Chapter 37 Warren, The Fourth
Chapter 37
Warren, The Fourth
I wish I could say I’d turned my life around before I was run off the road and left to burn to death in my car. But if I did, I’d be lying. Because I’m the same worthless piece of shit in death as I was in life.
At least, that’s the version of me my killer chooses to believe.
I’d spent seven years behind bars. And while it might not have been for killing their parents – it was for a drugs bust, actually – it was still a sentence. But it wasn’t enough for them. Only an eye for an eye would do.
A year before I could apply for parole, the first letter arrived, via some do-gooder charity where strangers with sod all better to do with their time write to blokes like me. Some days I was locked in that cell for twenty-three hours straight, so I wrote back to break the monotony.
The other lads told me about birds like her. Can’t find a man in the real world, so in desperation, they start looking elsewhere. And we’re sitting ducks in there, aren’t we? It didn’t matter to me; she was a distraction.
We had stuff in common, despite our age difference. In her letters, she told me about her office job for some energy company, that she was divorced, that she didn’t have any kids but wanted them. I told her I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a regular bird and that I’d assumed I’d have kids one day, but it never happened. We wrote about the telly programmes and films we liked (me, anything with Jason Statham or Nic Cage, and her, animated Disney rubbish), music (that twat Olly Murs for her, Kasabian for me), and about how neither of us had families anymore (I’d long been disowned by mine, while a drunk driver had wiped out hers).
She was also fascinated by my life behind bars, who I spent time with, who I avoided and why. She wanted to know if it was like the prisons you saw on the telly. She asked me if there were murderers in my wing. Of course there were, I said, this was HMP Manchester, not summer camp. She asked if I ever got scared and I told her yes, sometimes, but explained you can never show fear or you’ll get hurt. She admitted that sometimes she worried about me and hoped that I was looking after myself. It was weird to think that, somewhere, someone cared about me. The more often we wrote, the more I looked forward to when the screws called out the mail each day.
Eventually she admitted she was starting to develop feelings for me. I said I thought about her too and it was true. I told her that in the nights when I struggled to sleep, like when one of the other lads in the wing was screaming his way through darkness ’til daybreak, I’d wonder what life might be like with her on the outside. From the photos she sent, she wasn’t my type. Not much to look at, skinny and no arse, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
She also got me thinking about how much of my life I’d wasted. I’d heard through the grapevine that Zain and Jenny were dead, and unless I made some changes, I’d probably end up the same way. Could she be my clean slate?
When I asked if we could meet in person when I got out, she said she’d love to. It was the first time she signed an ‘x’ after her name.
Two days after I was released, we agreed to meet at a country pub. But the first time we clapped eyes on each other, one of mine was hanging out of its socket as I lay crumpled up in the passenger seat of a mate’s car I’d borrowed. And I knew I’d been lied to about everything.
When I moved into my killer, I wanted them to understand what it feels like being burned alive. The pain as the smoke chokes you, the unbearable heat on your skin as your clothes catch light. But it turned out they knew this already. They had killed me so that I could understand what they went through, not the other way around.
The next name atop their kill list has been there forever. But as time’s passed and I’ve been in here a while, I’ve sensed a change of heart. Murder is no longer a prime motivation. It’s more fun to toy with their prey than to eat it. And I reckon the person who has borne the brunt of all this rage for so long has actually become a reason to live. Deep down, there’s a hidden fear: fear that once the list is empty, it’ll take with it any sense of purpose. And all that’ll remain will be a black hole of loneliness that’s impossible to fill. So, some time ago, I reluctantly came to terms with remaining in here indefinitely.
But tonight, a shift is happening. And in this unguarded moment, inspiration dawns on me.
I’m a third party, listening to an argument inside Ioana’s flat. She’s a nasty piece of work, so both parties are well matched. Ioana’s saying a lot of shitty things and the cloud of red mist has begun to cover our shared vision.
Suddenly there’s a flashpoint, a bubbling over of emotions and thoughts firing in all directions. They’re leaving themselves vulnerable, out of control. And this is my opportunity to take charge. I don’t care that Ioana isn’t on a list. She’s going to be my way out. Taking my captor’s wheel, so to speak, I charge us toward Ioana and shove her so hard that she loses her balance and topples over the balcony and down into the darkness of the night.
The realisation of what’s just happened begins to sink in for both my captor and me as we peer down over the balcony and find Ioana impaled on the railings below.
‘No!’ my killer shouts aloud, before I can force a hand over their mouth.
Then they hurry back into the lounge – and I don’t follow. Don’t want to, and couldn’t even if I did. I remain on the balcony and hear, back in the lounge, Ioana talking once again. This is where my journey ends and hers begins. And I can’t think of two people who deserve each more.
And now it’s me falling backwards over the balcony and into darkness.