The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

BEDLAM by Ken Bruen

I’VE BEEN OUT of the hospital, near three weeks.

I know because I precisely counted and oh, so… delicately counted the days.

I wish I knew how long I was incarcerated.

The heavy medication, the padded room, you lose all sense of nigh everything.

A room designed to drive you…madder.

It did.

I alas, remember, months gone by, weeks, years?

Curled up in the foetal position, and cackling to me own self.

They’d just hosed me down, those fucking lethal sprays of water that bounce you off the freaking walls.

A day came when I managed to feign taking the pills and slowly, oh, so fucking slowly, I began to get back to me own self. Now play the game.

I became the model patient.

It mostly worked.

I was released into the general population.

One slight hiccup.

One of the orderlies didn’t buy my new act.

Kept on my case, pushing me to reveal my real self.

I did.

When she was least expecting it.

I got her on the early morning of the night shift, drowned her in the toilet. Took a time but then I didn’t have anywhere else to be yet, so I drew it out a bit.

Heard the bitch plead.

Then, when I got bored, hung her from the socket, put a placard round her neck, in nice neon yellow.

It read:

I can’t take it any more. Looked at her for a brief moment then put my hand on her hip, pushed her hard to get that swing going, said:

“You’re a swinger, babe.”

The Government cutbacks were biting, they were releasing patients all over the fucking place, and with my new model patient status…

I was freed.

The mad bastards.

Gave me a bucketful of pills to keep me on an even keel.

Good luck with that.

Four of us CURED patients were bundled into a minivan. Due to be dropped at four separate hostels in Galway city.

The driver had the look of an ex-bouncer/boxer.

The drive to Galway was silent, the other three so medicated they were comatose.

I acted similar; had been doing the zonked gig for so long it was effortless.

He dropped the other three at their designated hostels.

He checked his list

Said:

“They have you in a hostel…lemme see, yeah, in Woodquay.”

I said in my meekest tone:

“Thank you so very much.”

He was surprised, asked:

“What were you in for?”

I near whispered.

“Alcoholism.”

My head bowed in shame.

He near smiled, in recognition, said:

“Yah poor devil, it killed me mum.”

I thought:

Gotcha.

Said:

“I’m afraid, though.”

He gave a look of part sympathy, mostly curiosity.

Said:

“Ary, it will be okay. What are you most afraid of?”

I hesitated, as if it was too agonizing to say.

He was in control now, urged:

“Spit it out, maybe I can help.”

Oh, he was helping all right. Tentatively, I ventured:

“My old apartment is still in my name and I know I’ll have to go there sometime but…”

He was full hooked. I said:

“There’s six bottles of fifty-year-old Black Bushmills there.”

I could literally see the Euro signs in his bloodshot eyes, a serious amount of cash there.

His drinker’s face, the bulbous nose, the rescreen, the broken veins, the mint pills on his breath nearly disguising the effects of last night’s bash, he drooled at the mouth then all chivalrous, offered:

“Now that we can fix, right now. I’ll take them away for you.”

I protested, said:

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

He put the van in gear, said:

“I insist.”

I told him my apartment was at the end of Long Walk and he jumped right in with,

“I know them, Jesus, I’ll have us there in, like, four minutes.”

He did.

Parked at the end of Long Walk, facing the ocean.

I pointed at his feet, asked:

“Is that twenty euro?”

He bent down and I plunged in the glass shard I’d smoothed to a fine point.

I moved back as the spurt of blood gushed. He muttered:

“Sweet Jesus.”

I had to stab him a few more times till he bled out. I took his wallet, nice bit of cash there. I looked round, no witnesses I could spot. Found a black watch cap in his glove department. Pulled it right down over my face. Then I jammed his foot on the accelerator, used a piece of wood to hold it in place. I turned the ignition then slipped out as the van rolled towards the water.

I didn’t look back, moving fast. Thought I heard the van hit the water, muttered:

“Quite a splash you made, fellah.”

I made it into the shadows of the large office complex, turned in the direction of Wolfe Tone Bridge and was on Dominic in jig time.

A skip and a jig and I was passing The Samaritans’ office…and a hundred yards later, I was in Nun’s Island.

Where I owned a small apartment. Against all the odds, I’d managed to retain it as a bolt hole. No one else knew about it, I never even killed anyone there. The neighbours were a snotty bunch, never spoke or acknowledged my existence.

Perfect.

I don’t do…cordiality.

Putting the key in the lock was a real rush. I said:

“I’m home, dear.”

Absolute silence answered.

Bills were paid by direct debit, not in my own name of course. I’d more aliases than Puff Daddy.

I did have a bottle of Jameson. Who can afford Black Bush?

I poured a large one.

Sank into the battered sofa, took a lethal wallop of the Jay, and waited for the burn.

Come it did.

The fire in my gut a pale echo of the blast from gutting the van driver, I raised my glass, toasted him, said:

“Don’t forget to feed the swans.”

Perhaps they’d see him as takeaway. That amused me hugely. Truth to tell, nobody amuses me like me own self. You could call it…killer comedy. I poured a another wee dram of Jay then went to brew some coffee. One of my passions is real coffee. Real Colombian beans, and the aroma alone gets me amped. Took a while as all real art does. When it’s brewed just right, with the Jay as outrider, I feel almost human.

Well, at least an Irish one, which allows huge flexibility.

Once I’d eased the cricks out of my body, I stood, pushed the sofa.

It didn’t move.

Terrific.

I leaned under it, found the switch and hit it. The sofa moved as easy as the River Corrib, without the poisonous face. Beneath it the wood floor appeared seamless.

One.

Two.

Three.

Lifted the third panel with the glass shard. All intact.

Money.

Mobile phones.

Coke.

Taser.

Weapons.

I took a thousand euro, the taser, a few grams of coke and my old reliable Glock, a leather band wound tight around the butt for controlled grip. Tested it, primed and ready to go. Added two clips of ammo in case. Put the rest back in place then positioned the sofa, resecured it with the lock and heard the click as it engaged. I laid out a few lines of coke and snorted them fast. The icy trickle down my throat was near-instant and I could feel the clear focus building behind my eyes.

My bookshelves are laden with books.

All poetry.

No true crime or serial killer shite.

I know my game and, better, I know my act.

My early days in the asylum, one of those interviewing me had read all the relevant books.

Me too.

He asked:

“As a child, did you ever torture or kill small animals?”

Gimme a fucking break, the most basic question.

I said:

“I love animals, why would I hurt them?”

Then the freaking classic.

“Did you ever set fires and receive sexual gratification as a result?”

God almighty.

I said:

“But we had central heating.”

He’d caught on to my mind-fucking and didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

Asked in icy tone:

“Does killing give you sexual release?”

I stared at him, said:

“You’re a wee bit obsessed with sex and violence. Have you spoken to anyone about that?”

He lost it then.

“I know what you are.”

“Pray tell?”

He took a deep sigh, said:

“You are a narcissistic psychopath, and highly dangerous.”

I looked at his name tag. Now he had my attention. I said:

“Dr Williams, I don’t understand those big words.”