Killology

Gary Owen

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781786821690
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

In Killology, players are rewarded for torturing victims, scoring points for "creativity". But Killology isn't sick. In fact it's marketed by its millionaire creator as a deeply moral experience. Because yes, you can live out your darkest fantasies, but you don't escape their consequences. Out on the streets, not everybody agrees with him. "There is an instinctive revulsion against taking a human life. And that revulsion can be conquered."

ALAN

Gas leak? he goes. Any gas leak would’ve been reported to me. I’ve not heard a word.

I look at Mark, shake my head, Mark wanders off eyes already down to his phone.

No problem, I say. Show him the clipboard. Sign to say you wouldn’t let us in?

I’m signing nothing pal.

Okay so I’ll put down ‘refused entry’ – and I take a good look at his name badge – ‘by James’ and then we’ll know. In case of any problems. Gas leaks can occasionally cause problems…

And I smile.

Alright, give’s a sec, he says. Looks up a number on his screen, dials.

I hear it ring.

Ring ring

Ring ring

And

It goes to answerphone.

The doorman

Ends the call, doesn’t leave a message. And – I smile.

The flat is a sight.

Like someone’s spent thousands creating a beautiful living space with breath-taking views over the city and the river, then some other fucker’s come along and emptied half a dozen wheelie bins of shite all over it.

I sniff the air and taking my lead a bit more than he needs to, so does Mark.

There’s no leak here, I say.

Doorman says, what you can tell just like that?

Well can you smell gas? I say. I nod at a teetering tower of takeaway trays. Apart from this crap rotting down.

Right on cue, Mark pipes up: better fetch the sniffer, just to check.

Fair enough, I say. Waste of time, though. And I head out of the living area, into the hall.

I head to the front door, I open the front door – and then let it go. I do not cross the threshold. I let the door swing shut, me still on the inside. And as the door’s swinging, I step into a toilet just beside the lounge.

I try to time it so I can close the toilet door same second the front door slams, so the noise of one will cover the other – but I don’t move fast enough. And I have to leave the toilet door open just a crack.

In the lounge I hear Mark deploying what meagre chat he has. In my head I count out the trip I’m not taking, down to the van to fetch the sniffer. It would take me… so long to walk to the lift. So long for the lift to come. So long to go down seven floors. So long to walk out of the lobby. So long to get to the van. So long to fetch my keys out. Then the call would come. An emergency so I wouldn’t mess around. I’d get off the phone quick and then ring up to Mark. I dial his number –

– and hear his phone go, just a few feet away from me.

He picks up: and I say nothing.

We practised with me really talking, but then there was always the chance I’d be overheard. So for this bit Mark has to talk to a silent phone. He’s shit at it. Rushes, never leaves enough of a gap for the person he’s supposed to be talking to, to actually say anything.

Ah okay, he says, gotcha. Right, on my way, okay, okey-dokey.

Okey fucking dokey?

I hear them coming down the hall. Mark telling the doorman there’s a main cracked in the middle of town, we’ve got to drop everything get over there right now.

They pass right by. Only the toilet door between me and the guy and that not even properly closed, and surely he has to look and see me in here and then it’s all over and

The front door opens. Four beeps as the doorman puts in the code. I hear him pull the door closed, and the bolts of the deadlock slide home. Their voices fade off down the corridor.

I’m in.

Now I just have to sit tight. And wait for the man I’m going to murder.

DAVEY
Dad’d fucked off.

You don’t know, though.

Had he fucked off or’d Mum told him to? You don’t know.

But you know Mum’s there day-in day-out telling you off getting at you never fucking happy.

You know when Dad comes it’s brilliant.

Off down the beach. Off for chips.

You come home you tell Mum she’s just nodding, nodding, not a smile, nothing like.

Dad got me a cowboy hat, Dad got me ice-cream.

Did he, she says. You need a new coat, Dad get you that?

No he did not. Cos he never does.

And you never learn.

A bit after my eighth birthday, Dad rolls up in a red Escort van.

Always a different car every time I saw him, and always falling apart.

Got something to show you, he says. There in the back in a box, is Maisie. Just she’s not called that yet.

She’s nice, I say.

Mongrel, he goes, but mostly border collie.

Right, I say, cos that means fuck all to me.

You like her? he says.

I s’pose, I go.

That’s lucky, he says. Cos she’s yours.

And I look at her again. I reach out, stroke her head.
She turns and just gently – doesn’t bite me, she just puts her teeth round my hand.

She’s mine. A living thing. But mine.

Mum says, and we’re gonna feed her how?

Dad says, I’ll bring some tins.

And who’s gonna walk her?

I say, ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half-title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Chapters
• By the Same Author