68A shadow flickered against the wall. A bird cried out in the evening light. A street lamp flickered on. A door slammed shut. At each sound or movement, his head darted around like a rabbit catching the scent of a predator. He almost looked like a rabbit - scurrying between pools of orange light on his dumpy legs, eyes sliding about uncertainly in a twitching face. The only thing missing was the carrot. I briefly contemplated leaving his body in a rabbit hutch for the police to find - yes, the blank astonishment on the faces of his family as they read about it, the horror, the shock at his death.
People can be so blind. any idiot could tell that the podgy freak was going to meet a nasty end sooner or later. Notice the careful censorship there? Not that 'podgy freak' is by any means the worst I could say about him.
God knows why I'm editing it anyway - who's going to read the nonsensical ramblings scrawled on the walls of a death row cell? Look at some of the crap written here: 'Darling Annie, my last hope is that you and the kids can forgive me in death where you didn't in life." Jeez, you broke the law - at least die with some shred of dignity. And I can't speak for your 'woman', but I wouldn't be too distraught if MY serial-killer spouse had been put to death. Not that I have a wife - too many complications. Though I do think it'd be handy to have someone to take it out on when life gets you down.
***
I'm not sure why I want to write this - I don't feel any guilt over what I did. Maybe I just feel the need to confess to someone - anyone. I certainly wouldn't care to talk with that Catholic priest they offered me. Or that Protestant priest. Or, come to think of it, any of the other priests - I never did care much for priests. Or computer programmers. Or lorry drivers. Or anyone else, really.
But the one person I've detested more than anybody is Horace Fitzgerald.
When my family moved to New York from some small, countrified village in England, I remember being bowled over by the complete change in pace of life. Lying awake at night, I would listen to the relentless mosquito-drone of traffic on the freeway, and try to think of the rich silence back home. I'd force my eyes shut against the glaring light from the streetlamps and remember the pitch darkness of night times in the English countryside. I always kept a window open when I was trying to sleep - trying, in vain to vent the stench of cigarette smoke and grease-laden fast food left behind by the flat's former occupant.
And that was just the night time. During daylight hours, I had to go to an American school filled with American teachers, American children and bizarre American expressions: 'elevator', 'sidewalk', 'boardwalk', 'hood' and 'trunk' on a car that was 'outta gas'.
And then the spellings. I can still feel the burning humiliation of being mocked by a gaggle of American smart-arses for spelling things the English way. I was moved down to a class packed with morons because I determinedly spelt 'program' as 'programme', 'color' as 'colour' and 'flavor' as 'flavour'.
The list goes on - I could cover every wall of this cell with the agonies I suffered from the move to 'The Good Old U. S. of A.' And why? Because my Father was headhunted for a job by Horace Fitzgerald.
My Father was never a 'thinker'; he was a 'doer'. No, wait, he was a 'doer' who didn't think. I remain incredulous to this day that he never consulted Mother or me before accepting the job. Still, knowing Father, he probably didn't even read the job description before snatching up the offer.
Mother and I were furious, until he showed Mother his salary and then I alone was furious. I'd been happy where I was - I had friends, a comfortable home and a loving family. Then, before I knew what was happening, all three were whisked away. By Horace Fitzgerald.
Still, that's not the reason I'm here - I'm not one to unreasonably bear a grudge; he was just doing his job - that's business. It was what followed.
***
As the years reluctantly dragged by, my life in New York City seemed to get worse with each passing day. When Father wasn't working late in the office of his 'dream job', he was entertaining the wealthier clients of the Fitzgerald Corporation at a local restaurant, and when Mother wasn't at one of the local clubs, she was out with her American friends, all of whose husbands were managing directors, or important local politicians.
At some point, they became too busy to care about me. There were days when I felt like the most under-privileged person on the planet. Things managed to get worse though - a lot worse. And all because of Horace Fitzgerald.
***
Several years after the move to New York, there was a fire at one of the Fitzgerald Corporation warehouses. A shipment of stock was destroyed, and the company suffered a crippling financial loss. As a result, the corporation had to discharge five hundred employees. The decisions could have been handed down to the managing directors or even the managers. But instead, who personally selected and fired all five hundred? Who made my Father, the hardest worker in the entire company redundant? Who else.
By the time the solemn letter arrived, informing Father that 'his services were no longer required', I was beginning to loathe the name of Horace Fitzgerald. After Father had dropped the letter into the wastepaper basket observing that 'he was sure that there would be many more jobs for a man with his experience', I took it back out, and gave it a severe mangling before returning it.
Was that the end of it? Hell no.
Despite Father's optimism, New York City was brimming with ambitious young workers seeking employment, and his best days were past. Even the generous amount of money that he had put away each month for a 'rainy day' was quickly soaked up by Mother's lavish tastes. Soon we were living on next to nothing, but she continued to tell her friends and herself that there was 'nothing to worry about' and that 'we lived in a time of plenty'. But as the family began the slow descent into poverty, we began to realize that the time of plenty was over.
Father eventually got a job sweeping in a department store, where he received a cent or two above minimum wage.
A month later, Mother left us. She said that she was going back to England to see her family for a few days. After a month or two had passed, we got a short note from her, saying that she might be staying in England a while longer. She never wrote again.
As my next birthday drew nearer, Father urged me to get a job so as to 'bring a little more cash into the household'. In truth, it was because he would soon be too old to keep working, and he knew it. I disgustedly applied for a job, and was given work in a McDonalds, selling grease-laden fast food to bloated Americans and listening to the same throbbing American sugar-coated pop music over and over again. Ironically, the print on my back declared, "I'm lovin' it".
One evening, when I returned from my daylight nightmare, I found Father sprawled on the settee. There was an open envelope in his hand, and an empty bottle of Vodka in the other. The pillow under his head was wet with tears.
I picked up the letter and read it. It was from Mother's solicitor - she wanted a divorce so that she could re-marry. All the forms were included, and Father had begun to fill them out. Here and there the ink was smeared by a teardrop.
It was then that I noticed the empty pill container on the floor
***
Only I attended my Father's funeral. I sent a letter to Mother informing her. She wrote back, saying how saddened she was, but that she was 'unable to attend'. She included a photo of herself, and her new husband: Horace Fitzgerald. 'Happy coincidence', she called it.
A few years later, I got a letter from Mother, telling me that Horace had left her for another woman. She begged me to come see her.
By the time I arrived, she had killed herself. The same way as Father, oddly enough.
She left everything to me, including her small house. In the study, I found a picture of Horace. He looked so self-satisfied, so smug, so American. I remember picking up the glass frame and shattering it with my bare hands. The picture was torn to shreds.
But after all the losses I had suffered, that wasn't enough. And so it was that I came to be stalking the man down the street to his home.
***
He looked so petrified - it was almost comical to watch him cartoonishly twitch every time he heard a noise. Not that I was making any kind of noise - my every move was made with absolute precision. This had to go perfectly - you only get to kill a man once. Regrettable, but true.
I watched as he went up to his front door and unlocked it, looking behind him nervously as he went. I really shouldn't have sent him the death threat first; things would have been a lot easier. Still, I wanted to see the dull spark of fear in his eyes as he met the end he'd wrought for himself.
After an eternity of waiting, all the glowing lights in the house were extinguished. This was my moment. Silently, I scaled the porch, slipping through the bedroom window. The man was asleep, blissfully unaware that he was about to be executed in his own bed. I listened to his wheezing breath. In and out, in and out - so laboured, so heavy.
I could, I suppose, have stopped there. People will argue that you have free will. It's all lies, of course - you push a man past the point of no return, and he'll snap. Horace Fitzgerald had made all the decisions in my life, unconsciously or otherwise - I made my first choice and I knew; right then, right there, that it was a righteous one.
I left his mutilated corpse in the bed, where the police found it hours later. I didn't get far - I was arrested the next morning.
They're executing me at seven o'clock. I can see the glimmer of dawn along the corridor.
Horace Fitzgerald destroyed my Mother and my Father. I destroyed Horace Fitzgerald and myself.
After all these years of pain, was it really worth it? Oh yes.