The Confessions of Paul Davis ( Part 3).

He raised his head from the blood-stained pillow and listened. The shuffling noise began to fade. They’d moved on. He closed his eyes and remembered. Jack and Frank Carroll.

A huge grin appeared on his face as he pictured Jack’s face in those final moments.

Jack Carroll was queer. Not everyone knew it, only those close to him. George knew it and put some details in the envelope. There was no rush for this job.  George made it clear that he just wanted it done within a month.

Chariots Roman Spa sauna was close to Shoreditch in East London. Jack visited every Thursday afternoon. His driver waited in the car park outside. Jack was well known there and had his favourites. This afternoon was different. There was a new guy there. Tall, dark, fit and muscular. He kept looking at Jack and then made his way to one of the private steam rooms. Jack followed.

It was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction as the steam was so thick. Jack felt a caressing hand on his shoulder. He turned round to face his new admirer. As he did so he felt a sharp stinging sensation in his side. It was a long thin butcher’s boning knife. Slid into the flesh just under the ribs and pushed hard upwards. He fell backwards against the wall, all the while his eyes staring in disbelief at his executioner.

God, he loved that look in Jacks eyes.

He took his time, knowing that no one would want to interrupt Jack in the steam room. He dried himself, dressed and left the sauna. He walked the short distance to a pub in Hoxton. This was where Frank Carroll spent his Thursdays. He was sitting at the bar with another man just by the entrance to the toilets. They took no notice of the stranger who walked in and ordered a small lager. He counted the number of people in the pub. Nine including two bar staff. Apart from Frank and his companion none of the others would be any bother. He knew he had to be quick. Quick was something he was very good at.

He stood up and walked towards the toilet, the knife ready in his right hand tucked away in the pocket of his long coat. Both men had their backs to him. Frank turned his head slightly to look at him as he passed. The knife entered his neck in the side and went in and out hard and fast. He stabbed the other man in the chest. Frank was on the floor gasping for breath. He watched him closely as he thrust the knife in again three times. The other man had already stopped breathing. It was all over in seconds. He calmly stood up and left the pub by the main entrance. Leaving a state of confusion behind him. Some of the drinkers hadn’t even seen what had happened. No one stopped him. He kept walking and eventually caught a bus that took him to Holborn. From there he got a cab to Brixton and then a train to Croydon. Confident he had covered his tracks. He called Sean.

“Job done.”

“Who?”

“Both.”

“Kidding me?”

“No both done. In the past hour.”

“Okay, I’ll let George know. Go home. I’ll be in touch.”

He went back to his flat in Highgate and poured himself a large scotch. He felt good, alive, he’d taken three lives and seen them all fade away. The phone rang. It was Sean.

“George is well pleased but thinks you should get a bit of sun for a while. Don’t pack, just get your passport and go to Gatwick. You’re booked on a flight to Spain tonight. Stay there until I call you. There may be a bit of heat over the brother’s slaughter!”

He spent three months in Spain at a villa owned by one of George’s business associates. He was given plenty of money to spend and lived like a king while he was there.

The papers back in England were full of “The Gangland Killings”, but no one suspected George Kelly. He wasn’t a gangster, just a good old Irish businessman. The main suspects were a rival gang from South London. The Police were also looking for two killers, not one, as they thought it impossible for one man to have done the two in such a short space of time.

Yep, 1984 had been a great year.

The light through the window was slowly getting brighter. Maybe six thirty he thought. A time of the morning that he had bad memories of.

It was the time he had to be at Mister Marshall’s room and sort out his “morning glory” for him. Mister Marshall was in charge of the children’s home where he stayed for three years.

It was the smell he most remembered. His room stunk of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. He was eleven years old. Mister Marshall said that if he “helped “him with something each morning he would get extra food rations. At first he said no. But when it came to meal times he found himself being given extra lessons, locked in a small room by himself. He went without food for four days. Eventually he gave in and went to see Mister Marshall.

“Ahh boy, good you’ve come to your senses. You need to be at my room each morning at half past six. You can tell the time, can’t you boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Don’t ever be late or you’ll have those extra lessons again!”

“Yes sir.”

The next morning it began. He just got on with it. Sometimes it took longer than others but no more than a few minutes. He didn’t think about it. It was just a job that he had to do to survive.

When he left the home. He made himself a promise. One day he would go back and help Mister Marshall take his last breath. But someone beat him to it. He died of a heart attack in 1971. He often wondered if that was the cause of his addiction, his lust. Maybe they were all Mister Marshall?