Chapter 12
I don’t shower or wash, there’ll be lots of time for that when I get home.
If I get home. There is always the chance I might fail, be caught in the act.
What have the last thirty-two years of life shown me if not that I am set up to fail.
Yet, I am certain I will succeed. I’ve never had this drive or determination for any other project.
I’ve heard sportspeople and actors and such being interviewed referring to their jobs as their ‘calling’.
This always smelt of bullshit to me, but since I started planning justice for Willie, I understand.
As I move about my bedroom, Willie’s episode of Fixer Uppers playing in the background to remind me why I am doing this, my bones sparkle underneath my skin, imbued with the magic of being in a body that’s finally found its purpose.
I put my nightgown – a huge T-shirt with Britney Spears on I stopped wearing until recently as Nicol told me repeatedly it looked like lost property – in the laundry basket then change into my running outfit.
This is what I’ve worn each morning and evening to jog and stalk Willie: black trainers, black jogging bottoms, black T-shirt covered by a black hoodie, my hair in a low ponytail and hidden under a black beanie, gloves, with the additional props I’ll need today in my pocket.
My phone stays where it is, charging on my bedside table.
My speed this morning is slower than usual; I want to reserve my energy for the task ahead.
I follow the same route Willie will in a few minutes’ time: in through the silver gates at Kwik Fit, down the dark tree-lined path, stopping at the corner where he presses Play on the app.
There are dense woods next to the bench, which I disappear into.
Willie hasn’t noticed me testing out this hiding spot on the last few mornings.
Under the cover of the bushes and branches, I take off my black woollen gloves to reveal the latex ones underneath, to be extra careful.
The police probably don’t have the funding to DNA test people who were given a fright by aggressive strangers – an outrage really, but working in my favour in this instance.
The adrenaline of what I am about to do is making my heart race, my breaths shallow, as I hear the smack of Willie’s feet on the tarmac of the path.
It’s time.
As I action the plan I’ve made, there’s a poignancy to everything I hadn’t anticipated. When Willie presses Play on his app, he doesn’t realise this is the last time he will associate this place with peace.
My cue for action is when Willie walks onto the bridge.
I jog towards him. I’m not hiding. If Willie didn’t believe his maleness and size made him safe, he would know not to have the volume so high in a deserted place and he would have a chance to save himself from what’s to come.
Being a tall able-bodied white man is going to be his downfall.
From my pocket I take the black bin liner I have prepared.
This is a little joke to myself. Willie came to my attention because of wanting payment to put the bins out.
Well, here I am clearing the rubbish. My plan is to cover him up and chuck his phone into the flowing burn below him.
He can get a new phone, meditate on schedule as much as he likes, but this weird, disturbing act will always be tied to the thing he loves.
Violence against him, while I guess pleasing in the moment, would get me into proper trouble, but I do kick him in the shins as the plastic sack covers his head.
‘Ouch!’ he shouts ‘What are you doing?’
His phone clatters onto the wooden boards of the bridge. I scrape it along the ground with my toes until it reaches the edge and then I kick it as hard as I can into the burn.
‘I can give you money…’ I hear him say as I jog off, my plan perfectly executed.
If Willie wanted to say more it’s lost to the gurgling groaning he’s making.
Not understanding the noise, I turn, realising too late I’m risking being identified.
He’s negotiated the bag off his body; it drifts away from him in a gentle breeze.
Willie doesn’t care about that or me. He’s too concerned with the heart attack it appears he’s having.
Clutching his chest, he hangs over the railing of the bridge.
His noises stop, and then the weight of the top half of his body propels the bottom half over and into the fast-flowing brown water.
He lands face down and stays down, his limp body ebbing in the stream.
At the edge of the water, I pick up a stick and prod the soft flesh of Willie’s back. He doesn’t react. Dead people don’t.