Creature of the Night.

I recently added a short passage involving a kitten to my blog, part of a project that’s been demanding my attention lately. Here’s a little more of the main character. In case you’re wondering, he’s not even remotely like myself. Honest!

The outer edge of the estate was a landscape inspired by Mad Max films. A post-nuclear Armageddon, complete with abandoned shopping trolleys, fridges, partially burnt mattresses and sofas where only the packs of feral dogs appeared content with their surroundings. I could blame the dogs for the piles of shit underfoot, but what consequence are a few dog turds when set against used syringes? Enough here to stock a hospital ward.

Two men blocked the only path through the knee-high weeds. Both looking at me with suspicion, cupping cigarettes against the wind in time-honoured prison exercise yard fashion, tattooed knuckles on show. They’d looked middle-aged from a distance; close up they were perhaps twenty-five. That classed them as middle-aged around here where the life expectancy of a young male was far below Third World levels. Drug abuse and guns taking the place of exotic diseases and malnutrition.

The taller of the men help up a hand, traffic policeman style. I ignored him, brushed past, and kept on walking. I waited for the footfalls behind me, whipped round to face them.

“Don’t even think about it,’ I said. ‘Go and mug an old lady or two if you’re bored.’

They stopped, expressions suggesting a struggle to react to the unexpected.

I pointed a finger towards them. ‘Do yourselves a favour. Leave it. Nothing to do with you.’

The pair looked at each other. The shorter one shrugged his bony shoulders and turned away. His companion took half a step forward and then turned round, following his mate’s example. I moved on towards the looming tower blocks. They were only outriders. No clout, no influence. Not worth bothering with. Looking like you belong is half the battle. More than half the battle with specimens such as these.

My mind drifted. The city at night awaited my attention. Waiting for darkness had become second nature. In the secure unit it was always light. I hadn’t minded the deprivation of liberty – I had memories enough – but the absence of darkness was torture. The sounds, the smells of a city at night; they were life itself. I could recall them at will. A pounding sea, a work of art, a sunlit meadow; they paled into insignificance against the sounds; the smells of what I’d experienced and would taste again very soon. A dying breath, the gasp of a woman as I entered her, the drip of blood on a tiled floor, the sudden snap of a breaking bone, these marked moments of rapture. Pleasures denied to others were commonplace. Where was the challenge in a sexual act freely granted? What could compare with watching the light of a life flicker and die while I lay face to face with one of my treasures?

Prison had been distasteful. The absence of intellect amongst both inmates and those who sought to confine me had been painful. The secure unit, presided over by doctors, intelligent men within their limitations, had been an improvement and the reduced levels of security had allowed greater scope for adding to my score. Killing had been unsatisfactory in its brevity, but I’d not been in any position to dictate the outcome.

Now, all restrictions were removed. I was free. They’d be looking for me, wouldn’t ever stop looking, but I’d made plans. They wouldn’t look here. Why should they? I wouldn’t be here at all unless the man I’d come to see didn’t possess something I needed to ensure my safety.

A shadow detached from the wall of the tower block, became a teenage youth. Black, hooded, low slung jeans, a surly expression on his face he was a mirror image of so many I’d seen and discarded. Scarcely worthy of a glance under normal circumstances, here, in his home territory, charged with the task of providing security, he evidently thought himself important. I looked at him, fixed his gaze, and stared him down. Puffed up with bravado he may have been, but he’d be no threat and we both knew it. I’ve been told I have a threatening aspect. I can’t see it myself.

I looked at the twitching body on the floor, fingers clawing at his throat, and was unable to remember how he’d arrived there. Doctor Hughes had made a study of this aspect of my personality: the ability to strike without warning and without conscious thought. He’d thought it remarkable, had intended to write a paper on the subject, right up until the day he’d lost his sight and the use of an arm. I’d found it amusing, kept on laughing even as the warders swarmed over me, hitting out with their sticks. It had been a moment to treasure, well worth the broken clavicle I sustained, yet until the instant I’d leapt across the desk I’d never even considered harming Doctor Hughes. He’d treated me fairly, never been confrontational – I liked him. We got on well, had many shared interests, and discussed world events without rancour. The moment, when it occurred, had surprised both of us. That’s what I’d found so amusing: the prospect for sudden excitement, even under conditions of maximum security was always present.

My life may be many things, but nobody would ever call it boring.