The Killer Inside Read Online Free PDF Page B

late at night and waiting while Alan Barber relieves himself through a fence which has a four-year-old girl on the other side.
    ‘What can I get you, (Insignificant Friend)? The usual?’ Alan asks.
    His friend nods and sits down.
    Alan Barber orders a Disaronno with orange and ice for his friend and a Plymouth and tonic for himself. He lays a ten-pound note on the bar and excuses himself to go to the lavatory while the barmaid completes the order.
    At the furthest urinal, facing the corner at an angle, an older, more portly gentleman leans with his left hand against the tiled wall, his right hand by his zip, whistling. Alan Barber never sees his face.
    This is unfortunate because, unlike Alan, he is important.
    He is significant.
    He is capable of murder.
    Alan Barber is so drunk that later, when the police question him, he will not be able to recall this seemingly arbitrary encounter. At first.
    Though he does not need to clear his throat, Alan coughs as he approaches the urinal furthest to the right, thus alerting the other patron to his existence.
    ‘When you get to my age, you have to whistle sometimes just to get things moving,’ the faceless killer jokes, masking himself from view, fixing his eyes on his flaccid, unused dick.
    Alan Barber grunts an acknowledgement towards his left then stares down into the bowl, looking at the yellow cakes, which smell of bleach, piss and lemon. He does not avert his eyes even when the notable character to his left finishes, walks behind him, washes his hands and leaves.
    When he returns to the bar, his friend is sitting with a girl. He has bought her a drink with the ten-pound note that Alan trustingly left, and there is now nothing in the way of change.
    ‘Hey, Alan’ – his friend stands up from his stool – ‘this is (a female name Alan Barber instantly forgets).’ He does remember that they went into the cold, empty beer garden after closing time and that she sat on the bench, unzipped his jeans and performed an impressive oral dance on him, complete with humming interludes. He omits this portion of the night from his original testimony, too. He doesn’t mention that he walked away, unable to ejaculate.
    Leaving the Edinboro Castle pub, Alan Barber and his friend, who has been waiting patiently at the end of Delancey Street, stumble around the perimeter of Regent’sPark until they spot a young girl walking on her own and, in their inebriated state, think it will be hilarious to follow her for a while.
    Stop.
    It’s not her.
    She’s not the one who dies.
    Part of the way into the park, Alan Barber decides to stop pursuing the woman. He needs to empty the gin from his bladder. He knows there is a toilet nearby on one side of the small coffee shop, which is closed.
    This is the point where his life gained some meaning. Some clarity.
    He jogs on from his friend, turns right at the bush, which was suggested as an adequate urinal, then turns left up the path to the brick building partially covered by the undergrowth.
    The lights are on but it is locked. Alan Barber pushes and pulls at the door in frustration before being overtaken by a state of urgency. He pulls at his trousers violently before poking his penis between two of the iron bars of the fence, which runs around the ground to the right of the building.
    Dropping his head backwards, he looks up at the sky and naturally arches his back enough to change the trajectory of his open-air urination. It hits a muddy slope and begins to splash against something flat. He looks to see what it is.
    Toes.
    Pale, white, tiny, delicate toes.
    Instead of pulling back or stopping or jumping over the fence, he continues to empty his bladder, circling around the exposed digits, revealing the outer arch, part of the ankle.
    He screams the name of his friend.
    Still, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t react. Adrenalin does not force him to vault the fence and take a closer look or dig through the mud with his hands. He becomes a grotesque