The Ugly Man. Part 1 of 3

Part

One

 

Prologue

He does not dream. It is the drugs, they knock him out, and each night there is just a black slab in his brain, a hole where his imagination should be. That part of him was burned away long ago. Except… when he awakes this morning there is a whiff of something, the tip of his tongue is scratchy, there is an echo of a name…

He tries to reach out for it, but it has gone. A dream? The sensation is so strange he barely recognises it. He cannot remember back to a time before the darkness, to a time when he did dream, when he could imagine anything but this ache. He sits up, his head swims. He reaches for the glass of water by his bed and takes a sip. It is disgusting. He wonders how long the glass has stood there.

In the bathroom he splashes water on to his face and brushes his teeth. His right hand trembles slightly. As he spits the white foam into the sink, he can see the whirl of blood mixed in. He runs the tap and watches it spin away. He feels his jaw, rough with many days of stubble, he should shave but there are no batteries in the razor and he keeps forgetting to buy some. There is a disposable in the back of the cupboard, but wet shaving is too difficult without a mirror. He does not keep one in the house; he hates to see his own face.

He pulls the curtains aside and looks out on a beautiful day. It is only 6 a.m. but already he can feel the heat start to build. Nausea scratches at his gullet as he thinks about what that will mean later. The stench of the blood when he kills, it will…

He needs some air. Maybe today is the perfect day to go to the graveyard.

            It is not a long walk to the cemetery but he feels unwell. His gut is gassy and uncomfortable, last night’s beer sits heavy in his stomach, like it has been cut open in the middle of the night and filled with rocks. As he walks little niggles and pains dart through his legs and hips, the price he pays for being in work. They tell him he is lucky – ha, lucky. What a joke.

            He walks through the arid landscape, the air thick and torpid, already pushing down on him like guilt. At the cemetery he swings the pack off his back and immediately can feel the sticky patch on his shirt where it had been, sweat trickles down his back. Inside the bag is a thermos of coffee, a pair of secateurs, a tin of weed killer and a small pot of lavender. He stands there, outside the gates for a few minutes, looking into the clear blue sky and preparing himself… this is hard, even after all this time. Finally he dredges up enough shreds of courage, and walks inside, making directly for her grave. His mother’s grave is there too. He has not visited that in years, in fact only once since she died – and then he spat on it. But he visits Jessica often. Today he plans to cut away any overgrowing foliage, prune the rose bush he planted five years ago and plant the little pot of lavender he has brought with him. It should scent the air all summer. He has tended her grave for almost twenty years now, it has made him closer to her. It is the least he can do as—

He sees her stone in the next row. Unlike the others, which are stippled with moss and lichen, her stone is clean and well cared for. Last time he was there, maybe a month ago, he used weed killer on the marble and scrubbed it until his calloused, leathery hands were raw. Then he had lain down on the grave, directly above where she lay, and he had cried. For her and for him, both of them long gone, leaving Mark alone. So alone. Anyone who had seen him would have been shocked, nobody would believe Mark Radix could cry and yet he could not stop. And today, will he weep again today? A part of him wants to, it is the only time he can let go of the rage and disappointment. The only time he can dislodge the dark weight in his mind and remember the happier times with…