

Tom held up the competition entry form she had completed several weeks before. 'Miss Polly Mather?'

She peered at the piece of paper, recognizing her handwriting and signature, still unsure of what she'd filled in.

'You recently entered our prize draw for a year's supply of Xtreme chewing gum and a luxury holiday for two in Malaysia.'

Her eyes widened as the memory came back. 'Don't tell me I've won.'

Tom gave her his widest smile. 'You most certainly have.'

'Oh my God, I'm going to Malaysia? I always thought no one actually won those things. I can't believe this!'

'Well, we're legally obliged to check you have a valid passport before the prize can be officially awarded… '

She stepped aside and waved him inside the house.

'I don't want to stop you from going anywhere.'

'No, that's fine, I have Wednesdays off.' She clapped her hands in excitement. 'I can't believe this,' she repeated, directing him into the front room, one hand fluttering at her throat.

'OK,' said Tom, sitting down and placing the briefcase on the floor to the side of the armchair.

Polly sat down on the sofa, elbows on her knees, leaning forwards expectantly. Without saying anything, Tom removed a pack of Xtreme gum from his jacket, grasped the little tab on its side and opened it up. He slid out the uppermost stick of the seven inside the pack and said to her with an official note in his voice, 'On behalf of X-treme Incorporated, may I offer our congratulations?'

Leaning forward on the sofa, she gratefully accepted the stick of gum, unwrapped it and then folded it into her mouth. 'Thanks,' she said breathlessly, looking expectantly at her visitor and eagerly chewing.

'My pleasure, 'Tom replied. They continued looking at each other for a moment longer. 'Now, if you could just get…'

'Oh God, yes, sorry! It's upstairs. 'She jumped to her feet. 'I'm all excited. Sorry.'

He smiled. 'No problem.'

She almost skipped across the room, then ran up the stairs. While she was gone Tom stood up, walked over to her living room window and checked the street outside. By the time she returned he was sitting down once again.

'Here,' she said, handing him her passport.

'Great,' he replied. Although her neck was beginning to show up slight patches of red, Tom knew he needed more time before the drug took full control. As he reached for his pen he paused, then looked up with a slightly embarrassed expression. Coughing as if his throat was dry, he said, 'Do you mind if I have a cup of tea before we get started?'

'Oh!' She jumped up again, pale pink dressing gown falling slightly open to reveal a flash of upper thigh. 'I'm so rude. Sorry. Milk? Sugar?'

'Milk and two sugars, thanks.'

Flustered, she paced quickly down the short corridor to the kitchen. He listened to the sound of her bare feet slapping against the lino then heard crockery being shifted around in a sink. A tap was turned on followed by the sound of a kettle heating up.

He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. The voices whispered reassuring encouragement. He felt so proud — for himself and Polly. Of course she didn't know it, but her life had been given a far higher purpose. She was helping to usher in the Golden Age. It was a sacrifice anyone should be glad to make.

When she walked back into the room a few minutes later a red flush covered her throat and cheeks.

'Here you go.' She placed a mug decorated with a cartoon style snail on the coffee table before him.

Tom could see she was now chewing furiously on the gum. She went to sit down again but, on impulse, veered towards the hi-fi system in the corner and turned up the music.

'God, I feel like I could dance,' she said urgently, blowing her breath out and running her fingers through her hair. 'Is it hot in here? Are you hot?' He could hear a mixture of euphoria and confusion in her voice.

Tom looked around the room as if heat was a visible thing. 'No,' he replied with a little shake of his head.

'I feel hot,' she said, placing her mug on the table. She started waving one hand a little too energetically at her cheek and pulling distractedly at the neck of her dressing gown. Tom kept his head lowered, pretending to search for a pen in his jacket pocket.

She went to sit down, stumbling against the leg of the coffee table. 'Whoops!' she said with a strange giggle, though panic was beginning to show in her eyes. 'I… I'm dizzy.'

Now visibly distressed, she attempted a half turn to sit down, but her coordination was going and she missed the sofa, crashing onto the carpet. As she lay on her back, her eyes rolled up into her head and then closed completely.

Tom lifted up the briefcase and placed it on the coffee table. He dialled the combination for the lock and opened it up. From inside he took out the large stainless steel pincers and a plastic bag. He opened the bag up on the floor in case he was sick, then pulled Polly's lower jaw down. There at the back of her mouth was the lump of chewing gum. Seeing the little bubbles of saliva clinging to it, Tom experienced his first retch.

Carefully, he inserted the pincers into her mouth and picked the lump out. Keeping his head turned away, he dropped it into the bag, twisted the neck and knotted it. As he replaced the pincers, the voices began to speak. Put her in position so she can welcome in the Golden Age.

Dutifully, Tom stretched her arms out at her sides, then tilted her head back to ensure her airways were fully open.

Turning round, he then lifted the silicon gun out of his briefcase. Seeing the workmen applying the white gel round the edges of his bath those months before had made him retreat back down the corridor in disgust. The stuff had dried into something rubbery, and though it hadn't actually been in anyone's mouth, its presence in the corner of the bathroom was a continual source of discomfort to him.

Now he lifted the gun up, the tube of silicon gel mounted in the heavy metal frame. The thought of the tube's contents sent waves of nausea through him but, knowing how important his actions were, he inserted the tapered end of the tube deep into her open mouth. Grasping the solid metal plunger piece in one hand, he then pushed half a pint of thick white gel down the back of her throat.

Even though she was heavily sedated, her chest heaved and the tendons at the side of her throat flexed as she started to choke. But he pressed the plunger harder, sending a snake of it coiling into her windpipe where it quickly formed an immovable plug.

Her torso jerked and rocked as her lungs fought to drag in air. But the substance was too stubborn to be shifted and after a few more seconds her movements slowed and then stopped.

Tom got up and dropped the gun back into his briefcase. He looked around him and picked her passport off the table. After locking up his briefcase he carried their cups through to the kitchen and tipped the tea down the sink. Once he had sluiced them out with water, he placed them on the draining board and walked out of the flat.