Last Request. Liz Mistry
his glass, Sajid stood up. ‘When you’re ready to give me the full story, I’ll be here.’
‘Aw piss off, Saj. Go and get wined, dined and laid. It won’t make you any prettier, but it’ll make you better company tomorrow.’
Sajid grinned and with a wave to Gordon and Nancy, he was off.
Nikki stayed where she was, using the time to text Marcus. With everything that had gone on, she needed to touch base with him. He was looking after the kids and she should really have told him she’d be a bit later. Truth was, she was reluctant to go home. Marcus had proposed yet again and just as she’d done every other time, Nikki had refused. Why couldn’t he understand that they were fine the way they were. Their relationship worked. If they moved in together … got married … whatever, it would all go tits up. Nobody knew that better than Nikki.
When Nancy came over ten minutes later, Nikki put out the feelers about the Es. Despite its quietness tonight, when the weekend rolled round, The Mannville Arms perked up with both university and college students as well as locals. Nancy was one of the many eagle-eyed landlords that the Bradford police approached to keep their eyes open for possible dealing. The latest batch of MDMA, or Es as the kids called them, were particularly potent and Nikki wanted everyone on alert.
How many years have they been blind? The thing is, they all think they’re so smart – so damn smart – but they’re not.
Every one of them I killed deserved it. Time and again they proved that they’re not only stupid, but weak too. At first, I wanted them to prove their superior intellect – show me how they were better than me. Show me they deserved what I was denied, that it was more than just privilege. That they’d earned it through hard work and dedication. Then, I wanted them to pay for the way they’d let themselves down. Taken opportunities and then just fucked it all up. One by one, despite my best efforts they failed and at some point – maybe after the fourth or fifth – I realised that this was something in which I excelled. I’d found my forte – my calling, if you will.
I’m not inhuman though, not at all. Despite my social experiment I gave them something before the end. Some little salve as they realised what the end was going to be. Each of them got their last chance – each of them bared their soul and made their last wish. Whether their last request was ever granted though is a different matter. That’s how it is. That’s life.
The police finding the remains has made me a little anxious. Need to soothe myself. I run my hands along the shelf. Which one shall I choose? November 2003? No not that one. That one I’ll save for when I’ve got more time. No, I’ll opt for this one. With the tip of my finger I remove the DVD case and insert it in the player. I settle down with my glass of Glenmorangie on my sofa. I have half an hour. This will be enough time for Day One, more than enough.
The date is 6th March 2008.
Day One and this is the first recording.
The scene is set – a backdrop of fabric, spotlight shining across the stage. Props at the ready. Each knife sharpened – metal glistening as the light bounces over them. A single chair centre stage. A figure waits in the wings, shadowed and grim. My voice rings out over the tape. ‘Bring the captive through,’ I say. ‘Bring the captive through.’
I love listening to my voice narrating as if I am a mere bystander and not an active part of it all. Everything up until that point is enjoyable – of course it is – but it’s doing my David Attenborough bit that really makes my blood fizz. Homing in on small details, analysing the scenes – that’s what I love best. And if I’m right, this one is a particularly well-produced cinematic performance. Here we go …
We see the figure, dressed in black – oh, how spooky! Arms under the captive’s arms, he is dragged through and flopped with all due finesse onto the chair.
In this wide-angled shot, we see the figure exit stage right, returning within seconds. Rope is wrapped round the captive’s arms, legs and chest. Things are hotting up now.
Note how the captive barely reacts – no resistance. No awareness of his surroundings. No understanding of the basic premise of this experiment. His privilege sets him above us mere mortals. His sense of worth lends him an arrogance, an entitlement denied the hordes that flock here. Tonight, as on previous nights, his true worth, his true character, will be ascertained and he will ultimately get his just desserts.
Sound-over – clapping hands and gleeful chuckle.
Now to wake him up – bring him out of his stupor.
The figure slaps our captive – once … twice … three times across the face. Our captive groans, his eyes flicker – open briefly then close, keeping his audience on tenterhooks.
The figure, hooded drape trailing the floor, leaves in silence, returning within seconds carrying a bowl. With an agile twist of the hands, the bowl’s contents are thrown over the captive, eliciting a frenzied jolting movement. It has the desired effect. The ice-cold water wakes the specimen up, makes him focus and … ah – he speaks, in the bewildered tones of a baby deserted by its mama.
‘Wh – what the f …? Where am I?’
Zooming in for the close-up we can see his pupils are dilated – pulse increasing, thrashing around. We’ve got ourselves a lively one. Wonder if he’s as clever as he is lively. Time will tell. We’ll soon see. Now for the main event. Ha ha! Fingers crossed he lives up to expectation.
The figure speaks. ‘Have you earned your place here? Your position? Have you earned it? Or is it all about Daddy’s wealth – privilege – entitlement?’
Do tell. Indeed, do tell.
The captive glances round the space – sees the table and the knife. Begins to struggle against his constraints and, at last, he speaks.
‘What are you doing? Let me go. What the fuck you doing?’
The figure’s response is low but if we strain, we can hear it ‘Ascertaining your worth. I thought that was clear. That’s the purpose of this. Why should you be here with all your privilege and not Joe Bloggs from down the road in Holmewood or Tyresal.’
‘You’re fucking mad – mental. Let me go. Right now – just let me fucking go.’
Note the heightened colour on his face, the flush of rouge over his cheeks as he struggles. His fingers fisted, held tight. Observe the whitening across his knuckles. This one’s a fighter.
Let’s see if he also has a modicum of intelligence.
‘We have rules. Easy rules. Rules an imbecile can follow. I expect you to comply. Will you?’
Alas, our captive continues to struggle, displaying an abject inability to correctly analyse the situation. His head shakes rapidly from side to side; his upper body, though trapped, strains against the rope. With the sad desperation of a failing man, he makes a vain attempt to wrench his tied hands apart. In his increased state of tension, the pitch of his voice rises, higher and higher to a shriek of desperation.
‘Fuck off. Let me go. Fuck off or I’ll kill you.’
Note the figure’s placatory response – soothing, yet with the promise of a reprimand implicit in the delivery. ‘Really? That’s the most intelligent thing you can say?’
Watch closely, for things are going to pick up speed now and you don’t want to miss anything. See how the figure picks up the item from the floor. Did you notice it lying there? Never mind, it was easy to miss in the muted lighting. But wait for this bit.
As the camera