The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (life changing books txt) 📕

the Worlds paperback in hand, as if watching the world go by, for close to two hours before he saw them go in.

One man, the one he wanted, mid-fifties, grey and balding, in a dark, ill-fitting suit, went in first. Casting furtive looks around as he did so.

The other, younger, mid-thirties, rougher, maybe a labourer, followed a minute or two later, walking, almost striding in, with more confidence. Only the last-moment, tell-tale look back gave away his intentions.

Now he was just waiting for the moment he hoped would come. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets. Could feel the Phillips screwdriver in one pocket, the Stanley knife in the other.

He wondered, as he often did at such times, exactly what he would say if he were stopped by a policeman, asked what he was doing sitting on that park bench for so long, told to turn out his pockets. Why, the police officer would ask, do you have these tools in your jacket pockets? They could be used as dangerous weapons. And why do you have refuse sacks and tape in your trouser pockets?

Why?

Why?

Why?

He still, after all these years, did not really know what he would say to that. What explanation he could give. He knew he shouldn’t carry both, could possibly explain away one, or the other, but not the two of them. Nor the bags and tape. But, in a way, the thought excited him. It added a frisson to what he was doing. And he needed both for what he was going to do.

He could hear movements in one of the cubicles. Back and forth, the sense of some sort of rhythm.

But no words were spoken at all. It was all done in silence.

And then he heard a sudden cry, muffled quickly, and the low voice of one of them hushing the other.

He had thought today that he could have tucked them, the screwdriver and the knife, inside his long winter socks, one left, one right, but he was not sure if he could reach them quickly, especially the screwdriver, if he had to. And if he had to run, to chase, or even be chased, as had happened once or twice over the years, he thought that they might fall out and he might stumble and fall to the ground. And then, one way or the other, he would be done for.

He liked the feel of them, too, as he stood there ready for the moment. The weight of them. The cold strong length of the screwdriver and the thought that he would later, when the time was right, plunge it in again and again. The sharpness of the blade that he would touch occasionally with his thumb through latex glove, imagining it cutting and shaping ageing flesh into some form of likeness.

He heard a low mumble of words from within the cubicle. “It’s on the wall,” one said.

Then another voice, low, harder-to-hear, “You go, I’ll wait five minutes.”

He turned to face the urinal and removed his hands from his pockets, as if now holding himself while urinating.

He heard the cubicle door being opened, another mumble of words he did not catch, and dipped his head as if he were concentrating. He did not want the man who was now leaving to see his face, to even notice he was there.

Good, he was in luck. The first time in such a long time. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the younger man, the workman, fiddling with his trouser zip as he walked behind him. Quick, brisk, keen to be on his way, to distance himself from what had just taken place. The man’s departure thrilled him. It gave him a chance.

It was just a matter of waiting now, for the older man. Tired and flabby, he would, if he showed interest, be easy. Would put up less of a struggle. This old man would do very nicely. Yes, indeed. He would rely on the element of surprise. He just had to decide whether to stand and wait for him to come out of the cubicle or to tap on the door, nudge it gently open and stand there with a smile.

He was not sure if the older man would wait the full five minutes. Maybe not. There was always the chance he might rush by suddenly and be gone, out of the toilets and into the park and away. Or that someone may come in, perhaps young boys, playing with skateboards, and the moment would be lost. Or a policeman. He had always feared the hand on the shoulder. Knew it would come one day. His luck finally breaking after so many years.

He heard the older man, still in the cubicle, coughing now, a smoker’s cough, full of mucus and phlegm. He snorted loudly and spat.

Then a strong and steady flow of urine splashing into the bowl. The flushing of the toilet a moment later.

The cubicle door opened and the old man stepped out.

He zipped himself up carefully and then turned to face the old man. He was older than he first thought now they were face-to-face. Maybe in his sixties. He had had one like this eighteen months ago in Hertfordshire. A brief flurry of news and then, like all the rest, the story faded away.

He checked his pockets, taking pleasure again from the feel of the tools in his hands.

Smiled at the old man.

Stood there hoping he would meet his eye and smile back.

* * *

It was these glorious thirty to forty seconds of delicious anticipation.

Before he plunged the screwdriver into his unsuspecting victim.

That the man with the latex gloves liked the most.

This one, the old man picked up from a public toilet in Ipswich, had been the easiest for ages. Maybe ever. He had returned his smile and made eye contact. A movement of the head to suggest going back into the toilet cubicle. A shake of the head and a mention of somewhere nicer plus a promise