Murder Most Fab (20 page)

The
execution was to be preceded by a marathon of sexual humiliation, plus S and M
shenanigans.

I
quaked at the prospect. Talking about it like this made it horribly real and I
told Georgie I didn’t think I could do it.

‘Now
listen,’ he said, ‘This is my last wish on earth. You’re performing an act of
great kindness, don’t ever forget that. I won’t have you torturing yourself —
it’s me that wants to be tortured, after all. Get a grip — in more ways than
one, baby!’

He was
very worried that his illness might cause some sexual dysfunction so he’d been
on the Internet and ordered himself a quantity of Viagra, he told me. ‘I got a
few pairs of latex gloves too, for you, not me.’

I was
touched by his concern.

‘Well,
dear, this will be a crime scene by the time you’re finished. Remember, no
fingerprints, no naughty DNA from you, my boy, or you’ll be cursing me from
your prison cell and I don’t want that.’

Somehow
he made it sound so reasonable and I was quite comforted. After all, if he
could be so relaxed about it, surely I could too.

The date he’d set was two
weeks away. He booked me to go round on Wednesday the fifth for, as he called
it, a ‘technical rehearsal’. He would pay for my time as usual, he added.

He met
me at the door, that sunny early-autumn evening with a clipboard in his hand.
An extravagant amount of lilac was arranged throughout the house. His nasal
hair had been trimmed and he wore a little light foundation, I presumed, to
disguise his yellowing skin. He smiled excitedly.

‘You
look good,’ I said, because I felt a pang of sorrow.

Despite
his remarkable enthusiasm for the event he was planning it occurred to me only
now that, deep down, he was afraid of death. By taking matters into his own
hands (or, rather, mine) he was ‘dealing’ with it, rather as he would the
installation of a new conservatory. It would be messy, but worth it in the end
when he was basking in eternal sunlight.

‘I
think I kook drop-dead gorgeous,’ he said, then laughed a little too loudly. He
handed me three sheets of lined A4 paper, on which he’d listed things in
capital letters. ‘You must memorize all of this, then burn it before you
leave,’ he said, in a business-like tone.

I felt
as if I was meeting a secret agent on Waterloo Bridge. It was hard to believe
we were in earnest. The whole thing seemed like an elaborate charade.

‘Early
evening is a ridiculous time, I now realize. Far too cosy for what I have in
mind. Let’s make it three in the morning. This has advantages and
disadvantages. On the plus side you’re far less likely to be spotted entering
the premises but on the other hand any, er, noises we make in the course of our
endeavours may well be heard by your friend and mine, Mistress Sammy next door.
I have ascertained that he is away at a wedding on the night of the thirteenth
of September. I therefore propose that we bring our plans forward to the early
hours of next Thursday morning. What say you?’

‘Um
…‘

‘Now,’
said Georgie, going all Katherine Hepburn, as he often did, ‘our business
transaction.’

He
sashayed over to his desk in the lounge and snatched a bulging envelope from a
drawer. He cupped it in his left hand and stretched his arm towards me slowly.
There was silence between us. I knew if I accepted this mighty wad of cash I
was committed to carrying out my side of the bargain.

‘I
can’t,’ I said eventually.

‘This
is only the first half!’ he said teasingly, and walked towards me, hips
swaying. He wafted the envelope under my nose and I smelt the funky, sexy aroma
of used notes. The coppery taste caught the back of my throat like a hit of
amyl nitrate, and I felt flushed and giddy. I snatched the money and heaved a
mighty sigh.

‘Thank
you,’ said Georgie, quietly, all acting gone now.

I sat
down on the sofa and opened the envelope. I counted the money. Ten thousand
pounds in fifty-pound notes.

‘The
second payment will be waiting for you. It’s in the schedule. I’m going to add
a bonus, too.’

‘What’s
that for?’ I asked warily.

‘Dear
Bernard. Could you carry on seeing him for a few weeks after I’ve — gone, as it
were? Another death is going to be horrible for him. I’d like you to be there. A
shoulder for him to cry on.’

‘In for
a penny, in for a pound,’ I said, rather regrettably.

‘Good. Now.
A little champagne to celebrate?’

As we
chinked flutes, Georgie said, ‘A toast! To going out with a bang!’

Then we
went through his notes together. This was how they read:

THE
KILLING OF SISTER
GEORGIE

TIME:
0300 HOURS ON THURSDAY 13 SEPTEMBER

LOCATION:
THIS FLAT, 18 CASTLENAU GARDENS, BARNES, LONDON

COSTUME:
TO BE PROVIDED BY GEORGIE. OVERALLS, SHOE COVERS, LATEX GLOVES AND BALACLAVA

PROPS:
TO BE PROVIDED BY GEORGIE. TORCH, SCARVES, CLINGFILM, GAFFER TAPE, ASSORTED
FRUIT AND VEG, CLOTHES PEGS, CONDOMS, ELECTRICAL FLEX, CANDLES AND MATCHES,
CIGARETTES, LEATHER LOUIS VUITTON STRAP, MIRROR, BIN LINERS

RUNNING
ORDER

0255:
GEORGIE WILL CALL PHONE BOX ON THE CORNER TO CONFIRM THE PLAN

0300:
JD TO ENTER THROUGH THE FRENCH WINDOWS. GEORGIE TO BE IN BED AS IF ASLEEP

0302:
JD TO ENTER BEDROOM AND UNZIP FLIES

0303:
GEORGIE WAXES WITH A GASP ONLY TO HAVE A HUGE ERECT COCK SHOVED IN HIS MOUTH

And so it went on,
including a curiously amusing yet detailed list of sexual acts and fantasies,
becoming ever more sadistic and violent. The entire proceedings were to last
for one hour and forty-five minutes, but some leeway was given, as the duration
of the final, fatal strangulation with the Louis Vuitton strap could not be
accurately predicted. Ultimately even Georgie couldn’t die to a precise
schedule.

‘I
might pop off with excitement before the night, darling. Then you’ve got a nice
little windfall for nothing, haven’t you?’

I’m not
sure if it was the alcohol or the strangeness of the situation but I was in a
dream-like state. Georgie didn’t seem to notice, he chattered away, salivating
slightly at the corners of his mouth. It took me a while to notice that he was
also, clearly, sexually aroused. His hands began to press and pummel, as if he
was kneading dough in his lap. As I was paid to be there, my professionalism
soon kicked in and I pulled myself together for long enough to pull my client
together too.

Afterwards,
Georgie recovered quickly and, now sitting in his dressing-gown, picked up
where he’d left off. He snatched up his clipboard almost before his breathing
had returned to normal and read out the last few items on the timetable:

‘04.40:
CHECK GEORGIE’S PULSE AND HOLD MIRROR TO MOUTH. IF DEAD, REMOVE ORANGE AND
BLINDFOLD, ETC.

04.42:
JD TO REMOVE CONDOM, PLACE IN SEALED PLASTIC BAG. CHANGE BED SHEETS, PUT SOILED
ONES IN BIN LINER PROVIDED, AND PLACE IN HOLDALL.

LAY GEORGIE OUT ON BED
IN DIGNIFIED MANNER CLOSE EYES. RETRIEVE TEETH, COVER WITH SHEET PROVIDED. PUT
ALL CLOTHES BACK ON, INCLUDING BALACLAVA, TAKE HOLDALL, COLLECT ENVELOPE
CONTAINING REMAINING CASH AND LEAVE QUIETLY VIA FRENCH WINDOWS.’

At last, I thought, he’s
finished. But I was wrong.

‘Then
there’s the aftermath to brief you about. Obviously there’ll be a murder
investigation. I sincerely hope the police won’t want to interview you, but you
never know. Be prepared! You will have your clothes, the sheets, the condom and
all ropes, fruit and so on, in the holdall. Dispose of it as soon as you leave
here. I suggest the incinerator in Wembley. On Wednesday night go out to one of
your nightclubs before you come here. After you’ve finished, go to one of those
recovery dos you told me about under the arches in Vauxhall. Take an E and make
a spectacle of yourself. Make sure you’re seen. That’s where you were on the
night in question. Don’t act too upset. I was only a punter, after all.’

I
nodded and smiled, touched that he’d thought everything out so thoroughly, even
concerned about my alibi. He was right. If we were going to do this thing we
might as well do it brilliantly. Georgie was being extraordinarily detailed,
but at the same time he was invigorated by the planning and scheming. I started
to play my part and think things out as seriously as the man planning his own
departure.

I said,
‘There’s your semen to worry about. Don’t come on me whatever you do.’

‘I’ve
already thought of that. By my calculations I should be face down at the point
of orgasm. You will be very much on top, and thus free from any possible
transfer of seminal fluid. As for faecal matter, I’m booked in for an enema
that evening so no worries there either.’

‘Lovely.
Georgie, you’ve thought of everything.’

‘I
believe I have. My last piece of theatre — and this time I’m the director.’ Georgie
stood up and that was my cue to leave. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ he
said. ‘We must do it again some time.’

I stood
up, too, and shook his hand. It seemed appropriate to say something
significant, but what? ‘Until Thursday morning, then?’ I said, awkwardly.

‘Counting
the hours!’ said Georgie.

I must take responsibility
for my own actions, of course, but Catherine and I discussed the plan to kill Georgie
in great detail and without her encouragement — or, rather, insistence — I
doubt I would have gone through with it.

‘We
must see this job as a military operation,’ she coached me. ‘You’re a soldier
following strict orders. Focus on making your benefactor’s dream come true.

‘I
will,’ I vowed.

‘Georgie’s
happiness is in our hands,’ Catherine reminded me. ‘I know you can do it.’

And she
would reach for our silver heart and get me some ‘medicine’ to help me stay
firm.

I still couldn’t quite
believe that it was going to happen. But as the date neared, it seemed no one
was backing down.

In
retrospect, I blame ambition for blinding me to the reality of my actions. The
jockey who dopes his horse desires to win the race at all costs. He is wrong to
do it, of course, but the dream of glory, the need to be the very best, is what
drives him to it. So it was with me. I simply wanted to be the best
fantasy-fulfiller the world had ever known. If that meant strangling my client,
so be it. The circumstances were unusual, but the rules of the contract were
simple: he asks me, I say yes. Could I be held responsible? Was I really a
murderer? After all, anyone who kills someone else in cold blood must be
unhinged in some way. Was I treading the path to madness? I didn’t think so. I
wanted to make Georgie happy, that was all. It didn’t mean I was a sociopath,
someone who experiences little or no empathy — on the contrary, my empathy was
fully engaged with Georgie’s most heartfelt desire. I didn’t feel sorry for
planning the end of his life because I was fulfilling his dearest wish. We
don’t have to share those desires or understand them, but neither can we
dismiss them as unworthy of our consideration. I was in the business of
granting people’s wishes, not saying, ‘No, I couldn’t possibly!’

I
suppose there is the fact that I was paid handsomely for the deed, and without
that fee, I would probably never have done as Georgie asked. But I’m not Jimmy Savile
granting wishes, or one of the Sisters of Charity, and I never claimed to be.

But
don’t allow the fact that I benefited from these circumstances to lead you
astray in your assessment of my mental health, and don’t condemn me as nothing
more than a cold-hearted killer. There was so much more to it than that.

It was the night of Georgie’s
murder.