Chapter 73 Electricity
I feel truly blessed to be pregnant. Despite the daily sickness, loss of reliable biological functions and excruciating pain ahead, it’s a magical gift. If it is Zac’s rather than Stephen’s, it’s good to know my child will have more get up and go, even if they’ll never know their biological father.
Of course, there are one or two obstacles in the way of happiness.
Stephen’s still going on about the incident in the kitchen with the knife, as if that’s the key issue!
He’s probably upset at having his dream of running away with Georgie questioned.
I told him that all couples bicker. And anyway, a wife wouldn’t kill her husband because it’s a pleasure she could only enjoy once.
My current mark is walking down Fleet Street after work with a large and rowdy group of bankers.
He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a small pink party hat that he no doubt thinks is hilarious.
I’m on the other side of the road, taking care to stay behind the group, in a beautiful deep red cashmere coat.
The group collect around the entrance to a high-end, glass-fronted bar with neon signs and a security man standing guard. They stop to have a loud discussion with the doorman, then pile through the door. I cross the road and follow them inside.
I realize that I have an unfulfilled urge after I wasn’t able to murder Georgie and was unable to sleep, worrying that I’ve discovered some kind of internal moral qualm.
Josh Krill is not expecting to see me, I can tell that from his expression as he turns to me from the urinal he’s pissing into.
I’ve put an out-of-order sign on the outside door of the gents that says: ‘Raw Sewage – Please Use the Ladies’. This should give me sufficient time.
It was galling to watch him and his shiny-suited mates laughing uproariously at the bar, drinking stupidly and poking fun at everyone around them, as if they had not a care in the world.
He looks up and sees me. His eyes widen. ‘You? I thought our date night was tomorrow? I’m looking forward to getting to know you intimately. It turns me on when a woman doesn’t want me. Is that weird?’
‘Yes, it’s fucking weird. You think I’d sleep with you because of those threats, do you?’ I say, closing the toilet door.
‘I think you just have to take one for the family. You might actually enjoy it,’ he slurs, swaying slightly.
‘If you’re capable,’ I say. ‘That’s a good strong flow you’ve got there.’
‘Three pints in, three pints out,’ he says, and nods proudly down at the urinal as I approach him.
Concealed in my hand is the orange extension lead from our shed, usually reserved for lawnmower use.
One end has been plugged into the mains in the corridor outside (minus the circuit breaker that Luca insists on).
At the other end, which I am holding quite carefully, the socket has been removed and the plastic stripped back, leaving the copper wires exposed.
‘You coming in for a closer look or something more?’ Josh says with a wink, but there’s a faint sense of vulnerability in his voice now.
‘I’m disappointed in you. You think you’re untouchable and can do what you like,’ I say, and move closer, observing that the ground beneath the urinal is sopping wet, presumably because several drunken men have missed the large open ceramic bowl in front of them.
Josh’s expensive hand-made, leather-soled shoes are standing in a pool of piss. It’s quite poetic and rather helpful.
‘This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me,’ I say, leaning in, ensuring I’m not touching him.
‘What is?’ says Josh.
I push the live wires into the urinal. Instantaneously, the electric current travels up his stream of urine, through his penis and fingers, and up through his body, then down through his legs to the wet ground, forming a circuit.
I smell burning flesh almost immediately. His body does a kind of floppy dance, jittering like a glitchy computer image, and a moment later he’s flat out on the floor, urine all over his trousers, fizzing and jerking on the wet tiles.
‘You’re a sick man, Josh. But I hope those nasty burns will make our assignation impossible, so let’s call that quits. Now, I want you to focus on getting the bank to give Stephen his job back. If you don’t, I’ll find you again and tie your testicles to my car. Do you understand?’
He gulps, his eyes open. He tries to speak, but it’s unintelligible.
‘I’ll follow up with an email to clarify,’ I say, and walk out.
I unplug the extension, wind the cable up neatly, remove the sign on the door, and head out into the night.
I think of my father at moments like this.
I walk down the street feeling that state of complete oneness that only electrocuting a bastard like Josh can give you.
It’s like your whole body is connected at every point to the universe, and pleasure tingles through every part of your being.
I return home. Stephen is out, possibly nursing his bruised ego or wiping away Georgie’s tears at her lost teddy bear.
I have the chance to continue my read-through of Georgie’s rather pathetic little diary.
She marks some occasions with a number of stars, which I imagine indicates sex.
I presume it’s with Stephen because they’re always on Fridays and Sundays.
She’s rather coy even in her diary, which is quite sweet, but Stephen often gets five stars, which means either he’s always saved his best for her or, more likely, Georgie has a low pleasure threshold.
It’s hard to read all the intimate details of Stephen’s affair, but I know it’s not a reflection of my attentiveness or attractiveness.
He’s responding to his feeling of personal deterioration.
Happens to all men as age, work and family life wearies and emasculates them.
They look in the mirror at receding hair lines and increasing girths, and feel intense sadness at their failure to get promoted, find fame, or realize their footballing dreams. Men might cry when their teams lose, but it’s the lost confidence of youth they’re crying for.
We should offer our sympathy, not our censure. No one really appreciates the intense pain of the middle-aged man, so worshipped in youth (by himself) and disabused of his delusions in age (by others), left just with hairy ears, a sport fixation, and a friend from twenty years ago called Dave.
All my to-do lists have been thrown in the air and, although not ideal, I have to plan on the hoof at the moment. However, I’m amazed to have completed some key things:
Get pregnant
Secure Hampstead
Get Stephen his job back
And one or two things still to do:
Remove Hollis
Remove Georgie
Remove Madeleine
Live happily ever after