The Confessions of Paul Davis ( Part 4).

Marshall was dead. There was nothing he could do about that. But there were others. Others that knew what was going on. But did nothing.

He put that thought away. Locked it up in a box and hid it deep inside his head.

He remembered 1986.

A year of highs and lows. It started well.  He did nine before March.

Then it stopped. George was in total control of the streets. No one needed taking care of. He paid him of course, every week , handsomely, but it was never about the money. He missed his fix.

The back streets were full of Police. The homeless were being looked after, maybe, just maybe, the old bill had started to notice some kind of pattern.

He stayed in. Watched the tele. Did normal things. Fuck, it was boring. He was going stir crazy. He needed the thrill, the excitement, the rush. He even went to a local Pet shops and bought rabbits. He killed one a night, slowly. But it wasn’t the same. The buzz just wasn’t there.

In May, his prayers were answered. God smiled and gave him something. The World Cup.

He wasn’t a football fan. He had no interest in games. His sport was unique. In his specialised event he was the world champion.

The streets were suddenly filled with excited, drunk, loud, young men. All staggering home late at night after staying in a pub to watch a game live from Mexico. Those four weeks were fabulous. He did six during that time. All in different ways but the outcome was the same. He would hold them and watch them die.

It was August before George had a job for him.

He picked up his envelope and went back to the flat to have a look at his new victim.

There was hardly any information inside. Just a name and address.

Pat Dougherty and an East London postcode. He called Sean.

“I’ve got the job, but there’s fuck all information. Just a name and a postcode.

“Look Paul this job is VERY important. It’s something personal for George.”

“Okay, but give me something more to work with!”

“Pat works in a Club as a Croupier at the Plaza Casino in Holborn. Know it?”

“Yeh, just off Russell Square.”

“Pat gets picked up by a black Mercedes. Reg number MK11 9HA at 3am Monday to Friday. It goes to an address in Hackney. Follow it then do the deed.”

“Time scale?”

“Quick.”

“Okay.”

It was music to his ears. He’d been hungry since the World Cup ended in June. The last of the rabbits had gone and he was desperate to see “that look” again.

From Russell Square he could clearly see the Plaza Casino. He’d left the car back at the flat and had opted for his moped. It would be much easier to follow the Mercedes on the bike. Like clockwork the car pulled up outside the Plaza. He saw the door of the casino open and a tall slim figure get into the car. It sped away, he followed.

Fifteen minutes later it pulled up outside a block of flats in Hackney.

Pat Dougherty got out, stood still and lit a cigarette. The car drove away.

He was off the bike and up close in seconds. A hammer in his hand. He hit Pat from the side. There was a crunching noise as the hammer hit the skull, like a giant egg cracking. His victim fell sideways and stumbled. He struck again. Pat fell to the floor, blood pouring from the wounds. He wanted to look into those eyes, feel the fear, see the look of utter hopelessness as life leaves the body.

But what he saw shook him.

Eyeliner, lipstick, mascara.. He checked the hands. Long slender fingers. Manicured nails with red nail polish. Pat Dougherty was a woman.

He stood upright. His hands were shaking. He ran to the bike. Started it up and drove off.

Those images of Pat Dougherty still haunted him. He’d broken a major rule in 1986. No woman and no children.

He called Sean from the flat. His voice shakey.

“You never said, you never said. Pat Doughety was a woman.”

“Calm down. It was a one off. A favour for George.”

“I don’t do woman!”

“Sounds like you just have mate.”

“I didn’t know. Not until the last minute.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes. But It goes against my rules. I don’t do woman or kids!”

“Look, pour yourself a scotch and calm down. This job was important. Very Important. Uncle George will be very pleased. They’ll be a nice little bonus in this for you.”

He remembered slamming down the phone. Tears in his eyes. He didn’t do woman!

He liked woman. Once, when he was in care, he had to see a child Psychologist. She asked him all sorts of stupid questions and he answered them all honestly. He sneaked a look at the file she had on him. He remembered what it said. “ Paul has a strong distrust of men but a deep rooted sympathy for woman.”

He had no idea what that meant at the time. But as he grew older he wondered whether it had anything to do with his feeling sorry for his mother. A mother that he never knew. She left him on a doorstep in 1956. He was three months old.

The light through the window was getting brighter. Almost eight o'clock he thought. Not long now.