The Third Person

Three men dead in the last forty-eight hours, all by my hand. Suddenly, that didn’t seem so bad. I figured I could give myself another week, check out the names on the list, and maybe add one or two more to that tally.

CHAPTER FIFTEEEN

The first name on the list – number one – turned out to be an old man. I watched him for all of ten seconds, from a bus shelter on the other side of the street, and he could barely get down his front path. He was tapping a stick on the paving stones for support. As he opened his gate and turned down the street, I caught a glimpse of his body from the side: he was as bent as a letter ‘r’.

Five minutes later, when the bus came, he was still in sight. I got on it, and didn’t even look at him as we drove past.

Number two.

He was younger than number one – not by much, admittedly, but it was enough to keep him upright when he was walking, and he didn’t need a cane for support either. But there was still an awkwardness to him. I only saw him walk once – from his seat to the toilet – and he had the slow, skewed gait of an old builder: someone who’d hurt his back but still had enough muscle left to power himself around.

I caught his face as he passed: cheeks as bright as sunburn and an exploded nose the colour of fire. He was wearing old slacks, and a chequered shirt beneath a beige pullover, sleeves rolled up to knotty elbows, revealing the white hair on his arms. I turned back to the bar, downed what was left of my drink and then left.

Numbers three and four were related to number two: his sons. They were more the right age, but they were still dead ends. Both of them were blond. I saw the first one on a construction site, wearing a cement-spattered sweater and jeans, carrying a black bucket over uneven ground. It wasn’t him. The second was in his driveway, clanking tools beneath the shell of a Camaro. He pulled himself out after a second, blinking at the sun behind me.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

I said no, and walked away.

The next six names were all a dead loss, and I was beginning to despair. And then, number eleven was actually dead. I called it a day, determined to start fresh the morning after.

Let’s back up just a little.

After deciding I wasn’t going to kill myself, I figured the best thing to do was get some sleep, so I jammed the chair beneath the door handle, placed the gun within easy reach and dropped off with surprising ease. I had more bad dreams, but I didn’t remember what they were. In the morning, I handed my keys back and made my way out of Downtown: back into the real world, or what passes for it. It was strange to see the sky again – blue-white and cloudless – and to hear the sound of cars and people going about their business without a threatening echo announcing it to the world. Monday morning. The air smelled fresh, clean and cold, and for a while it felt as though the heat and damp of Downtown were oozing out of my skin, like some kind of sweaty disease.

The first thing I did was phone home and check my answer-machine for messages. A mechanical voice told me there were two. I glanced at my watch, wondering how long it took to trace a call, and whether anybody would actually be bothered enough about me to do it. After a second, Williams’ voice cut in, distracting me.

‘Hello Jason. It’s Nigel here.’ He was speaking low and quick, picking out a spoken rhythm which expressed his irritation to almost poetic perfection. ‘I’m just calling to let you know that this month’s pay has been credited to you, but we do need to see you urgently, so would you please give us a call as soon as you get this message. Thank you. Goodbye.’

I felt like giving a big cheer for the corporations: despite being heroically absent for the whole month, I had been paid. Not even a naive child’s version of God is that forgiving. Eight hundred odd pounds, ready to withdraw whenever I wanted – assuming, of course, that my account hadn’t been frozen by the police, what with me being on the run and all. Somehow, I doubted that had happened.

Beep.

‘Hi Jason, it’s Charlie.’

I closed my eyes, remembering how I’d run out on her in the pub. It felt like a hundred years ago. I wouldn’t have blamed her in the slightest for being incredibly angry with me, but instead she only sounded a little bit hurt, and actually mostly worried.

‘It’s Sunday night. I’m just calling because I hope you’re okay. I don’t know what happened yesterday – or what I did wrong – but I’m sorry, whatever it was. And I understand; it’s okay.’

No, you don’t understand, I thought. You mean well, and that’s lovely, but you can’t help me, and I’m not worth the effort.