Page 3 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’
‘But you don’t even know what—’
‘I’ve got to work.’
‘That’s not a problem. I’ll wait for you.’
‘My shift doesn’t finish till nine.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘No, that’s too late. Anyway, I’ll be exhausted and stinking of frying oil.’ Tugging at a greasy black hair in front of my eyes, I look at it and wonder if I had a shower before going to bed last night. I can’t recollect taking one. All I remember is an insipid microwave dinner, collapsing on to the sofa like a sack of flour and watchingE.T. the Extra-Terrestrialbecause I wanted to cry as a release, out of emotion for once, rather than pain. ‘Another time, okay?’ On the monitor, I see, to my relief, another car turn into the drive-in lane behind Jakob. ‘Now you have to place an order or move on.’
I hear him mutter something unintelligible, then he drives past the serving window– speedily and without glancing in my direction. I close my eyes briefly and take a deep breath. Pressing the button on the headset as well as my inner one, I smile and say, ‘Happy Christmas and welcome to Big Murphy’s Burgers and Fries. How can I help you?’
Do you remember. . . ?
22 December 2014, Christmas three years ago.
What’s wrong with our tree?
It’s plastic, Ann.
It’s a tradition, Dad. We’ve had this tree ever since I can remember.
That’s even worse.
What now?
I know a place in Blumenthal woods. . .
Are you going to chop one down? You’re joking, Dad. With an axe?
No, I’m going to gnaw at the trunk until I’ve bitten it all the way through. Of course with an axe!
Do you remember when you tried to put my trampoline up? You drilled into your finger.
Did I end up sorting out the trampoline?
Did we end up in A&E?
Come on, my Beetle. Where I’m going to take you is a wonderful place. And we’ll have a proper Christmas tree like normal people do.
When have we ever wanted to be like other people? Quite apart from the fact that you can’t just go marching into the woods and take down any tree you like. Imagine if everyone did that!
We’ll just be careful not to get caught.
You’re crazy.
And you’re my daughter, so welcome to the club!
And that’s precisely what we were, wasn’t it, Dad? A really exclusive club, just the two of us, ready to confront the rest of the world if necessary. You comforted me whenever I cried about Mum. Left me to it when I hated her and wished she were in hell. You plaited my hair and told me goodnight stories. You told me about womanhood, gave me tea for my cramps and chocolate when I was ravenous. You covered for me when, heartbroken for the first time, I scratched Nico’s 125cc because he’d been fooling around with my best friend Eva.
His mother came knocking at our door.
‘Are you trying to tell me my daughter did that?’ you said to her. ‘Never!’
‘But I saw her with my own eyes yesterday evening. Hanging around in our street. And the damage was there this morning. Do you know how long Nico saved up for it?’
