Catharsis (Working Title)

John sat bolt upright. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains,
he had once again left open all night, and was boring into his skull.
He looked at the clothes he had discarded in a pile by the side of the
bed before he had somehow managed to squeeze himself between the duvet
and the mattress. The bed stank, as did John, he knew he should have
changed the linen over a week ago, but somehow he just couldn't manage
to summon up the energy. The bed had been his bed, and his bed alone
for almost three years. There really didn't seem much point in cleaning
and smelling good when the only person who was going to see or smell
you was yourself.
He lay in the bed, motionless, hoping that if he refused to move he
could somehow convince himself that he hadn't woken up and he would
then fall back into the arms of sleep, the only thing that caressed him
these days. It was no good, he felt a watering sensation in his mouth.
He tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away, but then all too
familiarly his stomach muscles began to contract and he had to make a
mad dash for the bathroom.

John's fat and sweaty body moved remarkably quickly along the landing
and into the bathroom. Unfortunately, the contents of his stomach moved
faster and decided to exit his body via his mouth about five feet
before reaching the toilet bowl. As he threw his head toward the bowl
the full force of the uninvited bodily function took full affect with
great ferocity. John could feel water splashing back on his face a
split second after the vomit had hit the base of it's receptacle. John
retched four times. For some reason it was always four times. It had
taken him all night to consume far too much alcohol and a kebab, yet it
left his body in under a minute. He knew that returning to bed would be
fruitless. He knew that the second wave would hit him within two
minutes. He flushed the toilet, wiped around the bowl and then sat and
looked at the garish yellowish orange spots that he just distributed on
his bathroom carpet. He sat and wondered if there was any point in
trying to wipe them off. Past experience had told him that this was a
pointless exercise. The more he tried to remove them, the more they
managed to cling tightly to the carpet. Then they would mutate into a
form of bleach, leaving white spots as if they were saying "this is my
carpet and I claim it in the name of all bodily excreta".

He sat and stared at the carpet feeling incredibly sorry for himself,
feeling sorry for the lonely existence he had created. Then as a form
of penance for being so self pitying the next wave would arrive. This
experience was always far worse than the first. The first expulsion of
the contents of his stomach always came as a relief. It was as if
poison had been removed from his body, as if he had been purged of the
sins of debauchery he had committed the night before. The stream of
vomit flowed easily from his stomach into the toilet bowl. This second
wave was far more unpleasant. Rather than serving as a form of
catharsis, it was if he was being punished. The vomit struggled to
leave his stomach, it tried to cling to his oesophagus with long spiny
fingers with nails like razors, it would set fire to the back of his
mouth and then coat his teeth in an acid with threatened to rot them in
an instant. And when it finally did emerge it came in the form of a
putrid yellow liquid that tried to make a bridge between the water,
which lives in the bottom of the toilet, and his tongue. There were
always three excruciatingly painful retches that would leave him
feeling drained as if every part of him had been sucked out by some
Victorian surgical slimming device.

He would then sit on the toilet. Despite not having looked in a mirror
he knew his eyes would look as if someone had taken a piece of
sandpaper to them. His body felt clammy, his brow bathed in sweat.
Stuck to his feet were tiny pieces of toilet paper that populated his
bathroom floor. He had often wondered where they had come from. They
had never been in existence when Julie had shared the bathroom, and
indeed, the whole house with him. He decided that it was one of those
mysteries that he would never solve and began to make his way back to
the bedroom and to his bed, the place where he felt most secure.

His short journey was an eventful one. First he stood in a spot of
vomit, that had decided that it wanted it's liberty some where else
other than down the lavatory. He stopped and considered wiping his foot
and then he reasoned that the carpet needed cleaning any way and that
the bed linen needed washing so it wouldn't make too much difference.
He was then confronted by a full-length mirror at the end of the
landing. He paused and looked at his naked body. He was sickened by the
rolls of fat which seemed to dominate his frame. Despite having managed
to accumulate this excess baggage over a period of three years it still
seemed alien to him. He looked at his enlarged face and bulging eyes.
Once again he felt sorry for himself and began to seek reasons as to
why this could possibly have happened. His reasoning did not, of
course, have him and his lifestyle as the perpetrator of the crimes to
his physique. It was the fault of: his work, his lack of any social
stimulation and, of course, the fault of Julie.

Julie had been gone for three years yet he couldn't get her out of his
mind. It had been his decision to end the relationship. He had felt
that Julie was holding him back. He had wanted to be a husband, a
father, an equal member in his social circle. She had wanted to pursue
a career, to go out clubbing and to have a good time. How dare she want
these things? They were not what he had wanted and how dare she want
something different from him?

He sneered at the mirror and returned to his safe haven, his bed. As he
pulled the duvet over himself and wrapped it all around him so as to
feel as if in a cocoon, totally safe and utterly protected, his
thoughts once again returned to Julie and a time when the bed wasn't
quite so big and empty. Slowly he found himself drifting into sleep,
into a world where nobody could hurt him.

* * * *

The cyclist wove his way through the dense wood at the back of the
school. He ducked under low hanging branches and steered the front
wheel carefully around the ruts formed by those who had taken this
journey before him. He was skilled in this and was moving at speed. He
felt the excitement and the nervousness welling up inside him. He knew
that he had to take great care. One slip one lack of concentration and
he would be caught out. In his mind he ran through the arrangements he
had made.

He knew she would be waiting in the computer room. She was after all
totally predictable. Even the slightest glimmer of attention would get
her interest. But this was more than a glimmer. She was besotted by
Matthew Jackson and had been since the day she arrived at the school.
She had spent every waking moment thinking about him. The cyclist knew
this and this was how he had trapped her. He had written a note from
Jackson to her saying that they should meet, that morning in the
computer room. She couldn't resist it. She would be there. The cyclist
believed that she and Jackson were sleeping together but he had no
proof of this. He despised every bone in her body and now she was going
to find out just how much he hated her. He stopped at the edge of the
woods and surveyed the school in front of him.

Like most school buildings parts of it were older than others. The new
block, built ten years ago, looked like angry red scar stretching away
down to his right. It housed all the new, trendy subjects and all the
new trendy teachers. No thought had been given to the aesthetics of the
building just it's functionality. It was an ugly sprawling lump of
corridors and classrooms that enabled ease of movement and a myriad of
hiding places for truants and smokers. The old building sat
majestically across the courtyard. It had increased in size over the
years but it had managed to maintain it's dignity. The old stone seemed
to fit the surroundings. The high doorways and ceilings allowed both
the building and it's occupants room to breathe. It seemed much more
sedate and restful, it didn't try to hurry. It had been here for
hundreds of years and it had no intention of disappearing in a hurry.
The cyclist sat on the seat of his bike and gravity drew him down into
the school. He disappeared behind the new building as the caretaker's
car drew up to the gates.

Ronny had been caretaker at the school for five years. He was an odd
character who kept himself to himself. Everybody called him Ronny,
nobody knew his true name. His surname was McDonald. A child had
latched on to this in his first weeks at the school so he became Ronald
McDonald after the fast food chain mascot. He quite like the anonymity
and so decided not to correct it. Everybody from the head teacher to
the lowliest pupil called him Ronny, so Ronny he became.

Ronny quite liked the early shift. He could open up the school without
interference from pupils or staff. He would try every morning to have
every door unlocked before he saw another person. It was a pathetic
little challenge and he knew it but it was becoming something of a
compulsion. He had devised the quickest possible route. He would begin
by opening up the new building. He would start at the top doors moving
through the Design and Technology rooms, past the Computer Rooms and
the Drama Studio, he would open up the library and then on to the Art
and Textile rooms, open up the Media Studies Lab, the Music Suite, the
Language rooms and down to the Science Labs and finally he would open
up the P.E. Department before going over to the old building and
working his way up from Maths, through Humanities and into the English
Department. He would end up by his room. He would make a cup of tea,
light a cigarette and sit down for ten minutes before going back to
check on the toilets and the offices. His fastest time had been thirty
seven minutes but he was sure that he could get down below thirty five
minutes if he could work out a more effective way through the labyrinth
which was the Science department. He had discovered a pile of books
which blocking a door. They were pupils' books and the most recent date
he had noticed was some eight years earlier. He had complained to the
Head of Science that this was a fire hazard and hoped that this morning
they will have been removed. This will mean that he will not have to
double back on himself saving, he hoped, two minutes. He stood at the
top door checked his watch and swiftly unlocked it. The cyclist waited
for two minutes and, sure that he was gone, followed him inside the
building.

The cyclist had a good view of the computer rooms from the gantry that
led down from Design Technology. He could see the rooms and yet could
not be seen himself. He saw her arrive and his heart leapt in his
chest. Her face repulsed him. She was no classic beauty. She had tried
to make the most of her lack of good looks. She had liberally applied
make-up to her poor skin, which was blotchy and discoloured. Her face
appeared too short for the rest of her diminutive frame. It was if she
had as a child spent time resting her chin in a vice and then had
applied pressure. Her hair was short. Manageable many women would have
called it. Man-like would be more apt. It seemed to dislike her also.
It grew in every direction possible and did not want to be controlled.
In the middle of her freckled face sat a pair of spectacles which she
would continually stab back into place. Her mouth pouted like a spoilt
child that stamped it's feet and cried until it got it's own way.
Moving down her body (an activity the cyclist baulked at) he noticed
she was wearing a low cut sweater. Her skin from her neckline to her
cleavage was covered in liver spots and she would insist upon
scratching, bringing on a rash. Her ill-fitting jumper was bright pink.
She saw this as vivacious and daring. Friends may have told her that it
was a mistake to have such a bright colour next to her incredibly pale,
translucent skin. It somehow made the liver spots stand out more. She
should really have been discouraged from wearing that jumper. Below the
jumper, that had all the lumps and bumps in the wrong places, she wore
a black short skirt. It was supposed to be alluring. The unfortunate
woman was too wide in the hips and too short in the leg to get away
with this. Her legs were pink and blotchy, ripples of cellulite were
beginning to form on the inside of her thighs. Her ensemble was
finished off with a pair of sensible navy blue shoes, comfortable to
work in for the day, but ridiculous with respect to everything else she
wore. And there she stood fumbling with key. Excited, apprehensive and
as ugly as sin. The cyclist looked at her once again as she managed to
turn the key in the lock and thought to himself "It's like putting a
lame animal out of it's misery. I'll be doing her a favour by killing
her." She went in to the room and closed the door behind her. The
cyclist walked down the short staircase, gripped the handle and slowly
he turned it.

As he entered the room she stood with her back toward the door. "She's
trying to look sexy" the cyclist thought to himself. She continued to
look out of the small windows on the opposite side of the room. He
moved toward her. He placed his hand on her hip. She sighed and turned
her head slightly. She was obviously getting pleasure. She saw the
cyclist out of the corner of her eye and turned quickly toward him. Her
lips parted she was going to say something but the cyclist had already
plunged the chisel deep into her chest. He was sure that this was
enough to kill her but he wasn't going to take any chances. As she fell
to the floor he rained blows down upon her. She did not move. He
checked his watch. He had ten minutes before Jackson would arrive. He
removed the pink sweater which was now soaked in blood and placed it
next to the body. He lifted up her skirt. This part really bothered him
and he had deliberated over it for days. He had eventually decided that
to make it look like a sex crime would make it look less like he had
been the perpetrator. He took a pair of school scissors, wrapped in a
plastic bag, out of his pocket and he cut her knickers off. He then saw
the chisel lying on the floor beside the body. He picked it up and
stabbed her in the chest. His hands were covered in blood. He removed
his gloves and placed them in the bag he had taken the scissors from
and put on a clean pair. He looked around the room. Looked at the body
lying on the floor. With a sense of relief he left the room. He checked
the corridor, it was empty, he made his way back to his bike and cycled
off into the woods.

Ronny was on course for breaking his record. By freeing up that door he
had saved himself almost two minutes. As he walked across the courtyard
to the old building he saw a cyclist disappearing into the woods. He
thought little of it, he had a record to break.