I found this scribbled in an old notebook, one I’d obviously kept to record the rambling thoughts that came into my mind in the middle of the night. I did this for many years and only stopped after the publication of my third novel when I thought, ‘that’s enough writing now, time to do something else’ and we went back on the road, travelling. That was in 2012.
Even though the vast majority of the things I write down never make it into print, this one did, in one of the novels I wrote a fair few years later when I finally gave writing another chance.
When I write about violent characters, I write from experience. I came across many men to whom violence was second nature. Here’s that brief snippet dating back thirteen years.The main character has been incarcerated in a secure mental hospital for many years. His records state him to be without conscience, violent and extremely dangerous. Assessed as ‘not responsible for his actions,’ he’s a clear menace to society, but there may be more to him than meets the eye. What that is, I haven’t decided yet. Here’s a taste of where this one is going. He still doesn’t have a name and it’s written in the First Person, for now. This is deliberate.
My mind drifted. The city at night awaited my attention. Waiting for darkness had become second nature. In the secure unit it was always light. I hadn’t minded the deprivation of liberty – I had memories enough – but the absence of darkness was torture.
The sounds, the smells of a city at night; they were life itself. I could recall them at will. A pounding sea, a work of art, a sunlit meadow; they paled into insignificance against the sounds; the smells of what I’d experienced and would taste again very soon. A dying breath, the fearful gasp of a woman as I entered her, the drip of blood on a tiled floor, the sudden snap of a breaking bone, these marked moments of rapture. Pleasures denied to others were commonplace. Where was the challenge in a sexual act freely granted? What could compare with watching the light of a life flicker and die while I lay face to face with one of my treasures?
Prison had been distasteful. The absence of intellect amongst both inmates and those who sought to confine me had been painful. The secure unit, presided over by doctors, intelligent men within their limitations, had been an improvement and the reduced levels of security had allowed greater scope for adding to my score. Killing had been unsatisfactory in its brevity, but I’d not been in any position to dictate the outcome.
Now, all restrictions were removed. I was free. They’d be looking for me, wouldn’t ever stop looking, but I’d made plans. They wouldn’t look here. Why should they? I wouldn’t be here unless the man I’d come to see didn’t possess something I needed to ensure my safety.
A shadow detached from the wall of the tower block, became a teenage youth. Black, hooded, low slung jeans, a surly expression on his face he was a mirror image of so many I’d seen and discarded. Scarcely worthy of a glance under normal circumstances, yet here, in his home territory and charged with the task of providing security, he evidently thought himself important.
I looked at him, fixed his gaze, and stared him down. Puffed up with bravado he may have been, but he’d be no threat and we both knew it. I’ve been told I have a threatening aspect. I can’t see it myself.
I looked at the twitching body on the floor, fingers clawing at his throat, and was unable to remember how he’d arrived there. Doctor Hughes had made a study of this aspect of my personality: the ability to strike without warning and without conscious thought. He’d thought it remarkable, had intended to write a paper on the subject, right up until the day he’d lost his sight and the use of an arm. I’d found it amusing, kept on laughing even as the warders swarmed over me, hitting out with their sticks.
It had been a moment to treasure, well worth the broken clavicle I sustained, yet until the instant I’d leapt across the desk I’d never even considered harming Doctor Hughes. He’d treated me fairly, never been confrontational – I liked him. We got on well, had many shared interests, and discussed world events without rancour.
The moment, when it occurred, had surprised both of us. That’s what I’d found so amusing: the prospect for sudden excitement, even under conditions of maximum security was always present.
My life may be many things, but nobody would ever call it boring.
Gulliver Smith 