He’d thought about trying for another job. Reckoned he could turn his hand to a bit of light detective work – spying on cheating wives, tracking missing people, investigating the odd case of financial impropriety. But every time he thought about it seriously he pushed it to the back of his mind, and filed it away under things he might do at a later stage in life. The time wasn’t right, he would tell himself, as he reached for another drink.

A drink. Yep, that would make him feel better. He’d have a couple of half glasses of scotch and then he’d try and sleep. He usually managed three or four hours before he’d have to get up for some lunch of a burger and another shot or two of liquor. He’d spend the afternoons watching TV – football, basketball, soccer, the news, the weather channel. Sometimes when he was flicking between stations he’d catch a glimpse of women who reminded him of Anne – middle-aged blonde, fuller-figured women being interviewed on Oprah or Geraldo or one of those other shows that Anne used to like. He’d hit the remote pretty fast. Anne belonged to a life that didn’t exist any more.

He took out the key to the apartment block, but when he went to insert it into the lock the door swung open. He stepped inside the windowless hallway, dark even though it was morning. A whiff of ammonia stung his nostrils. Those fucking kids from the family on welfare had been pissing in the hall again. He swore under his breath. He’d have to go down and have a word with their mother. He suspected she was a user. If this carried on he’d have to call the welfare officer and inform on her. He was too old to have to put up with the smell of piss when ever he came in from a night shift.

Today, though, he was too tired to do anything about it. Today he was going to have a couple of drinks and then hit the sack.

He pressed the call button on the elevator before he noticed the piece of paper tacked to the wall saying it was out of order. He hauled himself up the stairs, puffing as he did so. One of these days, he told himself, he’d quit smoking and try and to get fit. Some day soon, but not yet. After stopping once or twice, by the time he had reached the third floor he was sweating and finding it hard to catch his breath. He let himself into his apartment, grateful to close the door on the world outside.

He went into the small kitchen and started to prepare himself a toasted bagel with peanut butter and jelly. As he waited for the bread to toast – he liked it to be really well done, almost burnt on the outside – he got out a glass. He filled it with ice and then poured himself a large measure of scotch. The anticipation of his first drink of the day always gave him pleasure. And today was no different. As he brought the glass up to his mouth he could almost feel the saliva flowing. He smacked his lips as the peatiness of the scotch burnt into his mouth. He took down a gulp, then another, before setting it aside to butter his bagel. He took his drink and his snack into the lounge and hit the remote. He let the images and words float over him until he had finished his drink.

He took his glass into the kitchen and poured himself his second drink. He’d only have another one, maybe two. He didn’t have a problem, he told himself, despite what Anne and those meddlesome doctors had told him. What was it she had said? That she was having to share her husband with someone else. That he was having an affair with alcohol. Some crap like that. Jesus. He blamed it on all those moronic daytime shows she watched. The ones were people talked about their feelings – their emotions, for God’s sake – and seemed to analyse everything over and over again. In his job as a cop he hadn’t had the luxury to deal with that kind of bullshit. What a waste of fucking time.

He watched some more news – the usual trouble in the Middle East, the growing terrorist problem in Britain, a school massacre somewhere in the mid-West – before he felt his eyes closing. Nothing seemed to change from day to day. He finished his drink and stumbled to the bathroom. He took a piss, thought about cleaning his teeth, decided against it – he’d do that before going to work. He passed the bathroom mirror without looking – he knew he wasn’t a pretty sight at this time in the morning – and started to unbutton his shirt. By the time he reached the dark, airless bedroom the shirt was off.

He bent down to take off his shoes, and had to steady himself by the bed. He looked down at his distended stomach that hung over his pants like a slab of tripe. Had he really put on so much weight or was there something wrong with him? He’d have it checked out at some point.

He sat down on the bed to take off his socks. He undid his belt, felt his stomach sag even more and shifted position as he started to take off his pants. He reached out behind him to support himself, lifting himself off the bed as he pulled the pants down. Suddenly, he felt something cold, jellylike, on one of the pillows. He turned his head to look, but the blinds were down. He moved a little closer, blinked. He thought it was – but, no, it couldn’t be. It’s some kid playing some kind of joke. He stretched out his hand and turned on the bedside lamp. Tobacco yellow light illuminated the bed. On the pillow there were two eyes – brown in colour just like his. They were staring sightlessly up at him from a darkening pool of blood.

25

He’d been watching him for some time now, following his trail. After the first couple of incidents – the snatching and killing of that baby, the murder of that girl and the sick way he had cut off her fingertips and then sent them to that blind woman – he had become so angry that he wanted to finish him off just like the others. He planned how to do it too, even went so far as to get his tool bag out and look through it for the appropriate equipment. Seeing his array of instruments set out before him – a couple of scalpels, the knives, a few different sizes of hammers, a family of saws and a drill with assorted bits – gave him a thrill. He ran his hands up and down the cold metal, imagining the damage he could do with each of the tools.

But something wasn’t right. Finishing him off like this – ending his life so he couldn’t commit any more of his sick jokes – would be just too easy. Sure, he could chop off his fingers, make him suffer like that girl dumped in the dunes in Baja. He could cut out his tongue so that he would never be able to speak again, turning his cries of pain into unintelligible, muffled moans. But the equation – the subtle balance between crime and punishment - was slightly skewed somehow.

Of course, the other option was to turn him in. Ring up the cops from a phone box and tell them that he knew who was behind the series of attacks. Yes, the ultimate end would be achieved – the removal and imprisonment of a dangerous individual – but something wasn’t quite right with the plan. The psycho would be caught and locked up for the rest of his mortal life, but would he suffer? Hell, no. He’d get to enjoy the comforts of prison life like the rest of those lazy scumbags. And what would he personally get out of it? Nothing but the satisfaction that the sicko was off the streets.

So what to do? What would be the most appropriate way of getting rid of him?