How to Be Bad (13 page)

“Yes?” I said.

“I can confirm that it looks like arson.”

“How do you know?”

“We found the remains of a Home Fire Log in the debris.”

“What's a Home Fire Log?”

“It's basically a lazy way of starting a real fire. You know how people who have real fires in the grate sometimes find it hard to start them? Well, these logs mean you needn't bother with fire lighters and rolled-up newspaper and all that stuff. Home Fire Logs. They're made by Bryant & May, the same company that makes the matches.

“What we're looking at here is basically a small log, coated in wax, which lights easily. It comes wrapped in highly inflammable paper. You light the paper at either end and pretty soon you've got a decent fire. It looks as if our arsonist lit one of these logs and used it like a brick, smashing your shop window and setting fire to everything inside. Not exactly subtle, and in a bookshop, guaranteed to incinerate the building and everything in it.”

“Fuck,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” said Flett, obviously indignant that I'd used an expletive.

To take his mind off my swearing, I told him about the abusive e-mail.

“Have you still got it?” said Flett.

“Yep.”

“Could you possibly forward it to me? We might be able to find out where it came from.”

“So someone must really hate me,” I said. It wasn't a question.

“It looks like it,” said Flett, looking at me sideways as if he weren't particularly surprised. “Does anyone spring to mind?”

“It could be practically anyone,” I said.

There's something about the police that makes me nervous. When I get nervous, I talk too much and always end up saying more than I need to. When I was nine and my bike had been stolen, the policeman who took down my details made me feel so guilty I told him I'd stolen a Mars Bar from the shop down the road. He said the Mars Bar didn't really matter, and I said no, but the fact that I'd set off a firework under my neighbor's window did. Then I started crying.

It was the same with DC Flett, minus the tears. I ended up saying far too much. I told him how Bad Jesus had visited my shop to vandalize a valuable book. Then I realized that Bad Jesus might kill me if I made a complaint about him, so I changed my tack, chronicling Wuffer's hate campaign against me. Flett seemed to be familiar with both of my persecutors. “I don't think Barker would be clever enough to buy a Home Fire Log,” said Flett. “As for Victor Callaghan, it's far too amateurish a job for a man like that.”

“Well, who did it?” I said. “Any ideas?”

“Don't be impudent, Mr. Madden.”

“What? What've I said?”

Flett stared at me coldly. Then he got up from his desk. “Could you wait here a moment, Mr. Madden?”

He left the room, and I looked at the posters on the wall. Under the words
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN
? there was a grotesquely unlikely photofit of a homicidal lunatic with cropped hair and staring eyes. Under this were the words “White Caucasian, aged 25–30, approximately 5 feet 10 inches tall, average build. Wanted in connection with a serious incident at Hammersmith station on Sunday, October 9, at 9:00
P.M
. Were you there?”
Did you see a stupid-looking twat with a rucksack?

Although the image on the poster looked more like a brain-damaged Fred Flintstone in a rain hood, I was tempted to flee the police station. Then Flett returned with a thinner, older man who announced himself as Detective Sergeant Bromley. Despite his seniority, Bromley was friendlier than Flett, offering me a choice of tea, hot chocolate, or coffee. I opted for the chocolate, and while Flett went out to fetch it, I repeated my theories for Bromley's benefit.

When I'd finished, Flett returned with my hot chocolate and some greasy tea for Bromley. Flett hovered by the door like a waiter who wants to go home, while Bromley sat at the desk with his arms folded as if he was posing for a football team photo. “All right, Mark,” said Bromley in a friendly voice. But it wasn't a normal sort of friendliness, more like the bogus bonhomie of a skilled salesman. “We can't prove it, but we think you burned down your own shop.”

“That's outrageous!”

“I agree,” said Flett. “So why did you do it?”

“Do you really think I'd be that stupid?”

“Yes,” said Bromley, “and what's more, we both think there's something horribly familiar about you.”

Flett nodded in agreement. I just stared at them, terrified that if I shifted my gaze, I might inadvertently draw their attention to the wanted poster on the wall.

“Now, we could be wrong,” Bromley continued. “Maybe you didn't start the fire. But we can tell just by looking at you that you're guilty of something.”

“That's right,” agreed Flett.

“And what's more,” added Bromley, “We don't fucking like you.”

“Why?” I said.

“
Why?”
said Flett, mimicking me in a whiny voice.

*   *   *

I
COULDN'T
face telling Caro what had just happened. I got into the car and went for a drive. I stopped in Richmond Park and just sat there in the car, looking at my deluded-by-love eyes in the mirror, wondering whether I was cursed or just stupid.

I read somewhere that what we believe about the world and other people dictates the pattern of our lives. Meaning that a good-natured person who looks for the best in others will invariably find it, just as a misanthrope will always find ample proof of the inherent rottenness of others.

This rule didn't apply to me. I was raised by loving, easygoing parents and always expected my life to be pleasant. Now it was filled with tattooed thugs, malevolent policemen, and butchers who looked like Jesus Christ.

While I was sitting there, aching with hurt, confusion, and self-pity, my cell phone rang. It was my dad. I was really surprised to hear from him. He never made phone calls unless he had to and any letters or cards that needed to be sent were always sent by Mum.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“I just wondered how you were feeling,” said my dad gruffly.

“Not great,” I confessed.

I heard his brain ticking over. “We've been worrying about you.”

I reassured him that I was all right. There was a significant pause. “You still there?” I said.

Dad cleared his throat. “Is it true, then? You and Caroline are really engaged?”

“As far as I know,” I answered cautiously.

“Only, I hope you haven't forgotten the way she treated you when you were at school.”

“No, Dad.”

“She messed you about then, didn't she? Got you in a right state. Who's to say she won't do it again?”

“Come on. She was seventeen. Who knows what they're doing at seventeen?”

“Your mother was seventeen when she got engaged to me.”

“I rest my case.”

“Oi. That's enough of that.” There was a spectacularly long pause. “All right. I just want you to know that if you're in trouble or you need anything, we're here. That's what mums and dads are for, you know.”

“Yes, Dad,” I said, hanging up. There were tears in my eyes. Mainly tears of shame, because I was technically an adult and my dad was still trying to look after me. My big, rough, working-class dad, who didn't really understand me, who didn't really understand anything apart from the off-side rule in football.

It started to rain. I switched on the engine and drove back through the park gates. I was passing Gordon's house when his battle-scarred Rover swerved out of the drive, shooting right in front of me so that I was forced to brake sharply. Gordon was at the wheel, out to knock off a few more wing mirrors.

After the phone call from Dad, Gordon's sudden appearance was like a lucid communication from the timeless ones who preside over mortal affairs. It was as if they were saying,
We've just shown you what a father should be. And here, by way of contrast, is a complete and utter bastard.

I was so incensed by Gordon's maneuver that I accelerated sharply, instantly overtaking his car. Gordon, who never used his mirrors, had no idea what was happening until it was too late. I caught a blurred impression of his hideous gray head as I swept past and cut in front of him. Now it was Gordon's turn to brake.

Like all selfish drivers, Gordon could hand it out but he couldn't take it. He gave his horn a protracted blast. I glanced in the mirror to see him alone at the wheel, making elaborate obscene gestures with his left hand. His headlights flashed in rebuke.

Relishing my petty revenge, I signaled left and turned into Sheen Common Drive to let the wanker pass. I was a little surprised when the Rover screeched after me. Gordon gave his horn another stab, and I realized with awe that the father of my intended had turned off without needing to, had actually
gone out of his way
to pursue me. I had overtaken Gordon. Now, according to his demented logic, Gordon could only reassert his manhood by overtaking me in turn.

At any other time, I would have let him pass. Today, I felt too angry and sad to capitulate to his bullying craziness. I moved out into the center of the road to prevent the Rover from passing me. I also slowed down, a perfectly legitimate action as the limit was ten miles an hour and there were speed bumps every fifty yards or so.

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw that Gordon had gone apeshit. He had removed his hands from the wheel to shake both fists at me, and I could see his mouth, twisted in hatred, spewing out a stream of insults.

So I slowed down even more, crawling forward at about three miles an hour. Gordon was now twitching and jolting uncontrollably like a Pentecostalist possessed by the Holy Spirit. He looked like such a prick, and I laughed with cruel delight. Then I came to a bend in the road so, for safety's sake, moved over to the left. As glorious as it was to goad Gordon, I had no wish to cause an accident.

Instantly, Gordon stepped on the gas and surged forward. His car was faster than mine. He overtook me with arrogant ease. As I turned the corner, I heard the baritone blast of a powerful horn. A large truck was coming the other way. I saw smoke rising from Gordon's wheels as he tried to brake, then heard the deafening crunch of the collision. The truck quaked with the impact, its driver jerking about violently in his seat.

Gordon rocketed through the Rover's windshield in a torrent of blood and glass. Hurtling headfirst, he hit the truck and dropped onto the squashed and tangled hood of his own car. The truck driver remained in his cabin, safe but shaken, rubbing his neck, veiled by a tower of hot steam that emanated from the Rover's radiator. Tingling with unholy glee, I executed a perfect three-point turn and drove off in the opposite direction.

I returned to Caro's flat. She was still in bed but awake and listening to music. I didn't dare tell her about Gordon's accident in case he wasn't dead. I feared the bitter disappointment of her father surviving death a second time might be too much for her. At about five o'clock, the phone rang. It was Eileen, sounding reassuringly tearful. She asked to speak to Caro.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked her.

“I need to speak to Caroline in person,” repeated Eileen, not quite capable of being grief-stricken and charming at the same time.

“No,” I urged. “She's not feeling well. Give me the message and I'll pass it on to her.”

Gordon had died of his injuries on his way to the hospital.

I went in to Caro and quietly told her what had happened. Using the remote, she turned off the stereo, then sat up in bed and stared at me. “How do I know he's really dead?”

“They want you to go to the mortuary and identify him. You're the next of kin.”

Caro grabbed my hand, her eyes ablaze with startled joy. “He's really gone?”

I described the crash to her. When I got to the part about him flying through the windshield, she got out of bed and danced for joy. “God, I wish I'd seen that.”

“It was very satisfying,” I admitted.

She followed me into the kitchen. “How the hell did you arrange it?”

Before I could explain that I had arranged nothing, that Gordon had virtually committed suicide, Caro stopped me. “No, better not. If I know what you've done and don't report you, then legally I'm an accessory. It's better that I don't know anything.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“I
do
say so.” Caro started to cry. “You look after me. You're about the only fucker who ever did. And I take back what I said about not loving anyone. At this moment, I love you, Mark Madden. More than anything on earth.”

Now we were both crying.

“You killed my fat-bastard father,” continued Caro. “Tomorrow he would have gone to his solicitor and written me out of his will. Okay, you cut it a bit fine, but in the end, as always, you delivered. We're going to be rich. We'll never need to steal or claim benefits again. And it's all because of you. You are such a wonderful bastard.”

She demonstrated precisely how wonderful right there and then, on the kitchen floor. I was intoxicated by the fumes of hell. After twenty-three years of denial, I was finally owning up.
My name is Mark Madden, and I derive deep and lasting satisfaction from the deaths of people I don't like.

*   *   *

G
ORDON HAD
his faults, and he may have lived his entire life without making meaningful contact with a single human being, but at least he had made a will. By some sardonic quirk of fate, his final will was signed and witnessed in the same month in which Caro and I had become high school sweethearts. The will was a simple document, in which Gordon left everything he owned to his wife and, in the event of her death, to their only child, Caroline Rose. Eileen, his common girlfriend, hadn't even made the small print.