THE MAN NOBODY KNOWS
a novel by
Philip Gillett

Chapter 1

27th March 1977. All events need to be recorded as soon as possible after they happen. If you do not do this, memory causes distortions and you no longer have a reliable account. This is something which you soon learn in insurance.
I want to provide an accurate account of what has happened. It will be a unique record of my achievements. People will realise that I am not a murderer, as some sensation-seeking newspapers have suggested. Such reports have caused me much distress. Journalists and their editors should exercise self-restraint. If they are not willing to do so, then the government should impose stricter controls over them.
This is my room. It is a perfectly ordinary rented room. Some people assume that because a room is not furnished in the latest style and has not been looked after, it has to be dirty. This is not true, as a cursory examination will testify. The square of carpet is worn, but there is not a stain left. I spent a day on my hands and knees applying a special carpet cleaner. You can see your reflection in the lino around the edge. That gets polished every Saturday. The sink unit is scrubbed with bleach every day and I squirt bleach down the overflow which is a breeding ground for germs. Not many people bother to do that.
Everything is in order. This is a matter of some pride to me. Owning things is no use if you cannot find them. I can lay my hands on anything with my eyes closed. This is a common boast, but I put it into practice as a way of ensuring that everything is in its proper place. The moment when I close my eyes is like preparing to jump from a diving board. It is like being about to launch yourself into the unknown. You fear what comes, yet it excites you. Once your eyes are closed, the world is an alien place. Distances are difficult to judge. The first time I tried, I banged into a chair and bruised my left shin. Now I am more careful. I reach out before taking each step in the way that insects do. Locating something hard is fairly easy, but the same cannot be said of trying to identify an article of clothing in a drawer. Sometimes I smile when I open my eyes to discover that what I thought was a sock is really a tie. The trouble is that turning things over while my eyes are closed can create disorder. After the last occasion, I had to spend twenty minutes ensuring that everything was put back properly.
I have lived in Hornsey for two years. Although I like the neighbourhood, it is not conveniently situated for the office. On first moving here, I tried using the railway line from Hornsey, but that necessitated a long bus journey from Old Street Station to the office. I considered the possibility of travelling by underground, but the prospect of pushing into an already crowded train each morning put me off. I dislike such close contact with other people. The other factor which dissuaded me is the distance to the underground station. There is no direct bus service and the walk to Highgate Station takes fourteen minutes, which is a daunting prospect in bad weather. Added to this, leaving for the station in time to ensure I was not late for work would entail missing the eight o'clock news. This I am reluctant to do. I like to keep up with what is happening in the world. 
To my surprise, the bus has proved the most efficient way of getting to work. The service can be erratic and buses are sometimes delayed, but there is a stop at the end of the road and I rarely have to wait more than five minutes. If I leave home after hearing the main points of the news, I know that I will arrive in the office by nine o'clock unless there is some exceptional delay to traffic such as a fire or a burst water main. The bus takes me almost to the office door.
The rent for this room is reasonable at forty-five pounds a week, excluding electricity. With one exception, the other residents of the house are fairly quiet. This is something which I appreciate. It is easy to take a room in a house which seems pleasant during the day when everybody is out, only to discover that your fellow occupants have rows, play music loudly or come home late at night without showing the slightest consideration for other residents. I speak from experience. At one house where I lived, the music and the noise from televisions continued until four o'clock in the morning and not just at weekends. Nothing was done in spite of numerous complaints to the landlord and to the environmental health department of the local council, so I was forced to look for other accommodation. Since then I have been particularly careful in choosing accommodation, insisting that I visit the property during the evening when the other tenants are home. Here people do play radios and televisions, but as there is no excessive noise after half past ten at night, I think that is acceptable.
Having always preferred my own company, I see little of my fellow residents. I know their names because it falls to me to sort the post in the morning. The postman comes shortly before I leave for work. All the post is pushed through the letterbox in one batch, with an elastic band around it if there is a sizeable amount.  I separate the post for each tenant. Unfortunately there is no shelf or table in the hall, so I have to leave the letters in batches ranged along the floor by the skirting. Here they are unlikely to be disturbed accidentally. If the postman is late and I do not have the opportunity to sort the post, nobody else bothers. People take their own letters and leave the rest in a heap on the mat for me to sort when I get home. What I find annoying is when somebody moves without leaving a forwarding address. Letters would lie in the hall for months if I did not return them to the Post Office marked `not known at this address'. Nobody else would bother. When I moved here, there was a pile of unopened letters in the hall, some of which dated back two months.
Let me describe the other tenants briefly. Mr Hopkins has the room across the hall from me. He is elderly and almost housebound. A home help visits him every day and the meals-on-wheels service brings him his food. Why he has not been put in a home, I cannot understand. He is rather deaf, so he turns up his television excessively loudly. However as he goes to bed by ten, the noise is not too intrusive. Sometimes I hear him shuffling to the toilet at the back of the house, banging his stick with every step. Four or five times I have encountered him in the hall. Each time he is wearing slippers, pyjamas and a dressing-gown pitted with cigarette burns and stained with food. I do not think he ever gets properly dressed. He has the sour smell of someone who does not wash regularly. We never speak as we pass, though to be polite I nod to acknowledge his presence. There is stubble on his chin, as though he has not shaved for days, Food is streaked around his mouth. Even if he is housebound, he could still pay attention to his personal appearance. To the best of my knowledge, he never has a shower. There is a shower in the downstairs bathroom, so he has no excuse for neglecting his personal hygiene. Apart from the health risks of somebody like that living in the house, I am concerned about the fire hazard of allowing an invalid to smoke. Working in insurance makes me aware of this. If he burns his clothes, then he can easily set his bedclothes alight. I wrote to the landlord pointing this out, but I was not afforded the courtesy of a reply.
The room behind mine is occupied by a Chinese girl. As the hygiene problems associated with Chinese restaurants are well known, at first I was wary about having her as a neighbour. However my qualms have proved groundless. She has proved a model tenant and from what I have seen of the way she cleans the shower after using it, I cannot fault her cleanliness. I have seen her carrying textbooks and files of notes to the library, so I think she is a student. A lot of students live in this area.
Once the Chinese girl knocked on my door. There are so many dubious characters about these days that I am reluctant to open my door to anybody even though the front door to the house is kept locked, but I did respond on this occasion, in spite of my qualms. She wanted to borrow a pound coin for the electricity meter. I provided her with one as a neighbourly gesture and to show her that I am not tainted by racial prejudice. Normally I do not approve of lending money, but as she slipped an envelope containing the amount owed under my door the next day, there was no problem on this occasion. She is short in stature, which I believe is common for people of her race. Another Chinese girl has visited her on several occasions. They talk in high-pitched voices and laugh a lot. As they speak their own language, I do not understand what they are saying. I listen to her singsong voice when she telephones her friends. Although I have no wish to overhear private telephone conversations, I cannot avoid doing so as the telephone is situated outside my door. This causes me continual problems. I do not regard it as my responsibility to answer the telephone; nor do I like having to knock on other people's doors to tell them that somebody wants to speak to them. Some callers can be exceedingly inconsiderate in expecting me to take messages when tenants are out. Now I do not answer the telephone however long it rings. It is annoying to have the ringing go on and on, but doing nothing is the only way to stop people from taking me for granted.
The fourth room on the ground floor was empty when the events of last November took place. Given the shortage of accommodation in London, this state of affairs never prevails for long. What puzzles me is why tenants only stay there a short time. I suspect that something is wrong with the room, though having never been in there, I cannot be certain. Possibly there is some dampness, or noise from the adjacent house. One tenant only stayed three weeks. We encountered each other once. He was an untidy man in his twenties with the appearance of a manual worker. I did not talk to him.
The room at the rear of the ground floor was the kitchen in the days when the house belonged to one family. The original stone sink is still there. The former larder is kept locked and is used as a store for cleaning materials. A woman comes twice a week to clean communal areas. It is my contention that they should be cleaned every day, but regrettably that does not happen in spite of my appeals to the landlord. The kitchen is divided by a flimsy plasterboard partition and houses a toilet and a shower. I make a point of cleaning the shower before and after using it. Public washing facilities are notorious breeding grounds for such conditions as athlete's foot. Each night I examine my toes for any sign of infection. Fortunately my precautions have proved successful so far.
Before leaving the tenants, I wish to mention those on the upper floor. The room above mine is occupied by Mrs Leary. She is in her early thirties and blonde, though her hair looks dyed. She always wears heavy make-up which makes her look cheap. As she lives alone, I assume that she is either divorced or widowed. She is quite friendly, nodding when we meet in the hall. Once we met in the launderette. We smiled, but we did not speak. I do not encourage conversation. She is out every evening until late, as I know to my cost: quite often she wakes me when she comes in. From a comment I overheard when she was on the telephone, I suspect that she works in a bar or restaurant. I am afraid that I cannot regard this as a proper job. It is the sort of work favoured by those shiftless people who are such a feature of London. I encounter them when they are employed as temporary staff at the office. A large number are Australians who only stay in the country a few months. Others are British people who cannot hold down a permanent job. Temporary staff care little about their work because they have no sense of commitment. My line manager, Mr Wiggins, once confided that they create work rather reduce the workload. If he had his way, he would do without them. I agree with him.
Steve Jenkins has the other front room upstairs. He is the disruptive element I referred to earlier. He works as a courier, which means that he carries documents around London on his motorcycle. His normal mode of dress is a black leather suit covered in transfers, many of which are unseemly. On those few occasions when I have seen him without his leather jacket and trousers, he was wearing clothes which can only be described as filthy: jeans covered in oil and a tee-shirt which has never seen an iron. He does not have Mr Hopkins' excuse of being housebound. The fact is that Steve Jenkins does not bother about his appearance. Another thing I do not like about him is that he always has a cigarette in his mouth. He leaves home before me in the morning and the smell of tobacco in the hall catches my throat when I open my door ten minutes later. Smoking is a filthy habit. It should be banned in all public places. 
Steve Jenkins' motorcycle is kept in the back yard. Apart for the noise when he starts it in the morning, what I dislike is the filth he leaves behind when he carries out repairs. I do not care what his room is like and I must concede that the back garden is a wilderness of weeds which encourages people to dump rubbish there, but there is no excuse for oil stains on the concrete or greasy newspapers left blowing over the garden instead of being put in a dustbin. Once a bowl of oil was left on the ground for weeks until it got knocked over by cats. I have complained in writing to the landlord, but nothing has been done. This does not surprise me. Absentee landlords are notorious for not attending to their properties, whatever their legal or moral obligations.
One back room upstairs is occupied by a man of about my own age whose name is Derek Gaines. I know little about him. Sometimes I see him ahead of me when I am coming home from work. His clothes are clean, if rather casual. This leads me to conclude that he works in an office, albeit one where standards of dress do not matter too much. I walk slowly when I see him ahead of me, so that he reaches the house first. This avoids having to engage him in conversation. As he is always listening to his walkman, it is unlikely that he notices me. Although I do not approve of such machines, they are preferable to the large radios some youths carry. These are turned up to deafening volumes which can be heard from the other end of the street. Sometimes you wonder whether the purpose is to annoy passers-by. The police seem powerless to do anything.
Before coming to the final occupant of the house, I should like to say something about the bathroom. As I have already stated, there is a shower cubicle and a toilet on the ground floor. The bathroom is on the upper floor, over the kitchen. It comprises a turquoise green suite of bath, toilet and washbasin. When I first moved here, one glance at the bath put me off using it. Indeed, had there not been a separate shower cubicle, I should never have taken the room. Such is the state of the bath that no amount of cleaning would help. It is made of plastic which has been permanently scratched by an ill-judged attempt at removing the stains. How anybody could use it is beyond my comprehension. Some months ago I wrote a letter of complaint to the local environmental health department. As well as drawing attention to the condition of the bath, I proposed a registration scheme for houses with shared facilities. Although I received an acknowledgement, nothing was done.
A student named Emma Price moved into the other upstairs room last summer. Occasionally I had the good fortune to glimpse her when she was shopping at weekends. I say good fortune because her presence made me feel joyous. I do not know whether that was because she was attractive or because of her manner. Once I walked home behind her. That occasion is vivid in my memory. What fascinated me was the way her hair bounced with each step as though it had a life of its own. I thought that was something which only happened in advertisements. It had a glossy brown sheen which showed that she was very clean in her habits. Her clothes gave the same impression. They were worn but spotless. To imagine her using the filthy bathroom was impossible. I decided that she must have used the downstairs shower, though I never saw going there. My hope was that we should bump into each other in the launderette. She was somebody I should willingly have talked to. She was a gentle person. You only had to see her to know that. Killing her was something I deeply regretted.
The first killing was four months ago. I have heard it said that the first love is like no other and always stays in the memory; the same is true of the first killing. I must make it clear that I do not regard what happened as murder. It was an unfortunate accident. Nor do I regret it. I feel that what I did helped to make the world a better place for decent people. There are too many vagrants on our streets.
To explain more fully, I must give some detail of my normal routine. Until recent events, my evenings were devoted to study. I am taking a correspondence course leading to associate membership of the Chartered Insurance Institute. The course is demanding although I find it very interesting. When tiredness prevents me from working, I listen to the radio instead. This is my favourite form of relaxation. In these days of television, the many excellent programmes on the radio are neglected. Among these I include documentaries and dramas, but not the continuous streams of pop music put out by some stations. I never listen to those. What I used to enjoy was the Saturday evening play on Radio Four. I used to lie on my bed and listen with the light turned off. Unfortunately this pleasure was denied to me when the play was moved to Saturday afternoon.
Approximately once every three or four months, the heavy workload at the office makes it necessary for me to work late. When this happens, I do not get home until seven or eight o'clock. Although I do not like this, the procedure was explained to me when I was interviewed for the post and I accepted the job on those terms. Unfortunately the day when I worked late in November coincided with a bus strike. Had I known of the strike in the morning, I should have deferred the overtime. I am sure Mr Wiggins would have been agreeable given the exceptional circumstances. As buses were withdrawn without notice, I did not discover anything was amiss until I tried to get home at seven o'clock. I had been waiting at the bus stop for twenty minutes when a taxi driver leaned out of his cab to tell me that no buses were running. This left me wondering whether to hire his taxi, but as I did not altogether believe him, I simply thanked him and continued waiting. It was noticeable that there were no buses on the streets and as I subsequently ascertained from a passerby, the taxi driver was telling the truth. This left me in a quandary. After careful consideration I decided that my best course was to walk to Kings Cross in the hope of boarding a Northern Line train. I must repeat that I dislike being out in London at night because of the high level of violence on our streets. When circumstances such as overtime compel me to be out late, I keep to well-frequented places and travel by bus as much as possible in preference to walking.
The Piccadilly Line station at Russell Square is on the way to Kings Cross, so I went there in the hope of saving myself the additional walk. The gates across the station entrance were closed. A small crowd was reading a message chalked on a blackboard. The lightning strike had closed the underground system as well as halting bus services. The onlookers were understandably annoyed. Their frustration was something which I shared. I deplore the tendency of groups of workers to go on strike at the slightest pretext and for their fellow workers to come out in sympathy. I have never been involved in a strike and I should never contemplate joining a union.
Had I been thinking rationally, I should have walked up Woburn Place to Euston. Because I was anxious to get home as quickly as possible, I abandoned my customary policy of keeping to the main roads. Instead I cut through the side streets to Kings Cross. I call them side streets, but they are still quite busy at half past seven in the evening. This surprised me. Possibly the activity was the consequence of having university buildings and several hospitals in the vicinity. Neither students nor nurses have regular hours as my experience in lodgings has taught me. This is understandable for nurses, who have to work shifts, though I have less sympathy for students. Judging from what I hear of the Chinese girl in the next room, the nearest students come to having a routine is getting up late. 
The area north of Russell Square is not a district I know well, as it is some way from the office. To give an example, there is a large shopping centre opposite the station. Before the evening in question I was unaware of its existence. Beyond the university buildings are more shops including a small supermarket. I should imagine that on a sunny day when students and nurses throng the grassy square, the area is quite pleasant. Judd Street is a busy road. Beyond it, the neighbourhood changes abruptly. The university buildings and shopping parades give way to grim, red-bricked tenements. This is an area to be avoided at night. It is badly lit, not well frequented and there are many dark corners where muggers can hide. I walked more quickly, regretting my decision to stray from the main road. With hindsight, a better course would have been to walk up Judd Street to St Pancras station. The tenements are like barracks, with poorly-lit iron balconies around the upper floors. At night, huge pools of darkness separate the blocks. The residents must be marooned in their homes as soon as the sun goes down. No law-abiding person would wish to venture outside. It was with relief that I passed the last of these blocks. In my haste to reach Kings Cross, I paid no heed to the girl standing on the corner until she spoke. I looked around, thinking that she was talking to somebody behind me, but nobody else was there. She was talking to me.
'Do you want to come with me, love?' she repeated, looking straight at me. When I told her that she was mistaking me for somebody else, her manner changed abruptly. Her smile disappeared and she swore at me. I had never heard a woman use such language and I do not doubt that my shock was visible. The only course of action open to me was to walk quickly away. I headed towards Kings Cross station which was visible at the end of the street. At first I did not take in my surroundings. When I did, the sight filled me with such horror and disgust that my steps faltered. I had strayed into a street thronged with women who were obviously prostitutes. They stood outside the small hotels lining either side and they were obviously waiting for clients. At least I had the presence of mind to avoid them by walking down the centre of the road as fast as I could, staring straight ahead. Though I may have looked silly, that did not concern me. When a taxi hooted behind me, I was so scared that I must have jumped. The women were laughing and calling out to me. To let the taxi pass, I had to move nearer the cars parked along the kerb. This brought me closer to the women. The sight of their grinning faces illuminated in the colours of flashing neon signs will stay with me for ever. If I was religious, I should have thought I was in hell. Their heavy make-up made them look like creatures from a nightmare. It is no exaggeration to say that I felt I was trapped in a cage of wild animals. The fur coats which some of them wore may have brought this image to mind. They carried shiny plastic cases in gaudy colours, like the cases children use to take packed lunches to school. When one woman stepped in front of me and spoke to me, I dodged around her and continued walking.
Though it is a short road, the nightmare seemed to last for hours. My customary composure was gone. However deeply I breathed, I still could not get enough air in my lungs. I was sweating in spite of the cold. The only thing which kept me going was the reassuring sight of Kings Cross Station, floodlit on the other side of Euston Road. As I came close, I rejoiced that my ordeal was behind me. How anybody could consort with women like that is beyond my comprehension. The most alarming aspect of what happened is that any unsuspecting citizen might stray into that street and be subjected to the same ordeal. If there had been a policeman in sight, I should have complained at such a flagrant abuse of the law.
The lightning bus strikes meant there was a long queue for taxis at the station. Not surprisingly, my state of mind was thoroughly disordered, so that I had trouble making any rational decision. For some minutes I stood on the station forecourt trying to regain my composure. All buses were off the streets, no underground trains running and no taxis were available. What I should have done was to make my way to Old Street from where British Rail trains might have been running to Hornsey, but I was too shaken by my experience to think of this obvious course. Instead I decided to walk to the Caledonian Road from where a minicab might be available. Normally I should not contemplate using minicab. Their charges are excessive and the lack of an effective licensing system makes it impossible to be sure that the vehicles are in roadworthy condition or that the drivers are competent. When faced with an emergency, I had to put such qualms behind me. My course of action determined, I left the station forecourt, crossing York Way to walk the short distance along Pentonville Road to the junction with the Caledonian Road. The sight which confronted me in Pentonville Road made me halt in my tracks. Tramps with bottles in their hands were accosting passers-by for money, while their companions who were too drunk to move were slumped on the pavement. It was a scene worthy of Dickens. How the authorities can allow such things to take place in this day and age is beyond my comprehension. Any stranger coming to London for the first time must gain a poor impression of the city when scenes like this take place outside an important terminus. The ready availability of alcohol in supermarkets and corner shops is the cause of the problem. If I had my way, licensing laws would be considerably tightened to reduce drunkenness and tramps should not be allowed to buy wine.
The circumstances required a quick decision on my part. Not wishing to push my way past the tramps and risk harassment, I turned north into York Way with the intention of taking one of the side turnings to the Caledonian Road. I did this with hesitation, York Way being poorly lit and not well frequented at the best of times. Buses are normally parked there, but with the strike the street was empty except for a few parked cars. My apprehension increased as I walked further from the crowded forecourt of Kings Cross. It was with relief that I turned into a side street and saw the lights of the Caledonian Road ahead of me.
When I think of what happened next, conflicting emotions still threaten to overcome me. This is an area of old warehouses, many of which are derelict. They must be a breeding ground for vermin. There should be a law passed so that such places are swept away rather than being left empty for years. I have heard it said that there are more rats than people in London, but I do not know whether this is true.
A movement in the doorway of a warehouse made me catch my breath. My instinctive reaction was to abandon my dignity and run towards the lights of the busy street ahead, but the figure who materialised from the darkness clung to me. I realised at this point that it was a girl who had accosted me and that she could be no more than nineteen or twenty. The unsavoury smell of someone who does not wash regularly made me wrinkle my nostrils. Her raincoat was far too large for her, so that as she touched me, only her knuckles were visible beyond her sleeves. She was imploring me to give her money. Her grip was surprisingly strong for one so slight.
The ensuing events are still not clear in my mind, though I have gone over them again and again. My sole intention was to make her release me. To this end I pushed her against the wall so that I could lever my arm free. My elbow was brought against her neck. By then I was accustomed to the gloom, so I could see her face. Her eyes were bulging. At a moment when I might have expected to be paralysed with fear, a rush of excitement passed through me. The power of life or death over a girl was in my hands and to my surprise the sensation was pleasurable. It resembled nothing I had ever felt before. It was like a beautiful rocket exploding in my mind. As I pressed against her neck, the experience grew more intense.
When she went limp, I knew that she was dead. The excitement died then. There was such peace on her face. I looked down on her tenderly. The tiny figure slumped against the wall in a shabby raincoat could have been a doll. She was beautiful with all her anxieties taken away. I looked on her tenderly. It was the first time that I had seen a dead person.
If anybody saw me then, they would have realised from my expression that something wonderful had happened. I knew what people meant by walking tall. Fortunately a sense of calmness came over me.  With unusual clarity I saw that this was the supreme test of controlling my emotions. I walked home, keeping to the side streets wherever possible and crossing the road when I saw anybody coming. By this means, nobody could see my face except from a distance. I was the man that nobody knew.
The journey took over an hour and was far further than I was accustomed to walking. In spite of this, I felt no tiredness. I could have walked all night. Everything was unreal. The shabby terraces of Holloway became magical, like toys. The only comparable experience was on a childhood holiday, when my father took me to a model village at dusk to watch lights glowing in the tiny houses. As I walked homewards, I had the sense of straying onto a film set. I felt that I had only to look behind the frontages of the houses to discover that they were made of hardboard and plaster. Even the familiar streets near my home were different, as though until then their true character was hidden from me. I must confess that my hands were trembling as I tried to insert the key in the front door lock. Even from outside I could hear Mr Hopkins' television. Though this would normally have annoyed me, the noise hid the sound of the front door opening. In the hall there was enough illumination from outside for me to avoid switching on the light. The sound of a television tuned to a different channel came from the room belonging to the Chinese girl. A light showed under her door. I paused to smile in the darkness. The calmness was still with me. I felt like a spider, motionless in the centre of its web. Nobody knew that I was there. Around me people were living mundane lives, unaware of my newfound power. I was going to let them stay ignorant.
So quietly did I open the door to my room that the Chinese girl next door could not have heard. Even such familiar surroundings looked different in my heightened state. I sat on the bed, marvelling at how a new chapter had opened in my life. I did not sleep at all that night. 
The elation stayed with me the following day. On the journey to work I expected everybody in the bus to be talking about what happened, but nobody mentioned it. I consoled myself with the thought that they had not yet heard. My stomach grew tight as the bus approached the lower end of the Caledonian Road. The street where the incident occurred was crowded with police cars. Several passengers turned to look. One was asking what had happened. I wanted to tell them I was responsible for the excitement, but of course that was out of the question. At the office, I made a point of behaving normally. None of my colleagues mentioned the death. Their lack of interest disappointed me. Though it was not my habit to buy newspapers, on such a special occasion I made an exception. At lunchtime I purchased a copy of the Evening Standard. It is strange how things which may be important to you mean little to the rest of the world. The report of the death occupied one paragraph on an inside page. It was described as a murder, which was obviously incorrect. The girl was named as Eileen Maguire. She had come from Ireland six months earlier. No mention was made of drugs, though I suspect this was where her money went. There could be no other explanation why she was reduced to begging. She was homeless, which came as no surprise me from what I saw of her appearance. Drug-takers are notorious for neglecting themselves, though they still expect taxpayers to meet the bill when they have to go to a hospital.
Slovenly habits are not confined to drug-takers, alas. On buses it is only too noticeable when people do not wash. If I tried to explain to them the offence they cause, I should get sworn at in return. The only course is to put up with the smell. Sometimes it is so bad that I have to hold my breath until I can move away. Usually you can tell the people to avoid by the state of their clothes. The men's shirts have a greyness which shows a lack of regular washing. If they wear raincoats, these have shiny black marks around the collar and cuffs. Whenever I board a bus, I look for these telltale signs. If I see them, I make a point of staying well away from the man concerned even if this means standing for ten minutes when there is an empty seat next to him. Bus conductors should exercise their authority by not letting such people on board, but regrettably this does not happen. There is no excuse for not washing. Every morning I take a shower, in spite of my aversion to using shared facilities. In winter I am often shivering with cold, but that does not deter me. I make sure that I have a ten pence piece to go in the meter every morning. The excessive electricity charges imposed by our landlord for the use of the shower are a particular annoyance. Such exploitation is rampant in rented property with metered gas and electricity. I have written to my Member of Parliament on the matter. His reply which came after a considerable lapse of time informed me that as fuel prices in these circumstances were already controlled, he could take no further action. I did not this was helpful.
On the subject of hygiene, I might say that I make a point of wearing a clean shirt every day, which is a practice other people could emulate to advantage. Lack of access to a washing machine is no excuse for not changing your clothes regularly. If you live in a rented room as I do where facilities for washing clothes are nonexistent, you can still make use of a launderette. Every Saturday morning I go there, though unlike some users I do not put my clothes in a washing machine and then go off to do the shopping. I prefer to keep a watchful eye on my clothes. Unfortunately, sitting in a launderette for any length of time makes it difficult to avoid the sort of people who insist on talking to you. I take a book and pretend to be reading that. Another thing which I dislike is people seeing my clothes being washed, but this is a small price to pay for cleanliness. It is fortunate that modern fabrics need little or no ironing. Although I am no follower of fashion, I recognise the advantages of polyester and cotton mixtures for such items as shirts.
Mr Hopkins' clothes are never washed. Their appearance and smell make that clear. I considered offering to take them to the launderette, but I did not want to put his clothes in the same machine as mine. Nor should I care to handle other people's soiled clothes. I can only repeat that people like Mr Hopkins should be put in homes where they can be properly looked after.
By the time I got home that evening, I felt let down by the lack of interest which everybody had shown. I cut out the report in the newspaper, though at the time I had no plan in mind. I think I was looking for a way to recapture the excitement. There is nothing to compare with the first death. Perhaps that is because it was unpremeditated. I let the events run through my mind like a film, savouring the pleasurable moments. Something so wonderful should not be consigned to memory. Doreen's death was the most important thing in my life. Looking back, it is unbelievable how such strong emotions could have lain dormant for so long. All profound experiences must have a similar effect. You are a changed person because of them and you cannot go back.
Much is heard about criminals being traced from such insignificant clues as scrapings of dust under their fingernails or threads of clothing caught on branches or nails. I took what steps I could to safeguard myself. On the morning following the accident, I arose an hour earlier than usual, giving myself time to subject both my nails and the soles of my shoes to a thorough scrubbing. I wish to make clear that under normal circumstances my fingernails are kept scrupulously clean, but on this occasion I took more than usual care as a precaution against leaving any incriminating evidence. I do not normally scrub the soles of my shoes unless I have trodden in something not very nice. My raincoat presented more of a problem. I considered disposing of it in case any threads had adhered to Doreen, but after much thought I rejected this idea. There is no fireplace in my room, so burning anything bulky like a coat is out of the question even assuming that it would burn easily. One alternative was to leave it in a litter bin. This idea was also discarded. The risk of the coat being found was too great. Another possibility was to take it to a dry cleaners. My hesitation was because the police might have alerted them if a few incriminating threads from the coat had caught against something at the scene of the accident. Much against my will therefore, as the label specifically stated `dry clean only', I washed the raincoat thoroughly several times in my sink, hanging it from the picture rail to dry. This left a wet mark on the wall and a pool of water on the floor, though I only discovered these when I returned in the evening. Finding water everywhere is most upsetting. I was also concerned that the rainproofing qualities of the coat might be affected. My hope was that after a few weeks I could have it properly cleaned and reproofed. Items such as my suit and raincoat are normally dry-cleaned twice a year, or more frequently if they get dirty. You only have to be walking near a blocked drain as a bus goes by to be splashed with muddy water. When that happens, I have my raincoat cleaned and reproofed immediately.
Doreen's death was on a Wednesday evening. Those next two days of concealing my feelings from my colleagues at work were especially difficult, though since then I have come to enjoy pretending that I am ordinary. I am proud of my secret. That initial desire to boast of what I had done is out of character as I have never been reliant on other people's opinions. It did make me appreciate why the confessional is so important in the Roman Catholic church. I might add that I am not a Catholic. 
I smile when I think of my reputation at the office. People consider me to be dull. I am not `with it' as they say, not that anybody would tell me so to my face in normal circumstances. Only once did a working colleague let his true feelings show. That was last summer. Peter Sullivan, whose desk was next to mine, was writing a personal letter in business hours. His behaviour did not surprise me. He showed scant interest in his work, always arriving a few minutes late in the morning, taking five minutes longer than he should for his lunch and spending an excessive amount of time away from his desk. When he slipped the private letter in an office envelope and put it with the office post for franking, he was only doing what I expected. Had he just used office stationery, I might have had a quiet word with him and left it at that. Using the office franking facilities was the last straw. I had no option but to report the matter to Mr Wiggins. Later, when Mr Wiggins was out of the office, Peter Sullivan came across to me. He stood over my desk in a menacing fashion. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. I shall not repeat his exact words - such language is crude and unnecessary - but amongst other things he said that I was a goody-goody living in another age. I considered his anger to be unjustified as he was in the wrong. I did my best to ignore him. That is the safest course of action on such occasions.
It was at school where I learned that the wisdom of not responding. People goad you more when they know their taunts have hit home. While I always remain polite, I make no effort to know my fellow workers socially or to join in their chicha. I prefer keeping myself to myself. In my view there is far too much gossip during office hours. I am proud of belonging to another age if that means getting on with the job.
Another thing which amuses my fellow workers is my refusal to follow fashion. Fashion is a gimmick designed to sell more clothes, though many people do not realise that. The clothes are shoddily made because all that matters is their appearance. They are not intended to last more that a few months. Buy good clothes and they pay for themselves in the long run. Fortunately there is a good outfitter in Hornsey. I shop there on Saturdays if I need clothes. In my three years in London, all I have needed to buy are a few pairs of socks and some items of underwear, which proves my point that good clothes should last for years. As long as I look clean and smart, I do not care what people think. I only wish some of the fashion-conscious people at work would consider what is appropriate clothing for an insurance office. One man comes to the office wearing trainers, jeans and a denim jacket. While nothing is said, he will go on wearing what he likes. If we have a hot summer, I should not be surprised to see people like Peter Sullivan coming to work in Bermuda shorts.
I had no intention of killing Doreen Maguire, as I have made clear. There was a chain of unfortunate circumstances. If she had not insisted on talking to me and then grasping my arm, I should have gone out my way to avoid her. There is a case for saying that I should have summoned an ambulance, but then I might have been accused of causing her death which was clearly accidental. Looking back, I feel that I took the right course of action. There is no necessity for me to feel guilt. It might be said that I performed a public service by ridding the streets of a vagrant. London is becoming overwhelmed with people who have no work and nowhere to live. They constitute a hazard both to law and order and to public health. You see them begging on the streets. Passers-by encourage their behaviour by giving them money. They have made such places as the subway at Tottenham Court Road Station squalid with their mattresses, bags and boxes. What I cannot understand is why the police take no action. I feel sure that such people could find work if they really wanted, but they prefer a life of drinking and drug-taking at the taxpayers' expense. If social security benefits were withdrawn, they would disappear from our streets overnight. 
In the days following the death, I dreaded coming home to find a policeman waiting to question me. Although I was innocent and only too willing to cooperate with the police, some of my actions might be misinterpreted by a zealous officer. Fortunately my fears proved groundless. After the first week, no further reference to the death appeared in the local press. What I could not know was whether the police were making any progress in their investigations.
Two potential risks existed over which I had no control. First there were fingerprints. I felt safe on this score. Since I was wearing gloves when the accident happened, there was no possibility of my fingerprints being found at the scene. Doreen had touched my raincoat, but it had been subjected to such a thorough scrubbing that I did not think any fingerprint could remain. The second risk was more serious. Had I been seen in the vicinity of the accident? I went over events again and again to be clear in my mind. As I have remarked, York Way is poorly lit and at night it is not well frequented. In the side street, I was confident that nobody saw me with the girl. A car overtook me as I turned back into York Way after the event, but my face would not have been visible unless the driver or a passenger happened to look back. I walked along York Way as far as Copenhagen Road. The few cars which passed me were travelling fast and by then I was making a point of turning my face away from them as they approached. Boys were playing football outside a block of council flats, but they paid no attention to me. I doubt if they could give the police an accurate description. More people saw me as I walked through Islington and Holloway, but by then the risk was lower. A man was walking a dog near my home, but there was no reason for him to pay attention to me. I reasoned that if anybody had seen me near the scene of the death, the police would have issued a description. The chances of my secret being discovered were small and would continue to diminish. Keeping the scrapbook was a risk which I considered to be worth taking. Events only seem real when you have a record of them. Maintaining the scrapbook has given me pleasure in a way which was unexpected. I came to enjoy being the shadowy person who dominated the newspaper reports. Nobody could describe me with any accuracy. I was like a goblin, wreaking havoc yet always invisible.
One difficulty which sounds trifling but which came to assume considerable importance was what to do with the discarded pages of newspapers. This is the sort of problem you do not consider until you embark on such an enterprise, but the pages have to be disposed of carefully if nobody is to notice which pieces are cut out. The method I evolved was to tear them into thin strips which I screwed into balls. These I put in waste bins near the office during my lunch hour. There must be a shredder at the office, but I have never seen it.
I kept the scrapbook up to date from the beginning. I told myself that it would only be found if the police searched my room thoroughly. Even now I can hardly bring myself to destroy it. Ideally it should be concealed under a floorboard. As this is impracticable, I devoted considerable effort to finding a suitable hiding place. Eventually I taped the scrapbook under my wardrobe, which is so heavy that nobody is likely to disturb it. I cannot even move it to clean underneath.
The Saturday following the accident is vivid in my memory. It is strange how days when nothing noteworthy happens can still be recalled months or even years after, simply because of your mood at the time. My usual Saturday afternoon occupation was to pursue my studies, having done my laundry and my shopping in the morning. On this occasion, such was my agitation that I no longer wished to stay in my room. Instead I went for a walk to a nearby park. It is small and can hardly be called scenic, particularly in November, though I am sure it serves a useful function for local householders. Being hilly gives it some character. Between the trees and bushes are steps and steeply-sloping paths leading to a fenced-off children's playground in a dell. Beside the playground is a circle of concrete which might originally have served as a skating rink. This is where youths with bicycles congregate, intent no doubt on causing vandalism. No children were in the playground on that cold November day, though the youths were hanging about as usual. I walked past without glancing at them. They paid no attention to me. Several were smoking, though they could not have been more than fifteen. Women were playing basketball in the nearby courts. Such activities have never appealed to me. Not only do I dislike team games, but I have unfortunate memories of them from my schooldays. I recall shivering on a football field in winter because I was forced to wear clothing which was totally inadequate for such weather. On that Saturday I paused to watch the basketball match, but not for too long in case the women were offended. Some of them must have been in their thirties, which I found surprising. Such games are normally associated with younger people.
It must be said that I enjoyed being out of the house and walking in the weak November sunshine. So long as I kept moving and interested myself in my surroundings, my apprehension could be put to one side. For this reason I went to Archway Road instead of returning home. This is a major route to the North. The heavy traffic makes everything dusty. Not many people go there purposely. The pavements are narrow and the shops old-fashioned. Some are empty and look as if they have been abandoned for years. The reason for my visit was to browse in the secondhand bookshops of which there are several. I do not buy books except textbooks for my course and they are new. Out-of-date legal information would be useless. When you live in a rented room, you do not want to accumulate too many possessions, but browsing is something I have come to enjoy since coming to London. I like looking for books which I read in my childhood. 
The atmosphere in secondhand bookshops is intriguing. The narrow gangways between the bookcases have bare floorboards. Unshaded light bulbs hang overhead. The bookcases rise high above your head. You use steps to reach the top shelves. There is a dry smell of paper. The oldest books have brown spots on the paper and finely-drawn engravings instead of photographs. Many are on religious topics. Nothing can have changed since the shops were opened. The huge bookcases muffle traffic sounds. You are cut off from the everyday world. It is easy to spend hours browsing, but nobody gets asked to leave and the proprietors seem unconcerned whether or not you buy anything.
Once I saw a girl in one of the bookshops. She wore a dark green duffle coat of the type which is popular with students. As she squatted to select a book from the bottom shelf, her tights were stretched over her knees. I could see the white skin through the coarse black fabric. Her coat was pulled around her body. I followed the curve of her body again and again with my eyes. As she shifted position, strands of dark hair fell away from her shoulders to hang around her face. At intervals she smoothed them back with an unconscious movement, not looking up from her book. On one occasion her hand remained poised against her hair as though she had forgotten it. With her hair pulled back, the curve of her jaw was exposed. It looked so finely sculptured. Her skin was pale. I tried to see her face more clearly. When she cleared her throat, I thought she was going to speak to me. That made me alarmed. I tried to think of a suitable comment about books, but I need not have worried as she never spoke to me. Soon afterwards she glanced up and saw that I was looking. She had beautiful grey eyes. I thought she was like a goddess. I had to turn away quickly. Unfortunately I never saw her again.
One or two shops along Archway Road are brightly painted. They have been turned into trendy restaurants. The vogue for eating in restaurants is not something which appeals to me. Although I have to eat out during my lunch hour at work, I should not contemplate going out to eat in the evening which is the only time when many of these places open. I consider their prices to be excessive and hygiene in many restaurants leaves much to be desired.
After looking around the bookshops, I walked beyond Highgate station as far as Queen's Wood. I had not been there before, so I thought I would see what it was like. It is surprising that a wood should remain intact so close to the centre of London. I expect the people living nearby have helped to preserve it. The houses on the far side are expensive and detached. Large houses with well-stocked gardens are particularly vulnerable to burglary as I have cause to know from my work. I noted with approval that most of those around Queen's Wood had burglar alarms.
Though walking those unfamiliar roads was pleasant, I could not stay long with the November days drawing in so quickly. By four o'clock I was back home feeling more relaxed after my physical exertion. In the twilight I lay on my bed listening to the radio. I did not pull the curtains. The strange thing was that I could feel Doreen Maguire close to me, talking to me. Her tone was so gentle that I felt like a child being soothed by its mother. This sounds ridiculous, but I cannot explain it in any other way. She was thanking me for releasing her from a life which was squalid and arduous. There was no regret in her voice and no suggestion of blame. She understood what had happened and she was glad of the pleasure it brought me. Life in London had been a sore disappointment to her as I know it is for many people who arrive with no money, no job and no qualifications. For the first time I felt I knew her as a person. I knew her hopes and her feelings. When at last I pulled the curtains and put on the lights, I felt at ease.

Chapter 2

For a week after the accident, I bought an evening paper each lunchtime. No further reference was made to Doreen Maguire. This increased my sense of security, for if the police had a description of me, they would surely not have waited so long to publish it. My one regret was that the paper did not give more details about Doreen. I should have liked to know more about her.
The initial euphoria died, of course. That saddened me. I did not want such intense emotions consigned to memory. Here was my dilemma: recapturing those feelings without being implicated in another death. Whatever happened, my life could not resume its previous course. Sometimes I longed for the stability which was lost to me. Experience was no help in dealing with this problem. Nor was I used to being prey to strong emotions. I am not conceited enough to think that nobody experienced them before me, but I should like to know how other people cope.
For two weeks the dilemma preoccupied me as I travelled to work or lay in bed at night. I might add that my sleep was disrupted. This is unusual because normally I sleep well unless Mrs Leary wakes me when she comes home from work. It can truly be said that I had to reexamine my life which until then was entirely fulfilling. Though not a high-flyer, I am not without ambition. When I entered the world of insurance, I had every intention of rising to a senior position. My studies for an insurance qualification provide evidence of this. For me, studying was not simply a matter of doing the set work, though some of my colleagues do no more than the minimum. My aim was to get the best possible marks for every paper. Now this new cornerstone of my life was taken away. I continued with my studies, but they no longer held my attention. On one occasion I even asked myself why I was bothering. Such a thought would have been unheard of a few weeks earlier.
When I tried to read, my thoughts kept drifting to Doreen. On the Saturday two weeks after the accident, my restlessness was such that I went to the cinema rather than staying in my room. This is most unusual for me. Indeed, I had not visited a cinema since my schooldays when I used to go in the holidays. Such unfamiliarity meant that I knew nothing about the latest films. I chose a cinema in Camden because it is easily accessible by bus from my home. The area is not one I visit often, but I recalled seeing a cinema near the underground station when I was going to Camden Lock Market. All I can say is that films have changed considerably since my schooldays if what I saw is typical. Filth like that will not bring family audiences back to the cinema. I have no inclination to go again. In fact I was tempted to ask for my money back. Apart from being in French, the film had no story at all. It was no more than an excuse for nudity. For a film like that to be shown indicates how standards have declined, not that you have to go to the cinema to be aware of this. On buses I regularly hear schoolgirls swearing. The state of the streets is another sign of what is happening. People discard sweet wrappers, cans and fast food containers unthinkingly, as well as allowing their dogs foul the pavements. More seriously, muggings and burglaries are commonplace, yet nothing seems to be done. In my opinion, excessive reliance on the welfare state has taken away all sense of individual responsibility. Parents do not bother to control their children. The children who were playing in York Way on the night of the accident are a good example: some of them were no older than ten. They should not have been out that late. Schools are more concerned with free expression than trying to instil discipline. Whatever the faults of my school, at least the teachers insisted upon being shown proper respect. These days children swear at teachers. 
Perhaps I was expecting too much from my visit to the cinema. I had hoped that it would take me out of myself, but when I stepped onto the pavement again, my dilemma remained. My determination to recapture the ecstasy was as great as ever, but there seemed no way of achieving it. Ironically the solution came to me a few days later when I was not looking for it: I should find a girlfriend. After all, this  is how other people find personal fulfilment. With such a relationship, my life would be enriched immeasurably. Study would assume a less important part of my life, but I should enjoy permanent happiness.
If one problem was solved, a host of new difficulties were created. I had no experience of finding a girlfriend, nor much knowledge of how to set about getting one. There are girls at all grades in the office, but the prospect of asking one of them to go out with me was something I could not bring myself to do. Apart from the difficulty of asking, I did not want to make myself the subject of office gossip. Such talk is familiar to me. When my male colleagues should be working, they often chat about their dates or the girls they would like to take out. Some admit quite openly that they stay in discotheques until two in the morning. How they can do this and then expect to work efficiently the next morning is beyond me. At weekends it is their business what they do, but weekdays are a different matter. Certainly I have never been to a discotheque and I have no intention of doing so. It is not the sort of place where I should feel at ease. Drinking, dancing and listening to loud music do not appeal to me. Nor should I be interested in the sort of girl who likes these activities. However distasteful the prospect, the only way I could think of to find a girlfriend was to advertise. I had heard of lonely hearts columns as they are called, but I never thought that I should be using one. It was essential, of course, that matters be conducted with the utmost confidentiality. I had no wish for people at the office to know my affairs. To avoid any possibility of this, in my lunch hour I walked to a large newsagents at the far end of Kingsway and well away from the office to find a suitable magazine. I did not enjoy looking through such material with other people around me seeing what I was doing. Eventually I selected a magazine called Time Out. At the cash desk, I insisted that it should be put in a bag so that when I returned to the office, nobody would see it.
Time Out is a well-known publication which I have seen on bookstalls, though this was the first time that I had bought it. I could have read it on the bus going home, but I did not want other passengers knowing my business. Instead I waited until I was alone in my room. In the shop there had only been time to skim through the pages. Looking at the contents in detail proved a revelation. Apart from the lonely hearts column, there were items about life in London and details of what films were showing in every cinema in London. The film I had seen was reviewed, though I cannot agree with the praise which was heaped on it. More disturbing was the fact that the magazine seemed written for people with left-wing political views. It listed dates and times of political demonstrations, which must be illegal. I did not want to meet girls who were interested in that sort of thing. Several computer dating agencies advertised. I resolved to write to them for details of their services, making it clear that I did not wish my name to be revealed to anybody and that all material should be sent in plain envelopes. My main interest in the magazine was, of course, the lonely hearts column. It was incredible what some people wrote. Many of the advertisements were from men who gave such colourful descriptions of themselves that if I were a girl, I should be wary of replying. Some men were advertising for other men. This shocked me. It is particularly unsavoury. How a magazine on sale to the public is be allowed to print such material is beyond my comprehension.
One advertisement by a girl did merit a reply. She described herself as quiet and home-loving. My hesitation was a consequence of not wishing to reveal my address to somebody I did not know, but I could think of no way around this. The letter took the whole evening to compose. I wanted to present myself truthfully, unlike some of the people who advertised, but at the same time I needed to portray myself as an interesting person. I tried to cover all the points which other advertisements showed to be important. One problem was how to address someone whose name I did not know. After numerous attempts I settled on the following: 

Dear Advertiser,
I am replying to your advertisement in Time Out. I am twenty-four years of age, and five feet eleven inches tall. I have brown hair. I work for the household underwriting section of a leading insurance company. I consider myself to be a reliable and quiet individual with wide interests and I am seeking a girlfriend. Although you request a photograph, I regret to inform you that I do not have one. I look forward to your reply. 
Yours sincerely,

When I had made a fair copy, I tore up all the rough drafts into small pieces, ensuring that my name and address were removed, and put the pieces in a brown paper bag for disposal. In the morning I put this in one of the dustbins at the back of the house. The strips containing my name and address I put in a litter bin on my way to work. Many more letters like that to write and I should have to buy a shredder!
Rather than posting the letter on my way to work, I carried it around all day as I debated whether to send it. Perhaps the advertisement was a joke. The girl who placed it could even work in the same office as me. That thought made me go hot with embarrassment, so I was tempted to destroy the letter there and then. Eventually I reasoned that the chances of the recipient working in the same office were small, so I posted the letter before I could have any more qualms. At the same time I sent my requests for details to the computer dating agencies. It was only later that the idea of using a fictitious name occurred to me. This would have obviated all risk of my identity being revealed, and I could intercept the replies when I sorted the post in the morning. My rush to post the letters meant that the opportunity was lost. So much for haste.
For several days my expectations were high. I ascribed any delays to the postal service. Though I always use first class post, I suspect that items seldom arrive on the following day. This is Mr Wiggins' abiding complaint about the postal service. Some business letters sent from London postal districts by first class post take three days or more to arrive. More than a week passed before I received the first response from a computer dating agency. I was pleased to note that the material was sent under plain cover as I had specified. Anybody else seeing the post that morning would not have known what was being sent to me. I knew who it was from because normally the only correspondence I receive is associated with my studies. I should have liked to open the envelope there and then, but this would have further delayed me. It was too large to take to work, so my only course was to return to my room and leave it there. Even this delay almost made me lose my bus. On the journey I speculated whether the contents of the envelope would change my life. At work I tried to put the subject out of my mind. Unlike some of my colleagues, I do not let personal concerns interfere with business matters. I travelled home that evening with a particular sense of anticipation. In this age of instant gratification, many people would not appreciate the idea of savouring pleasure. I can only say that I am sorry for them. As I prepared my food, I left the envelope unopened on the table. I should explain that for several weeks after starting my present job, I relied on buying sandwiches for lunch, which meant preparing a proper meal in the evening. Now on working days I take my main meal at midday, having discovered a reasonably-priced restaurant off Holborn. This means that when I get home at six o'clock in the evening, I only need prepare a snack. Bread and cheese is something I eat quite often. At other times I might have a dish of cereal. On the day the letter arrived, I warmed a tin of oxtail soup. This is a favourite of mine. With the soup in front of me giving off its delicious aroma, the moment had come to open the envelope. All I can say is that the contents proved a bitter anticlimax. Though I read all the literature with interest and had no doubt that the agency was both reputable and efficient, I felt that its charges were outrageous. Without going into details of my salary, I can reveal that when rent, travelling, food and the cost of my studies are taken into account, I have little money left for luxuries. Certainly I could not afford the bureau's charges.
A further disappointment was that my letter to the advertiser in the lonely hearts column remained unanswered. Common courtesy demands that all letters are at least acknowledged. The sort of person who cannot bother to do this is not the sort whom I wish to meet. I considered complaining to the magazine, but I did not wish to have my name associated with such a matter.
Two days after that first letter, I received details from a second agency. This time I did not experience the same sense of anticipation. Though the charges were marginally cheaper, I still consider that they were excessive. 
The failure of these initial attempts should not to taken to imply that my determination to find a girlfriend had diminished. I pride myself on my tenaciousness. I am not being bigheaded in saying this. It is something I have been praised for by Mr Wiggins. When there was a case of premiums being wrongly calculated over several years, I was the one chosen to sort out the file.
My only course of action in finding a girlfriend was to place an advertisement myself. I calculated that this would cost a fraction of the fee charged by an agency. Finding a suitable wording proved unexpectedly difficult. I had not thought of the pitfalls until I came to do it, though my reply to the girl who advertised should have forewarned me. I was determined not to make myself appear conceited or unique as some of the other advertisers presumed to do, but if I made myself seem colourless, nobody would bother to reply. The message I reached after considerable thought was as follows: 'Young man, 24, quiet, with wide tastes wishes to meet young lady of similar age.' Anything more flamboyant would, I felt, attract the wrong type of person. Naturally I specified that I required a box number. As an additional precaution, I enclosed instructions to the magazine that my name should not be divulged under any circumstances.
It was nine o’clock by the time my advertisement was finally written out. What had started as a simple task had taken over two hours. By then I was too tired to embark on any studying, so I lay on my bed and listened to the radio, satisfied that I had done all I could to change my life.
*
I had to buy the next two issues of the magazine before I saw my advertisement. The wording looked less suitable when I saw it in print: it was too brief and it did not show me in a good light when I compared it with other advertisements. Although I suspected that the delay in its appearance was a ploy to make advertisers keep buying copies, at least the purchases allowed me to see a range of advertisements placed by girls. There were two which I considered answering, but my conclusion was that I should wait until I received some replies of my own before revealing details of myself to strangers. Potentially I could be writing to a girl who lived nearby, or even lived in the same house. I did not wish to regularly encounter somebody who knew details about my private life. At least when I had my replies, I should remain anonymous until I chose to answer.
Each day for the next week the thud of the morning post on the mat filled me with expectation. It was frustrating that things took so long, though I suppose people do not always buy the magazine on the day it comes out and a few more days elapse before they reply to advertisements. Writing to a box number causes an additional delay. When a large manilla envelope arrived, I knew that this must contain the replies. From the postmark I noted that it had taken three days to arrive by second class post from central London. I am surprised that any business should continue to use second class post. The fortunate thing was that the replies arrived on a Saturday, meaning that I could look at them immediately. There were three. I expected more, but at least those I did receive were unopened. This was an aspect of using a box number which I had not previously considered. The magazine staff would have plenty to laugh about if they read all the replies. The most bulky of the enclosed envelopes contained no fewer than ten pages of scrawl from a woman in Peckham who was obviously deranged. I say woman rather than girl because from the first page I gathered that she was forty and had three children. This was hardly the sort of partner I was seeking. She went on at some length about her star sign. After three pages I gave up reading. By contrast, the second letter consisted of only a few lines. It was from a girl named Maureen who did not even divulge her address or surname. She wrote that as we sounded similar in outlook, it might be interesting if we met. All she gave was her telephone number. I was suspicious of somebody who provided so few details about herself. Even her use of the word 'interesting' seemed curious, as though she was writing in a code which I could not understand. The third letter was from a girl named Sandra Adams who lived in Ealing. She wrote three sides about herself which proved enjoyable to read and informative. She was twenty-four and worked as a librarian. Here was a girl I wished to meet. The problem was how to contact her. My preference was to introduce myself by letter, but even without experience in such matters I foresaw considerable delays in arranging a meeting this way. Reluctantly I decided to telephone her. Though I could have used the telephone in the hall, I did not wish everybody in the house to know my business. The alternative was to use a public telephone, however much I disliked the prospect. Apart from the hygiene risk, many telephone booths these days have no doors. I for one have no desire to conduct my personal affairs in public.
The delay occasioned by reading the letters set back my normal Saturday routine by twenty minutes. I like to get up at seven o'clock on a Saturday, which gives me an opportunity to shower before anybody else in the house is awake. The others get up late at weekends. I dislike using the shower when they are around. At weekends my breakfast is more leisurely than during the week. This does not mean that I indulge in a cooked breakfast. I have no taste for fried food. My usual Saturday breakfast consists of corn flakes followed by two slices of bread spread with honey. I used to buy marmalade, but I understand that honey is better for you. Afterwards I have a cup of tea made with a tea bag. Normally I listen to the eight o'clock news over breakfast, but on this occasion it had already finished by the time I sat down to eat. I like to go out by half past eight so I can be at the launderette before it gets crowded. As the washing is heavy and bulky, I have to make a separate journey for my shopping and changing my library books. Because I have to stock up with food for the week, I usually buy items which are not perishable, for example powdered milk rather than milk in cartons. Having said that, in winter I sometimes treat myself to a carton of milk at weekends. It keeps for two days at room temperature in winter. I prefer the taste of fresh milk.
I rang Sandra on the way to the launderette, having taken the precaution of arming myself with a supply of change for the telephone. Speaking to strangers on the telephone is not something I feel comfortable about. I dislike answering the telephone in the office, though it has to be done. My throat felt dry as I stood in the telephone box, listening to the ringing at the other end. I felt uncertain whether calling Sandra by her Christian name would seem presumptuous. In the event I was keyed up for nothing. Her father answered. He informed me that Sandra worked on alternate Saturdays and that if I wanted to speak to her, I should either try again in the evening or telephone her at the library. As I felt she would not wish to receive private calls at work, I informed her father that I should telephone again, though of course I said nothing about the reason for my call. The whole incident left me sickened, so that I was unable to concentrate on my reading in the launderette. Not only were matters unresolved, but I should have to go out again to telephone Sandra.
The sense of unease stayed with me through the day, preventing me from devoting myself to my studies. For forty-five minutes I looked at a page of the textbook on insurance law without absorbing its contents, which gives some indication of what effect such an apparently simple matter as making a telephone call can have on me. A particular concern was that I should have to go out after dark and on a Saturday evening. This is the worst time to be on the streets, but there was no alternative now that I had made my rash promise. 
Nothing happened on the way to the telephone box. Unfortunately the box was occupied when I got there, which was what I feared. Not wishing to be seen loitering, I walked around the block fairly briskly. To my surprise the same woman was in the box on my return. I cannot understand how some people find so much to talk about on the telephone. As I thought it might attract suspicion to walk the same way again, I looked at the shops in Tottenham Lane instead. After a suitable interval I went back to the telephone box. At least it was empty this time, but the stench of cigarette smoke inside made me cough. Why some people cannot go without a cigarette for the few minutes it takes to make a telephone call is beyond me. I had to hold the door open with my foot to get rid of the smell. The mouthpiece reeked of tobacco as well. If I had thought ahead, I should have brought one of the antiseptic wipes I use to clean the telephone at the office. I am convinced that infections are spread by using public telephones.
Speaking to Sandra was not the ordeal which I anticipated. She put me at ease immediately. I must say she sounded a pleasant girl. We agreed to meet, but this presented a difficulty which had not previously occurred to me: how should we recognise each other? It was Sandra who suggested that we identify ourselves by our clothes. She would wear a plaid coat and carry a black handbag. I agreed to wear my raincoat, though I did this with some hesitation as I did not know what the weather would be like. If the weather suddenly became colder, I should want to put on my overcoat. Describing myself also proved unexpectedly difficult as I am quite ordinary. 
I felt much happier when I got home again. At least the course of my life was under my control once more. For the remainder of the evening I lay in bed listening to the radio instead of studying. This was the first time I had done such a thing since the days of the Saturday evening play.
My meeting with Sandra was arranged for the following Tuesday. This was her choice. Although I did not object, I had mixed feelings about it. Apart from my reservations about being out in London after dark, I do not like going out in the evening when I have to get up for work the following morning. Had I been less concerned not to upset her, I should have suggested that we meet on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.
As I have explained, I always try to look smart for work. On the Tuesday I devoted particular attention to my appearance, putting on my best tie and giving my shoes an extra shine. Our meeting was to be outside the Dominion Theatre at six o'clock. Sandra suggested this rendezvous because it adjoined Tottenham Court Road Station and was convenient for her. Fortunately I had passed the theatre on one of my lunch hour walks, so I knew where it was.
Many people leave the office on the dot of five, abandoning whatever they are doing. This is indicative of their attitude to their work. Although I like to get home in time for the six o'clock news on the radio, I can truthfully say that I have never left the office with unfinished work on my desk. On this occasion I left at five-thirty, giving me ample time to reach the theatre. Whenever I have an appointment, the fear of being late worries me even when I know there is plenty of time to spare. This is irrational, but it is not something I have been able to conquer. Anxiety made me hurry towards the theatre though there was no necessity to rush. Fortunately the rain held off. Wet weather causes me considerable problems. A raincoat saves my clothes from damage, but my shoes cannot be protected. One pair was ruined by heavy rain seeping into the leather, giving it a white bloom. This was in spite of all the polish which I applied to keep it waterproof. Now I use a polish which is specifically advertised to make leather water resistant, though it does not give such a good shine. Recently I chanced upon rubber overshoes in a shop. This seemed such a good idea that I purchased them immediately. Now if rain is forecast, I always carry them with me. On the day of the meeting with Sandra, I left them at home because the forecast was fine. I realise weather forecasts are not always correct, but I decided to take the chance.
I arrived at the Dominion Theatre twenty minutes early, which illustrates that my fears of being late were unfounded. This gave me time to look at the shops in Tottenham Court Road. Almost every one is given over to selling hi-fi equipment. The wonder is that they all stay in business. I have a reliable radio with excellent tone, so hi-fi does not interest me. It is a gimmick for people with more money than sense. Still, it was instructive to see what people are willing to waste their money on. I did take the opportunity to buy an evening newspaper in case Sandra wanted to know which films were showing. If we did go to the cinema, my hope was that the film would be better than the one I saw in Camden. 
The question of how we were going to spend the evening was something I should have considered earlier. Normally I am noted for my attention to detail. Mr Wiggins has often commended me on this. All I can plead on this occasion is that inexperience caused me to overlook the matter.
At ten to six I took up position under the huge canopy covering the theatre entrance. It is a popular meeting place judging by the number of people who wait there. This caused me some apprehension. Supposing two girls with plaid coats and black handbags were waiting? In such circumstances, approaching either girl would be out of the question. The prospect made me appreciate why many advertisers ask for a photograph. I should also have preferred a less public meeting place so that nobody watching would guess that Sandra and I had never met before.
By five past six I was becoming apprehensive. Would Sandra come at all, or was I the victim of an elaborate hoax? I considered ringing her from a nearby telephone box, but she might have arrived while I was away from our meeting place and conclude that I had let her down. As I wondered what to do, a girl in a plaid coat and carrying a black handbag emerged form the underground station. She was shorter than I imagined. Judging by the way she peered at the waiting people through thick glasses, she was also shortsighted. This was something else she failed to mention. My first response was panic. I wanted to flee. She was so different from the girl of my imagination. Unfortunately she had already seen me. When she smiled and said hello, at least the problem of introducing myself to a stranger was solved. Her voice was recognisable from our telephone conversation.
'Sorry I'm a bit late,' she said. 'There was a holdup on the tube.'
I remember her opening words clearly. I stared at her. She had protruding teeth which showed a lot because she was smiling. Doreen Maguire's face was in my mind at that moment. Until then I had not realised how beautiful were her eyes.
'Still, there's no harm done,' Sandra was saying. 'I'm only a few minutes late, aren't I?'
I assured her that I did not mind, though in my view lateness always reflects a lack of organisation. In truth I wished I had taken the quite justifiable course of leaving at the stroke of six, but for the sake of politeness I resolved to make the best of the evening. The ensuing conversation is accurate to the best of my knowledge.
'I set out in good time,' she was saying, showing her teeth again. 'It's so frustrating when a train stops in a tunnel for ages and you don't know what's happening.'
Occasionally I am late for work when the bus is held up, but I try to allow an ample margin of extra time for such eventualities. Such delays cannot be helped and bear no similarity to those situations where somebody is late day after day. Deliberate lateness of this nature cannot be condoned. When meeting somebody for the first time, I should expect a responsible person to make every effort to arrive on time, even if this means setting off earlier and arriving with time to spare. In spite of my reservations, I trust I was sympathetic.
'It's cold isn't it?' she said. 'It shows winter's on its way.'
I made some remark signifying agreement, but my mind was on the radio programmes I was missing. I was noticing at the people around us. Some couples chatted as though they were catching up with a lot of news.  Others were deciding where to go for the evening, or just enjoying the sights of London as they walked arm in arm. Across the road was a man I can only describe as a tramp selling chestnuts roasting on a brazier. The very look of him was enough to put off potential customers. A couple were embracing in the shelter of the canopy. The man was running his hand down the girl's body. Such displays are embarrassing and offensive, but alas they are all too prevalent these days.
'What would you like to do?' I asked, bringing my thoughts back to our evening together.
'I don't mind,' Sandra replied.
I explained that I had bought a newspaper in case she wished to go to a cinema.
'We don't want to go somewhere like that straight away, do we?' she said. 'I'd rather talk.'
Her words took me by surprise. As we did not know each other, I could not think what there was to talk about. The arrogance in her manner when she said what she would rather do was not something I had detected in her letter.
'Shall we go somewhere to eat?' was her next suggestion. This too was unexpected. Although I do not consider myself a faddy eater, I was unhappy at the prospect of eating in a restaurant which was unknown to me. Many restaurants in the West End are staffed by foreigners whose ideas on preparing food are different from ours. Food might look appetising even when standards of hygiene leave much to be desired. 
'Or do you want to go for a drink first?' she was asking. 
I had no intention of going into a public house, so I agreed that we should have a meal. When I asked whether she knew of somewhere to go, she replied that she expected me to know as I had mentioned during our telephone conversation that I worked nearby. I had to explain that I normally went to lunch in Holborn which is nearer the office but some way from Tottenham Court Road. If the restaurant I normally use stayed open in the evening, I should have recommended that we go there in spite of the extra travelling involved. The prices are reasonable and I can vouch both for the quality of the food and the hygiene. 
'I'm getting rather cold,' Sandra complained. 'So long as we go somewhere.' She pointed to a restaurant on the other corner. 'How about over there?' 
It looked reasonably clean, though it is always difficult to be sure from the outside. As Sandra already seemed irritable, I kept my reservations to myself. When we did manage to cross the road in the face of what seemed a continuous stream of taxis, I insisted on looking at the menu to ensure the food was not Asian. I am not against Asian food - I bought a tin of curry once, which I quite enjoyed - but there is no point in taking unnecessary risks. To my surprise, the restaurant only sold pizzas. 
'Aren't we going in?' Sandra asked, seeing my hesitation. 
I explained that as a rule I did not eat foreign foods. 
'It's hardly foreign,' she retorted. 
This was obviously incorrect, but I judged that she would be further upset if I contradicted her. At least she had stopped smiling, so that her protruding teeth no longer showed. 
'Let's go somewhere else if you don't like it,' she was saying as though I had argued. This was unfair as I had stated my objections quite reasonably. Nevertheless, to avoid unpleasantness I agreed to go in. The public areas were spotless. Having said that, I prefer restaurants where the kitchen can be seen from the public areas. The restaurant I go to in Holborn is like that. One restaurant nearer the office I stopped using when I saw a woman in the kitchen putting cabbage on a plate with her hands. Sandra sat opposite me. Whatever my misgivings, the waitress was pleasant and attentive. She provided each of us with a menu each. We agreed to have coffee first. A large range of pizzas was available. Some included seafood, which I consider risky. More cases of poisoning are caused by shellfish than by any other food. I chose a vegetarian dish. This is always safest, though I am not vegetarian. Sandra selected a pizza with ham. She also ordered garlic bread which came with the coffee. It looked like bread soaked in butter. Though Sandra offered some to me, I did not try it. While she ate, I sipped coffee. This gave me the opportunity to look at the other customers. The restaurant was not crowded. The few couples were deep in conversation. I was surprised how much they found to talk about, though some people do find it necessary to talk all the time. On buses they talk for the whole journey about their families, their illnesses, their holidays and what is going on at the office. They seem not to care that strangers might hear, even when what they are saying is of an intimate nature. There was nothing I could think of to talk about as I sat facing Sandra. I reflected that as we were the only couple in the restaurant who had only just met, conversation was bound to be difficult. 
An unpleasant smell is not something you expect in a restaurant. When I mentioned it to Sandra, she laughed and said that it came from her garlic bread. It was a smell I recognised without knowing what it was. I have encountered people on the bus with breath smelling like that. The trouble is that they never realise the offence they cause. On one occasion a man smelling of garlic sat next to me for the whole of the journey. By the time I got home, I felt physically sick. 
'It's nice coffee,' I said to break the silence. 
'Tell me about yourself. All I know is what you told me on the phone.' 
What can you say about yourself which does not make you sound arrogant or dull? I outlined my work and told her about my studies to qualify as an Associate of the Chartered Insurance Institute. This was a welcome opportunity because many people do not realise the range of career opportunities within insurance, or the variety of work available. In return I asked about qualifications in librarianship. Apparently there is a course which may be taken on a full-time or a day-release basis. Sandra had taken the day-release course. I think learning on the job is always important and I was glad that she agreed. She had letters after her name. That was something she had not mentioned in her letter. When I pass my examinations, I shall be able to call myself ACII. I may well have cards printed when that great day comes. Supposing I had not gone into insurance, what would I have done? This is something I have often wondered. Banking and accountancy both attracted me. They are more glamorous and can command higher salaries, but in my view once you have made a career decision, it is best to stick to it. Potential employers look for reliability, not for people who are uncertain about their future. Librarianship is a subject which never occurred to me, though I read a lot. 
The food took longer to arrive than it did in the restaurant I use at lunchtime. I mentioned this to Sandra, but she did not think the delay was excessive. I asked her whether she had eaten pizza before. The question seemed to amuse her. She replied that she often had it when she went out, but I could not be expected to know that. 
When the food came, at least it took away the need to make conversation. Pizzas are mixture of tomatoes and other vegetables on a pastry base like a pancake. I thought mine was quite nice, though I had to cut off the burnt pastry around the edges. Pizzas are popular. I know this because on the journey to work I pass several shops advertising them. Hornsey has a shop selling nothing but takeaway pizzas. I noticed it particularly because it is scrupulously clean. At weekends a lot of students go there. I resolved to visit it myself if it was not too crowded. Providing the prices were reasonable, I could buy a pizza on a regular basis which would save me cooking a meal on Sundays. Cooking is difficult when you have only a single boiling ring. I have considered buying a toaster so that I could eat things like baked beans on toast. The Chinese girl in the adjoining room has a toaster: I know this because the smell of toast reaches me in the morning as I leave for work. Like me she listens to the radio. It is strange to know these intimate details about somebody you hardly speak to. I am curious to know what her room is like. 
Sandra appeared to enjoy her pizza. Watching other people eating is something which is distasteful to me, so I made a point of not looking at her more than I could help during the meal. Fortunately the adjoining tables were unoccupied, so it was easy for me to look away. My regret about the restaurant where I go for lunch is that I never have a table to myself. What I hate is sitting opposite somebody who opens his mouth as he chews. It is impossible to change seats halfway through a meal, so I am compelled to listen to the chewing sounds even if I look away. This has happened to me on three occasions. At least Sandra did not do that. I found my eyes straying towards the waitress as she bustled between the tables. With her cheerfulness, her bright looks and her shapely legs, she was so much more attractive than Sandra. She was somebody I wanted to know, though the thought made me feel guilty. I wish somebody like that lived in the same house as me.
When Sandra put down her knife and fork. I forced my attention back to her. 
'Are we going to have a dessert?' she asked. 
Although I did not really want anything more. I agreed to have a sweet out of politeness. Sandra signalled to the waitress, who brought the menus again, I enjoyed being close to the waitress. She had a freshly-scrubbed smell. 
Sandra decided to have ice cream, so I chose the same. There is not much that can go wrong with ice cream so long as it is kept frozen. Though I should not consider buying it when I am on my own, I do enjoy it. While we were waiting, I saw Sandra frowning. 
'You still haven't told me much about yourself.' Her tone was reproachful, which was unfair considering that I had gone into some detail about my work. 'What do you do in your spare time?' she wanted to know. 
I pointed out again that I was studying for a qualification in insurance. I felt irritated that she had not been paying attention. 
'Apart from studying,' she persisted. `You must have some other interests.'
 When I explained that studying left me little time for anything else, she looked put out. 
'You can't think about insurance all the time.' 
I recalled her own interests from her letter: music, reading and knitting. I told her that I liked reading, which I thought would be of interest to her as a qualified librarian. 
'What sort of books do you read?' she asked, though she did not sound interested. The situation was becoming more like an interrogation than a conversation between friends. Sandra's irritation was something that I neither understood nor knew how to deal with. I looked enviously at the other couples who were all enjoying themselves. If only Sandra had been as friendly as the waitress. She was waiting for a reply, so I explained that although much of my reading was technical, I enjoyed travel books. This made her smile for some reason, but I pretended not to notice. When I asked what sort of things she read, she reeled off a list of names which meant nothing to me. 
'They're all modern novelists,' she said. 'Haven't you heard of any of them?' 
I told her that I did not read novels very much. Travel books are about real things. Although I am not one for travelling, it is interesting to know what other places are like. It brings insurance alive: my company has a lot of overseas clients.
Fortunately the waitress brought the ice cream before I had to say anything about novels. This gave me an opportunity to search for other topics of conversation. I tried to remember as many details as possible from Sandra's letter, so I could introduce a topic which would interest her. 
'What music do you like?' I asked. 
That made her eyes light up. 'I love Bach. I told you I was in a choir, didn't I?' 
I nodded. 
'We're practising for a concert at the moment, which is why I only had this evening free.' 
I could not imagine singing in a choir, still less doing so for pleasure. 
'Do you like music?' she was asking. 
'Some of it,' I told her cautiously, not wishing to imply that I had no interest at all, though music is not something which is important to me. 
'What sort do you like?' 
'All sorts.' 
That made her look irritated again. 'You must like some sorts more than others,' she insisted. 
'I like the 1812 overture.' 
She seemed to lose interest, though I considered her attitude unreasonable and incomprehensible. After all, that was the sort of music she professed to like. I concentrated on eating the ice cream. It was vanilla flavoured and quite acceptable, though for the price I expected more. Sandra had chocolate flavour. 
'I'm still not clear what you're really interested in,' she said as though she was speaking to a child. It was with considerable frustration that I repeated again how much of my time was taken up with the course. I was beginning to think Sandra had no interest in building up a relationship. 
'Do you like sport?' she was asking. When I told her that I did not, she said, 'Good. We've established something.' 
As there had been nothing about sport in her letter, I could not understand her question. I assumed that sport was not an interest of hers. Being short-sighted, she would be out of place on a sports field. 
'Have you done this sort of thing before?' she wanted to know. I felt this was an impertinent question, but nevertheless I told her that I had not. 
'Did you have many answers?' she persisted. This was really too much and I told her that I did not wish to discuss the matter. Unfortunately we had finished our ice cream, so there was no excuse for not talking. Politely I asked whether she wanted some more coffee, but she said that she had to be going. This was unexpected. I had anticipated spending the whole evening together, or I should not have gone to the expense of buying a newspaper. Sandra must have noticed my expression, because she went on to explain that she did not think we were suited. It shocked me that she could say this to my face, not least because it was her grumpiness which was making the evening difficult. I considered suggesting that we see a film, but there seemed little point in putting forward such a idea in the circumstances.
Secretly I must confess to a feeling of relief that our evening was over so quickly, though payment was an embarrassing matter. Naturally I knew how much the meal would cost, for I had been making a mental note each time we ordered. My concern was not so much the overall cost as whether I should pay it all or whether it should be divided between us. In the event the problem was easily resolved because Sandra offered to pay her share. I was pleased about this. She went up in my estimation. In spite of the slightly higher cost of her pizza, I paid half the bill. This arrangement seemed simpler than trying to apportion the cost of each item. To my surprise, I had to ask for a receipt. I feel this should be provided automatically. If I had been found unconscious with food poisoning the following day, there would be no evidence as to the source of infection unless I had a receipt. 
There was no point in making conversation as we left the restaurant and walked the few steps to the station. We parted quite amicably at the subway entrance, saying goodbye without any recriminations. Sandra wished me good luck with future dates, for which I thanked her. As she went down the steps into the station, I felt a sense of relief that I should not see her again. She did not look back. 
My first evening with a girl was over. It was not an experience I contemplated repeating. Any expectations which I had entertained of a lasting relationship leading to marriage seemed like a cruel joke. Sandra had deceived me. Her letter gave a totally inaccurate impression of what she was like. What surprised me was how a simple matter of enjoying an evening in the company of a girl could be fraught with such difficulty. 
People pushed past me to the top of the steps. Sandra was out of sight, so there was no reason for me to stay. As I moved aside, I marvelled that so many people were out enjoying themselves on a weekday evening. It was five to seven. My first inclination was to go home, though even if a bus came immediately, I should still miss The Archers. My second thought was that I should take the opportunity to recapture some of the ecstasy Doreen had brought me. The notion filled me with mixed emotions. Though I could not dismiss it, my more cautious instincts urged me to go straight home. Torn between these opposing feelings, I stood looking across at the Dominion Theatre. The memory of what happened behind Kings Cross was still vivid. The fascination made me want to go back there, even though such a course of action might lead to my being recognised. I stood wrestling with this dilemma until I was shivering with cold. Not wishing to be stared at and as a way of keeping myself warm, I began walking in the direction of the office. My course of action was settled. 
New Oxford Street is the continuation of Oxford Street beyond the station, leading towards Holborn and away from the shops frequented by tourists. The pavements are less crowded. This is a daytime place, with no cinemas or theatres, few shop windows to look at and only one or two restaurants open in the evening. I prefer this to the pushing and jostling which you encounter in Oxford Street. Beyond the junction with Gower Street are glimpses of the British Museum between the blocks of grim Victorian flats. The old-fashioned shops beneath the flats sell books, Asian trinkets and souvenirs to tourists who throng the area during the day. The tall buildings make the streets look narrower than they are. Because the pavements are always in shadow in my lunch hour, I never feel easy when I stray there, though tourists do not seem to mind. After dark, the emptiness of the streets makes them more sinister, like illustrations from a detective story written many years ago. I always mean to go in the British Museum one lunch hour, as It is meant to be one of the world's great museums. London has many fascinating places I should like to visit, including museums and art galleries. On summer weekends when I am ahead with my studies, I have made a habit of walking around parts of London which are new to me. I recall strolling along the tree-lined walks of Holland Park in the September sun and coming upon brick ruins of what must have been a grand house. On a lawn, I was lucky enough to see a peacock displaying its feathers. The experience was like stepping into a more gracious age. On another Sunday I walked to Regents Park and heard the noises of the animals from the zoo. Yes, I am glad I came to live in London, in spite of all the problems. There is so much to see and do. Even as I turned into Bloomsbury Way from New Oxford Street, I glimpsed the lights of a theatre which I had not noticed before. Within a few yards of the office are places I have never seen. 
Lights were on in the office, which made me wonder whether anybody was still working there. It seemed unlikely. I tried to check, but the doors were locked. Possibly there was a security guard on duty, but this was something I resolved to confirm with Mr Wiggins in the morning. You cannot be too careful about security. My route after that was the same as on the previous occasion. Southampton Row was no busier than New Oxford Street. In the shopping precinct opposite Russell Square Station, boys were playing on skateboards. I was glad I did not have to walk that way. Skateboarding is a dangerous activity not only for those who take part in it, but for passers-by. An old person could easily be knocked over. Beyond the station, the streets were empty. It was a measure of my mood that this did not concern me. Normally I should avoid deserted places after dark. By the time I crossed Judd Street and saw the darkness of the tenements ahead of me, excitement was making my pulse race. The feeling did not slacken as I passed the gaunt brick facades, their colours bleached by orange street lights. I stayed on the opposite side of the road so that the parked cars partially concealed me. The corner of that terrible street was deserted, which came as a relief. The girl who spoke to me on the other occasion was the most likely person to remember me. As I glanced towards a floodlit Kings Cross, I saw the jumble of glowing hotel signs jostling for the attention of the traveller. Beneath them the girls were waiting. Nothing had changed. If I had been brave, I should have marched along that street as I did before. Instead I walked past, savouring a sense of danger which is normally alien to me. Perhaps I half expected a girl to give a cry of recognition and chase after me. If she had, I do not know what I should have done. Even in the quietness away from the garish lights, two girls watched me from across the road. I could only hope that they had not seen me on the other occasion. I wondered whether it was always the same girls who went there. 
I walked on. At Grays Inn Road, I turned north towards Kings Cross and my bus stop. The bus journey took me along the Caledonian Road as it did each day. I felt no special emotion on passing the darkened side street where the death occurred. My main concern was whether I could be home in time for eight o’clock, when there is often a useful programme on current affairs broadcast on the radio. 
That night I was woken by a dream of the terrible street of prostitutes. The women jeered at me, menacing me until I had to run. Yet as I tried to respond, my legs were paralysed. Then the women crowded around me, their faces laughing and distorted, their cries ringing in my head. As they pressed upon me, I could no longer breathe. That was when I awoke. My heart was pounding as though the shock had been real. Sweat made my pyjamas stick to my body. I was afraid I was having a heart attack. This is always a worry when you live alone. I put on the light and breathed deeply until I felt calmer. For the rest of the night, I could not sleep. I lay listening to the night sounds. Occasionally a car passed. A cat cried as though it was in pain. A train roared through Hornsey station without stopping. In the background was a constant hum of activity, as though the city was still alive. Creaks came from inside the house. At first I thought somebody was creeping through the hall. This made my heart to thump again. I listened for a long time, but when the noises were not repeated, I assumed I was mistaken. At last the rattle of the milk float announced the coming of morning. I must have lain awake for hours.

Chapter 3

The experience with Sandra did not pray on my mind as much as I expected. I was thankful that I had not committed myself to joining a computer dating agency. The fee would have been wasted if my evening with Sandra was anything to go by. I resolved never to place myself in such a situation again come what may, yet as the days went by and the embarrassment became less vivid in my memory, the dissatisfaction with my life which had prompted me to place the advertisement became apparent once more. Life was passing me by. I felt unfulfilled. It is ironic that if I had not been conscientious and worked late that fateful evening, I might have remained content with my lot.
The one task remaining as a result of my ill-fated advertisement was to deal with the other two replies. I wrote a letter of acknowledgment to the eccentric woman from Peckham, explaining that I was unable to meet her. I did not give any reasons. The other girl, Maureen, had only given her telephone number. Though I considered ringing her, I felt that somebody who did not give her address was not serious in her intentions. With this decision made, I destroyed both letters as a fitting conclusion to what had happened.
Christmas was a further disruption to my routine. The whole of London seems possessed by madness in December. Shop windows are decked out with tinsel, holly, imitation snow and sleighs drawn by reindeer. At the office people, give cards to each other and display them on their desks, which is hardly conducive to efficient working. I am sure that Christmas cards help to keep people in touch, but I prefer to forget people from my past.
A week before Christmas, the department is adorned with decorations. I might add that these are put up during office hours. Apparently the management acquiesces in this practice. I consider it to be untidy and a fire hazard. How an insurance company can sanction such irresponsible behaviour by its own employees is beyond me, when it is well known that claims for fire damage increase markedly over Christmas.
The disruption caused by the holiday period spreads into my private life. Because of the extra days when the shops are closed, my normal pattern of shopping has to be changed. This causes me no end of problems. Two years ago I could not even go to the launderette because Christmas fell on a Saturday. If I had not washed two shirts in the sink and hung them over it to dry, I should have been forced to wear the same shirt two days running.
Another unfortunate thing about Christmas is that spending so much time in my room increases my heating bill. I have enough trouble as it is finding fifty pence coins for the meter to keep myself warm in the evening. Every time I receive change in a shop, I ask for fifty pence pieces.
Children enjoy Christmas most. My memories of those magical occasions are still vivid. When I was eight, my mother gave me Five go to Mystery Moor by Enid Blyton. It was my introduction to the series and it proved so exciting that I hid under the living-room table to read it on Christmas morning. There was such surprise on my mother's face when she found me. She thought I was being silly. She had to entice me out by giving me a mince pie. I remember the filling being so hot that I panted. Now I can smile at the recollection. 
The office closed at one o'clock on Christmas Eve. Most of my colleagues went to a public house. Fortunately I was not asked. Why it should be necessary to get drunk to enjoy oneself is beyond my comprehension. I well remember the previous Christmas, when I was invited by Mr Wiggins to go for a drink with the other staff during the lunch hour. Not wishing to appear churlish in the season of goodwill, I agreed. That was my first and only visit to a public house. After a few minutes it was obvious that going there was a mistake. The bar was so crowded that we had to stand squeezed together as though we were in an underground train in the rush hour. I should not call that enjoying myself. More worryingly, the air was so thick with tobacco smoke that my eyes smarted and my throat felt as though it was closing. After one orange juice, I made my excuses and left. I have more respect for my health than to stay in an atmosphere like that. People might have suffocated. I went back to the office where for the next two hours I tried to cope single-handedly with all the telephone calls as well as getting on with my own work. I was surprised at Mr Wiggins for setting such a bad example. He did not thank me for the extra work I had put in. When I got home that evening, I had to wash my hair to get rid of the stench of cigarettes. Both my suit and raincoat needed dry-cleaning. My lungs still felt raw the next morning. So much for trying to be sociable.
Last Christmas I went straight home to prepare lunch as the restaurant I usually frequent was not open. A group of girls on the bus had tinsel hanging from their hair. Judging by the raucous laughter every remark generated, they had been drinking too much. They kept offering chocolates to everybody. When I declined, one girl swore at me, which was embarrassing and unnecessary.
For lunch I had baked beans and sausages. They come together in a tin, so they only require heating in a saucepan. I went out shopping immediately afterwards. The supermarket was more crowded than on Saturdays, but with food to buy for four days, there was no alternative to putting up with the long queue at the checkout. As a treat for Christmas Day I bought a packet of paella. My experience of bank holidays is that I need a break from long periods of study, so I spend more time over meals. On such occasions I take the opportunity to experiment with my food, though I make sure I buy items from reputable manufacturers.
At seven o'clock in the evening, I put on my outdoor clothes, including my leather gloves. Matters had to be arranged carefully. Before going to the bus stop, I bought a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches, removing the cellophane from the cigarettes straight away and putting it in a bin. The whole notion of buying cigarettes is repugnant to me. I was ashamed to ask for them, but they were necessary to my plan. I followed my normal routine of going to work except that I bought a ticket instead of using my bus pass. This was so that my name should not be noted. The office was closed, of course. This time it was in darkness. I walked back along Southampton Row, which was quieter than I had ever seen it. As I neared a public house, laughter and singing reached me. Three girls came out. With linked arms they swayed across the pavement, singing. They were heading northwards. I found myself observing them dispassionately, as though they were insects and I was a scientist. I dislike unseemly behaviour, particularly by women. It demeans them. I stopped at a bus stop, pretending to read the timetable. This allowed the girls to get well ahead of me. They were moving so slowly that otherwise I should have overtaken them. One was more drunk than the others. Her blue coat hung open, the belt dragging along the ground. She was the ringleader, launching into carols at the top of her voice till the others joined in and dragging them with her as she weaved across the pavement. They made no attempt to restrain her. When she fell over, I watched the tangle of arms being pulled apart. She sat laughing on the pavement as her friends tried to drag her to her feet. How can a girl demean herself so much? When she was eventually helped up, the three girls linked arms again and continued on their way. They wished the few people who passed them a happy Christmas. That was one reason I stayed well clear of them. Their voices were raucous, reminding me of the girls on the bus earlier in the day. Not until they were well ahead did I follow them. Even then I had to walk slowly, pausing to look in shop windows. I had no plan in mind. Following the three girls was an act of opportunism. If they had separated at Russell Square Station, the evening might have been different.
The girl who fell was wearing a scarf. Though it was wound round and round her neck, the ends still reached below her waist. If she were alone, pulling it tight would be easy. I should stand in front of her. At first she would think I was wishing her a happy Christmas. I could imagine the surprise on her face.
The girls went into the station together. It would have been easy to follow them into the lift, waiting nearby on the platform so I could get into the same coach. They would probably not notice me. At the end of their journey they would split up to go to their homes after wishing each other a happy Christmas. In my imagination I saw each girl walking alone in the darkened streets, concentration dulled by alcohol. I could have followed any of them, but I let the lift doors close. Getting home from a distant part of London might be difficult on Christmas Eve. I wanted to stay in familiar surroundings. There would be other girls.
The university buildings were in darkness. Light from the street lamps illuminated the leafless trees in the gardens. Nobody was there, of course. Gardens are forgotten at night, especially in the winter. The whole of Bloomsbury was empty. Shops were shuttered. The streets were empty of parked cars. If it had not been for the few nurses hurrying to their work, I could have been walking through an abandoned town. Instead of being alarmed, I felt possessed of a strength and suppleness hitherto unknown to me, as though I could prowl those streets for ever. I was a tiger stalking its prey. No fear, excitement or anticipation clouded my judgement as I crossed Judd Street. Such calmness was reassuring. This time I walked close to the tenement railings. High in the blackened brick walls were small lighted windows like the windows of cells. In those flats, families were gathering for Christmas. They were engrossed in last-minute preparations and unaware of my presence. In one window I glimpsed tinsel strung from lamp shades in an attempt to transform the mean homes. That made me smile. I could show them magic. In another window a Christmas tree twinkled with coloured lights. As a child I loved decorating the tree in the front room. The decorations were kept in an old shoe box unearthed from the landing cupboard each year. The bright metallic balls were wrapped individually in newspaper. Their magic survived year after year. They were so light, I wanted to blow them to the ceiling like balloons. In the curving metalled glass, every image took a different shape as I moved my head. When the balls were hung on the tree, I loved watching the fluted surfaces catching the coloured lights. They were like jewels.
A girl stood on the corner, hands thrust in the pockets of her bright red coat. I slowed. This was the part of the operation which I had not planned in detail because I could not anticipate the precise circumstances. A glance over my shoulder reassured me that the road was deserted. An empty feeling came to my stomach, though this did not impede my efficiency. I was ten yards from the girl. She had noticed me by this time. She was slimmer and shorter than the one who had waited there on the previous occasions. She was about my own age. What sort of upbringing could have brought her to such degradation was beyond my imagining. 
'Do you want to come to a hotel with me?' She had the husky voice of a girl who smokes. I was close enough to see the lined face of an older woman. It was all I could do to conceal my shock. The discovery made me hesitate, uncertain how to answer. She would not provide me with the pleasure I expected, yet I was reluctant to abandon everything I had been looking forward to. Instinctively I checked again that nobody was watching. Ahead, the road was empty. That was when my plan crystallised. It hinged on what happened when in a few steps I should be able to see around the corner to Kings Cross. If anybody was near enough to see me, I should continue walking towards Grays Inn Road without speaking. If nobody else was near, I should invite the woman to follow me. If anybody saw us after that, I should tell her to go away. She would try to make me change my mind, of course. Eventually she would give up, though I should have to endure her abuse before I was free of her. All this went through my mind in a matter of seconds. I had reached the corner. At the end of the street and beyond the jumble of neon signs was the reassuring normality of Kings Cross Station. Fewer prostitutes were waiting this time. A man was arguing with one them. His voice was raised. The others were watching. I was glad their attention was distracted, though I had no sympathy for the man. He must have known perfectly well the sort of women who frequented that street. People like him are sick.
'My car,' I said without slowing my pace. The girl fell in step beside me. I made a point of averting my face from the glowing neon signs as we crossed the road. We were entering the north side of a square. Quite suddenly the hotels and tenements were left behind. Stretching away from us were tall Victorian terraces which would not have been out of place in Streatham or Holloway. In the centre of the square were gardens bordered by trees and bushes, like a pool of darkness beyond the livid orange glare of the street lights. Ideally I should have liked to take the girl there, but the gardens were protected by a chain link fence. Beside us, occupying most of the end of the square, was what looked like a warehouse. The pavement ceased at a driveway to the shuttered entrance. I should have preferred there to be no street lights nearby. It crossed my mind to take her to one of the streets off York Way where we were less likely to be disturbed, but I could not risk people seeing us together as we crossed in front of the station. Fortunately the shutters were fitted to the inner side of the wall, creating an alcove which was in shadow. I paused. 
'Want a cigarette?' I asked.
'Let's just get to your car.'
'First things first,' I insisted, holding out the cigarette packet. We were level with the alcove. I was surprised that my hand was steady. She took a cigarette. I took one myself and put it in my mouth, rubbing my tongue against the filter tip. That made me more apprehensive than anything which happened in the course of the evening. It was the first time I had tasted a cigarette. My fear was that I might establish a habit which was difficult to give up. I stepped into the shelter of the alcove the way a smoker does as he shields himself from the wind to light a cigarette. Removing one match from the box was difficult while wearing gloves, but I could not risk taking them off. Several matches fell to the ground, but there was no time to pick them up. Naturally the girl followed me to the alcove. She was close enough for me to smell her make-up, which was sickly and overpowering. It made me want the killing to be over quickly.
After that, everything was easy. The match flared. She looked like an old woman as the flame showed deep creases in her face. While her attention was distracted by lighting the cigarette, I dropped the packet and thrust my forearm against her neck, pinning her against the shutters and stopping her from screaming. The quickness of the movement took her by surprise. She dropped the lighted match. There was a rumble as the shutters moved. I was afraid that the sound might carry, but it was too late to change the course of events. She was trying to pull my arm away, but she could get little purchase against my weight. Her chin was pulled up, giving her a haughty look which amused me. There was enough light for me to see her eyes. They were not as attractive as Doreen's. They were hard, though I saw in them the realisation that she knew what was coming. I should have liked to savour that moment, but I could not risk delay. She was trying to scratch me. With my free hand I gripped her throat. It moved like the hamster I was forced to hold at school. Then I was free to take my forearm from under her chin so that I could put both hands around her throat. As I squeezed, she made a choking sound. Her eyes bulged. I truly think something of her life force passed to me, giving me extra strength. If anybody had come upon me then, I believe that I should not have cared.
The body slumped just like Doreen's. In the dark alcove it looked no more than a heap of gaudy clothes. There was nothing left for either of us in that place. With her life gone, my exhilaration ebbed away. I should have picked up the cigarettes and the matches, but I was conscious of the need to escape as quickly as possible. At any moment somebody could turn the corner or a car could come from Grays Inn Road, catching me in its headlights. I crossed the road and walked south towards the far end of the gardens, trying not to betray my anxiety by hurrying. At any moment I expected to hear shouts from behind me, but the only sound was the rumble of traffic. It came from all around, yet always in the distance. The nearby streets were so empty that l could hear the echoes of my own steps. My worry was that a restricted bus service might be operating. I dislike standing at bus stops in the cold.
As I waited for a bus, I heard sirens. It was impossible to tell where they were coming from. Fortunately there was nobody else at the stop to remember me, though I was not pleased at having to wait eleven minutes before a bus arrived. Once again I bought a ticket rather than using my bus pass. I sat behind the three people on the lower deck so they would have little opportunity to study my face. At least the bus was warm. Often the heating does not work correctly. As we headed towards Kings Cross, I glimpsed the north side of the square I had so recently left. It was deserted. That was a weight off my mind. The body was likely to remain undiscovered until morning.
That was my Christmas present to myself. It was my only present. I felt tired when I got home, but at peace. After cleaning my teeth I went straight to bed. Until ten o'clock I listened to the radio with the light switched off. Then I turned off the radio and went to sleep.
*
The sense of peace stayed with me the next morning, making Christmas a happy time. Without newspapers, I could not know the response of the police to what occurred. Local radio stations may have put out some information, but I have trouble finding them on my set. Normally I listen to Radio Four. Though this means missing local news, I welcome the high quality of the programmes.
Two other tenants remained in the house over the holiday period. Obviously Mr Hopkins was there. I sometimes wonder what would happen if he were taken ill in the night. As a paying tenant, I have no responsibility towards him. Illness is something I find distasteful.
Steve Jenkins was the other tenant who stayed. At least I was spared the sound of his motorcycle being revved up first thing in the morning and causing interference on my radio. His current girlfriend stayed with him, though I think it unlikely that he asked the landlord's permission. When I moved in, I was expressly forbidden from having other people to sleep in my room and I am sure that other tenants were given a similar injunction.
It was good to have the house so empty. Even here in my own room I am conscious of the lack of privacy. The presence of other tenants cannot be ignored even when they keep themselves to themselves. Coughing, creaking floorboards and noises from the plumbing signal their presence. Sometimes when I wake in the early hours, I hear Mrs Leary snoring in the room above. The thought I try to shut out of my mind is that people can follow what I am doing by listening to me.
The disadvantage of having so few people in the house was that the telephone kept ringing till until I was forced to answer it if only to get some peace. I solved this problem by taking it off the hook. There might have been complaints from the authorities, but I felt my action was justified. At least I was able to relax. I did not envy the others having an 'exciting' Christmas. Parties do not appeal to me. I have never been one to crave company. There was plenty of time to think about what had happened. Clearly my attempt to find a girlfriend was an aberration. It was no more than a wish to emulate other men of my age. Meeting Sandra disrupted my routine and caused me to miss my favourite radio programmes for no good reason. That was something I had no intention of repeating. I prefer the freedom to choose when to go out and where to go. There is no pleasure in being forced to visit foreign restaurants or to make conversation about topics which are of no interest to me. My evening with Sandra was valuable if only because it taught me my true feelings.
I have always enjoyed being alone. As child I preferred playing on my own. Joining in with other children was a trial to me. Sport is an example I have already cited. Another is projects. At school we had to form groups to take part in projects such as looking at how our milk is delivered, or the natural history of a pond. I was forced by the teacher to join a group, though I should have preferred to work alone. Most of the project sessions were spent talking and arguing. I did not join in. I could have done the work much more easily by myself, but of course this was not allowed.
Being an only child, I had no such problems at home. Some people feel sorry for you if you have no brothers or sisters, but I think it is an advantage. Sharing my toys and books was something I never wanted. Nor should I ever wish to share a bedroom. During my final year at school, a holiday in France was arranged for senior pupils. One reason I did not go was that I did not wish to share a bedroom.
For two days over Christmas, I did not venture out. There was no reason to do so. I see no point in going out unnecessarily, particularly in winter. Added to this, the events of Christmas Eve left me unusually tired. The feeling came so suddenly on Christmas afternoon that I thought I had flu. It was not the normal tiredness of physical exertion. I felt as though my strength was being sucked away. This was undoubtably a response to stress.
I think the rest was good for me. An occasional break from routine provides a way of rekindling enthusiasm for everyday tasks. It gives you something to look back on. Fortunately I had bought the Radio Times as I do each Christmas and marked all the programmes I wanted to hear. Some good plays are broadcast, in spite of the seasonal changes to the schedules. All in all it was an enjoyable Christmas. The paella was quite nice, though the rice had to be cooked for a long time, which steamed up the windows.
I prefer having a room which faces the road, though I am sure there is less noise at the back of the house. I like to watch the comings and goings of my neighbours while remaining unobserved. The young couple living opposite have a room similar to my own, though how two people manage in such a confined space, I cannot understand. I do not know whether they are married. They are both students, though they can afford to run a car. Their windows are festooned with stickers for left-wing causes. If I were their landlord, I should not have something to say about that. They rarely bother to pull their curtains in the evening. What amazes me apart from the untidiness of the room is their lack of concern about people seeing in. They seem to delight in living their life in a goldfish bowl. The table is in the bay window. Books are spread over it when they write essays. They prepare food on it, eating in full view of passers-by. Their favourite meal is spaghetti, which they eat several times a week. It is not the tinned sort I eat, but long spaghetti which hangs down their chins as they cram it into their mouths. 
If I stand on a chair, I can see the double mattress which serves as their bed. It is on the floor. In their position, I should have complained to the landlord until he provided a proper bed. They lie on it to look at television. They even have the television on in the morning while they eat breakfast. When they are not watching, they are endlessly talking. As they get food ready, it is not unusual for them to break off for ten minutes to talk. Sometimes in the evening, a friend brings a bottle of wine. Then the talking goes on for hours, no doubt under the influence of alcohol. The gestures remind me of watching a silent film. What they find to say, I do not know.
Once I witnessed an argument between the couple. I knew what was happening by their expressions. The girl thrust her head forward when she spoke, as though she was making an accusation. The man turned away. A few moments later he came out of the house. I heard the front door slamming. He looked straight ahead as he hurried down the road, his coat unbuttoned. The girl leaned against the table. She stared out the window. I do not know whether she saw me watching.
On another occasion I saw the man changing his shirt. He could easily have turned off the light or pulled the curtains. Perhaps he had a momentary lapse of memory. I have net curtains at my windows. If they had not been there when I came, I should have bought them myself. I have no wish to live my life under the public gaze. Nobody can see into my room unless the light is on, but when I am changing my clothes, I make a point of pulling the main curtains as a precaution. 
The girl always pulls the curtains when she changes. She often wears jeans so tight that when she stands against the light, I imagine I am looking at the silhouette of her naked body. She is unusually slim. I marvel at her fragility. She resembles a china ornament. Her hair is close cropped, like a boy's. I wish she would grow it longer. What I like best is seeing her walk down the street in her tight jeans, her hips twisting with each step. She must know how men look at her. She walks like that when she is with her boyfriend.
The couple who live in the flat above them have a baby, though I should not have thought such a place suitable for bringing up a family. The man is bearded. He leaves for work at the same time as me, though I have never spoken to him. He always wears dirty jeans and a donkey jacket. He walks with deliberate steps as though pacing out a cricket pitch, his eyes fixed on the ground. His wife is a tiny woman with a face like an elf. You expect her to be pushing a toy pram rather than a real one. Her sharp features make her look shrivelled and prematurely old. Her face is always red as though she has been exerting herself. Her clothes have the faded and ill-fitting look of items bought second hand. She only has one coat. The lining sags below the hem. Quite often she does not wear stockings. When the couple go out together, her husband always puts his arm around her protectively. They seem devoted to each other and to the baby. Sometimes I wonder what it is like to have a child. I do not suppose I shall ever know. 
The adjoining house is occupied by a West Indian family. When I first saw them, I was afraid they might be rowdy, bearing in mind my unfortunate experience in Streatham. Happily I was proved wrong. They are in many respects model residents, making very little noise. My only criticism is that they own a dog. The husband takes it out every evening. He does keep it on a lead, which is more than some people do, but in my opinion the London streets are unsuitable for dogs. I have seen people allowing their pets to foul the pavements. This is a health hazard as well as being extremely unpleasant.
In the house on the other side from the students lived a girl who was beautiful. In all the months of watching her, I never saw her with anyone. She was somebody I wanted to know. Men always noticed her. She was striking: tall and elegant with long blonde hair. I could not understand why she did not have a boyfriend. Sometimes I was lucky enough to see her going to the bus stop in the morning. Once she stood in front of me in the queue. She had just washed her hair. I breathed the shampoo smell deeply, loving it because it came from her. Her every movement was exciting: the strands of hair which clung to her collar as she moved her head and the way she brushed her hand across her skirt as though smoothing away invisible creases. That was an occasion when I wished the bus would be delayed. I think I fell in love with her. On the following days I watched from my window each morning for as long as I dared, not wanting to leave home until she appeared. Missing her upset me. I wanted to see her room. That would have told me a lot about her. From the row of bells by the front door, I know that there were four flatlets in the house. I imagined her room to be scrupulously tidy and much better furnished than mine, with a fitted carpet except in the kitchen area which was covered in highly-polished vinyl. I could not imagine her sharing a bathroom. She was too fastidious.
Two weeks after I stood behind her at the bus stop, she stopped appearing in the mornings. That caused me much regret, however much I try to exclude emotions from my life. It was last summer. Since then I have not seen her again. I can only assume that she moved, though I did wonder whether my interest drove her away. Whenever I pass her house, I still glance involuntarily at the front door, hoping that it will open she will appear.
When people live in the same house, it is difficult not to get drawn into their lives. Take Mrs Leary, for instance, or Rosemary Leary as she is addressed on some of her letters. I know what kind of make-up she wears because I saw her rubbish bag when it split open in the dustbin. I know that she always uses the downstairs shower in preference to the bath, though given the condition of the bath this does not surprise me. If only she would clean the shower tray after using it. Because the telephone is in the hall by my door, I was forced to follow the course of her affair with a married man which seemed to be conducted largely by telephone. One call lasted half an hour. The man always rang her. On one occasion I had to tell her that he wanted to speak to her. She was excited then, running down the stairs as though afraid he might ring off. The puzzling thing was that she never had anything important to say. She told him inconsequential things like what she ate for lunch and what she was wearing. Even when they were meeting the same day, they still talked on the telephone for just as long. Her tone was soft when she spoke to him. The caressing quality made me feel restful. I wished somebody would speak to me like that. Clearly there was something special about their relationship. They talked quite openly about how he was going to leave his wife. When I heard her arranging to meet him in Highgate, I felt tempted to follow. It would have been interesting to see this man who aroused such feelings in her and to watch them together. My regret is that I did not do so, because soon afterwards something happened which ended their relationship. The telephone calls stopped suddenly. It would have been interesting to gauge Mrs Leary's reaction, but I saw little of her. Sometimes at night I thought I heard her crying in the room above me. Crying is something so intimate that she would not like anybody else to know, but as I have said, in a house like this you cannot help knowing the intimate details of other people's lives.
Steve Jenkins often brings girlfriends home. At weekends he comes home late, making no attempt to be quiet. Several times I have been awakened by the front door banging as he brings his latest girlfriend back. I hear the footsteps and the giggling as they go upstairs. I know the girls stay all night because I met one coming out the shower early on a Sunday morning. She did not seem in the least embarrassed, though she only had a towel wrapped around her. Her skin was pink from rubbing herself dry. She smelt of scented soap. I could see the outline of her collarbone. I was close enough to touch. It looked incongruous, like a flaw on her beauty which was exposed accidentally. The morning sun showed goose pimples on her thighs. Her hair was straggly from washing. She stopped to tell me that she had just put a coin in the meter, so there was plenty of hot water left. I was confused, but I remember thanking her. She smiled back. She had blue eyes. The way she looked at me made me feel that I was the one not wearing clothes. I had to turn away, though part of me wanted to keep talking so she would have to stay. As she padded to the stairs, she left wet footprints along the hall. It was the first time I saw a girl walking barefoot. The shower cubicle was warm and humid. Condensation ran down the frosted glass window. The smell of her soap was overpowering. I was glad that she had not washed the shower tray. Curly hairs clung to the plastic. As I showered, I breathed deeply, filling my lungs with her smell. The thought of her washing under the same shower gave me the heady feeling which I did not experience again until Doreen's accident.
An hour later I glimpsed the girl through my window when she left with Steve. She had probably forgotten all about me. I never saw her again. The following weekend another girl stayed all night. She did not take a shower.
Derek Gaines has a girlfriend named Lisa. He has never brought her here, so I can only imagine what she is like. Twice a week he telephones her. He has a jaunty style of speech when he talks to her. They talk a lot about people they know and about Lisa's course. She is training to be a teacher. Their conversations are factual compared with Mrs Leary's. I know he often takes Lisa to restaurants.  It would not surprise me if they frequent the place I went with Sandra as it is quite central.
The Chinese girl works hard as far as I can judge. Most weekday evenings she spends alone in her room, though I notice that she is out every Friday, presumably at some social gathering. She often goes away at weekends. Once she brought a man here whom I assume was her boyfriend. I heard them talking in their own language as she opened her door. He stayed all night. I remember lying in bed and listening to the noises they made.
It is strange how in spite of myself I am drawn to the activities of my neighbours. I suppose I am part of the local community, though I do not think of myself in that way. In the library I see posters advertising rallies by political parties, jumble sales and meetings by local societies from Friends of the Earth to clubs for the elderly. Such events hold no interest for me. Outside of work I prefer to be in control of my own life rather than feeling under an obligation to other people. Sometimes I wonder what the people with whom I come into contact think of me. What I should like is to be invisible, so that I can hear what other people say about me. Probably they hardly notice me. Some people make a point of drawing attention to themselves with outlandish clothes or exhibitionist behaviour. This I find difficult to understand.
A small front garden separates my window from the pavement. This gives me a measure of extra privacy. The landlord does not bother to keep down the weeds or to prune the bushes, in spite of my repeated requests. I attempted to cut the privet with scissors, but the twigs were too tough. If it grows too high, I cannot see the houses opposite. Bushes overhang the pavement, but nobody cares.
Once this house belonged to a single family. I often speculate about who lived here and whether anybody from those years is still alive. My room must once have been the drawing room. It is spacious. A few original features like the ornate plaster cornice have survived, though it is cracked and flaking. I keep the room clean and tidy as far as time will allow. When I moved here, I purchased my own cleaning materials since none were provided by the landlord, but I can do nothing about the state of the decoration. That is the landlord's responsibility. On several occasions, flakes of paint have fallen from the ceiling on to the table, but as usual nothing has been done in spite of my complaints. Once I might have been surprised, but I have come to expect such an attitude.
This is my fourth rented room and the best I have found so far. Since first coming to London, I have become less critical of my surroundings. I do not notice the cheapness of the furniture except when sunshine floods the room on winter mornings, revealing every imperfection. The wardrobe must once have been part of a three-piece suite. It is large enough to hold all my clothes, though some thoughtless tenant scratched the surface. All my efforts to remove the mark have failed. I doubt anybody bothered to use furniture polish here before I came. There were food stains not only on the floor, but on the furniture. As for the electric ring, I had to scrape burnt food off that. It took me a month of working at weekends to get things tolerably clean. How my predecessor could have lived in such conditions, I do not know. At least the water heater over the sink works, so I had an ample supply of hot water for my task.
Whenever I take a rented room, I make a point of cleaning it thoroughly, even if it looks superficially clean. This is a distasteful but necessary task. Some people seem content to live in squalor. They leave traces of their presence like fluff or buttons in drawers. Even worse, are particles of food under the sink. In one lodging, I discovered an article of clothing left in a drawer.
Another annoying habit I have frequently encountered amongst tenants is to stick posters on the walls. When they are removed, the wallpaper underneath is pulled away. At first I did not know what the little triangles of torn paper were. Then I noticed posters on the walls of other people's rooms. I should make it clear that I have no occasion to visit other people's rooms, but as I walk home from the bus stop, I cannot help seeing into rooms similar to my own when people do not pull their curtains. Many of the posters I should not wish to have on my walls. Some reproductions of paintings are attractive, though I prefer a properly-framed picture. What I dislike are posters of pop musicians with guitars, or black and white photographs of an obscene nature. How anybody could look at things like that all day is beyond my comprehension. Posters are a matter over which landlords could be stricter, both to safeguard the decorations and to prevent such displays. I am pleased to say that the walls in my room are undamaged. They are bare except for a framed picture of an alpine scene which was here when I arrived. I have no objection to that.
London seemed intimidating when I first came here. I had never lived in a large city before, so this was perfectly natural. Arriving in a strange city to start a job is like beginning at a new school, except that there is no going home at the end of the day. Everybody must be apprehensive in such a situation. For the first few nights I stayed at a hotel near Paddington. The area is not salubrious, though I was unaware of this at the time. The room was cramped, there were comings and goings in the corridor at all hours of the night and the standard of cleanliness left much to be desired. Using a public bathroom is something I have come to accept, though at first I found it abhorrent. The other thing I particularly disliked was encountering my fellow guests at breakfast. Elderly guests would often pass some remark about the weather which I pretended not to hear. I did not wish to engage in conversation. Nor was the food of a high standard. The toast was frequently cold and the tea had a bitter taste. Fortunately I did not take the optional evening meal. I preferred to choose where to eat. Though I was anxious to leave such unsuitable and expensive accommodation, I became dispirited about ever finding somewhere more permanent to live. All my telephone calls in response to advertisements came to nothing. However soon I telephoned after the newspaper came out, either the line was continuously engaged or somebody else had got there before me.
Finding a room is a matter of perseverance and luck. On the third day, I telephoned after a room which was still available. It was in Walthamstow, which was an area new to me. I went straight there on the Victoria Line, knowing that any delay would mean the room being let to somebody else. My first view of Walthamstow appalled me. Two days earlier I should have turned around and taken the next train from such a run-down and dirty place, but my experiences had made me less choosy. Though I was shocked by the surroundings, my need to find somewhere to live was pressing. Undoubtably the landlord relied on the desperation of potential tenants. When he showed me the room, I was so thankful to find somewhere to live that I agreed to take it without considering the problems. These showed themselves soon enough. There was no washbasin in the room and the bathroom was in such a disgusting state that I preferred to use the facilities at the office as much as possible.  If they lacked privacy, at least they were clean. Nor did the room have cooking facilities, meaning that I had to share a kitchen with six other tenants, none of whom bothered to clean up afterwards. I still shudder when I think of the state of the cooker. It was black with burnt-on fat. One Indian gentleman cooked a curry every evening. The smell never went away, however long the window was left open. I tried to see as little as possible of my fellow tenants by keeping in my room a small stock of food such as bread and cheese which did not need cooking. Imagine my horror when I discovered mice droppings on my table as I was about to prepare breakfast. That decided me. Straight away I began looking for somewhere else to live. During the next two weeks I put poison around the edge of the room every day. When I told the landlord about the mice, all he did was laugh. He was a jovial West Indian. I think his command of English may have been at fault. For several nights I hardly slept as I lay in the darkness listening for the scuffling. Since that experience, I would never consider renting a room without carefully examining the skirting for mouse holes.
Another thing I have learned to look for is the state of the mattress. The ones provided in rented accommodation are often soiled, though unscrupulous landlords try to conceal the fact by turning them over. This was the case in Walthamstow. Without knowing any better, I made up the bed without first looking at the underside of the mattress. For two weeks I slept on it without suspecting anything was amiss. When I came to change the bedding, the sight which met my eyes on turning the mattress horrified me. It was the last time I slept on it. Until I moved out, I made do with the divan base. On coming to view this room, I insisted on examining the mattress, much to the amusement of the landlord. It could have been cleaner, but I felt it would be adequate with a nylon cover which of course I had to buy myself. In spite of the initial outlay, I am glad that I bought all my own bedding. Even if it were provided, I should still prefer to use my own. This is the only way to be sure that what you are sleeping on is clean and that nobody else has used it. It has to be washed regularly of course, but that is essential even where the landlord provides all bedding. Washing sheets has to be done first thing in the morning in order to put them back on the bed the same day, dried and aired. This is a considerable task, but I feel reassured when it is done. I wash the sheets every two weeks. Blankets I have dry cleaned every three months, though this means paying extra for same-day service. Ideally I should have a spare set of bedding, but apart from the expense and the problems of storage, this would mean more luggage to carry around when I change rooms again.
My second room was in Streatham. I found it through an agency, though their fee was excessive and almost certainly illegal from what I have read. At least the room was an improvement. It had its own twin boiling ring, though one ring did not work and the other was far from clean. Had it not been for the other tenants, I should have stayed longer. I have already mentioned the noise they made. Although I consider myself a tolerant person, being kept awake night after night by pop music is unacceptable. When my complaints yielded no response, my only option was to seek other accommodation.
I like to think that each move has represented an improvement in my circumstances. Certainly my third room was better than the others. It was advertised in a weekly paper. This was not a means of finding a room I had tried before, but I was determined not to use an agency again if this could be avoided. I was pleasantly surprised by what I found on this occasion. My habit is to arrive early so that I can walk around the neighbourhood. Holloway reminded me of Streatham with its terraces of three-storeyed Victorian houses, its many small shops and the blocks of council flats. The house I was visiting was in a quiet street, but convenient for the bus stop. The room was bright and airy. I was happy living there. If the landlord had not sold the house to a property company who wanted to convert it into flats, I should have stayed there longer.
My present room was advertised in a newsagent's window in Holloway. When you already live in an area, it is easier to find rooms available locally. I was lucky that the advertisement appeared just at the right moment. Hornsey is a better area than Holloway, though the two are adjacent. In London you find areas next to each other which are totally different in character. Even opposite sides of the same street may be different. This is one of the interesting things about London. Certainly Hornsey is a pleasant place to live. With its hills, its tree-lined streets and the vistas of parks and woodland, it has the feel of a country town. I consider myself lucky to have come here.
*
Several times over the Christmas holiday when there were no interesting programmes on the radio to distract me, my thoughts went back to the events of Christmas Eve. I tried to think of how I might have given myself away. There was nobody to see me as I passed the tenements. The other prostitutes were too interested in the argument to notice me crossing the road with the woman in red. Anyway, the light was so poor that I am sure none of them could see my face. A few people passed me as I made my way towards Grays Inn Road after the accident, but they were too preoccupied with Christmas to pay much attention. What did concern me were the matches and cigarettes which I did not have time to retrieve, but I reassured myself with the thought that these were popular brands and unlikely to be traced. The surprising thing was that the ploy had worked so well, though I could not rely on such luck again. At least my leather gloves would not have left any fluff or fingerprints. 	
It was with some relief that I went back to the office after Christmas. Having a few days off is all very well, but it does not get the work done. Indeed, it creates more work because there is always a backlog after a public holiday. An occasional day off is acceptable for such matters as hospital appointments, but I soon grow bored with being at home. Each year when Mr Wiggins reminds me that I have not taken my full holiday entitlement, I explain that I take all the leave I want and that I do not expect payment in lieu. Leave cannot be carried forward into the next year: I understand that. What should I do if I did take a week off? I am aware that package holidays are available, but I do not wish to visit countries where standards of hygiene leave much to be desired. My work also makes me acutely aware of the fire risks in hotels and how many burglaries take place when houses are left unoccupied. Nor do I have money to spare for holidays. I suspect that people who go away for two or three weeks are the sort who are quite happy to leave mortgages and other bills unpaid. Several people of my own grade and earn the same salary as me make a point of going abroad every summer. They run cars and from their talk I know that they go out to pubs and discos in the evenings, so it stands to reason that they are heavily in debt. One thing I pride myself on is paying my rent promptly.
The second accident was reported on an inside page of the evening paper. The woman's name was Eileen. The single paragraph noted that the police thought there were similarities to Doreen's death, but they were keeping an open mind. No mention was made of witnesses. As in the case of Doreen's accident, I reasoned that if nobody came forward within a week, it was unlikely that anybody would. That gave me more days of worrying which set my studies back further. I should like to dismiss irrelevant matters from my thoughts. It is silly to let things go round and round in my mind so much that my efficiency is impaired. I am trying to train myself not to let extraneous matters affect me. I should like to erase all memories of my childhood, which are often a distraction.
Normally I dislike winter. I think of electric fires burning in the other rooms and the fire hazard this poses with people like Steve Jenkins about. Nor do I like stuffy buses which are a breeding ground for germs. This winter was different. I rejoiced. It was in the cold and the darkness that I found excitement.

Chapter 4

Two weeks after Christmas, no witnesses to Eileen's death had come forward. This was a considerable relief to me. It meant that although I had taken risks, I had exercised sufficient prudence to make them acceptable. I shall explain this. In insurance terms, a simple action like going shopping constitutes a risk if your home is left unattended and vulnerable to thieves. Risks cannot be avoided, but they can be kept within acceptable levels, which is what I achieved. A knowledge of the elements of insurance provides a good grounding for many aspects of life.
An unexpected happening in early January was the arrival of another letter in response to my advertisement. Imagine my surprise on recognising the postmark and the oversize envelope as I sorted the post in the morning. To avoid going back to my room, I put the unopened envelope in my pocket. I decided not to open it on the bus journey where other people might see. My life which had begun to seem settled was plunged into uncertainty again. As I was a couple of minutes early arriving at the office and my colleagues were not there, I took the opportunity to find out who had taken so long to contact me. The writing on the inner envelope was neat, with well-rounded letters. I believe that handwriting can tell you a lot about character and that a girl's writing is distinctive. This writer was obviously careful in her habits. Unfortunately other people came into the office then, so I had to slip the unopened envelope inside my jacket where it would be safe. I never take off my jacket at the office unless there is a heatwave.
The evening was cold enough for snow, so I was glad to get back to my room and switch the fire on. Before preparing any food, I knelt before the fire to read the letter. It was from a girl named Margaret. She apologised for the late reply, explaining that she had picked up the magazine containing my advertisement from a friend. She stated that although she was sure I had received many replies, she thought she would write anyway.
After my experience, I was hesitant about replying. An additional reason for caution was Margaret's interest in religion. I appreciated her sincerity in mentioning it and I have nothing against religion, but it has not figured greatly in my life. In spite of my reservations, the tone of the letter was so open-hearted and friendly that I felt compelled to respond with more than a polite acknowledgement. After much thought I decided to telephone because that way it was easier to make arrangements if she wished to meet me. This was in spite of my dislike of using the telephone and after all my resolutions never to risk another evening like the one with Sandra. The hope of meeting somebody special and of entering into a relationship overcame my better judgement.
I went out to telephone immediately after eating. I put on my overcoat because of the cold. Frost glittered on the pavements. When I took off my gloves in the telephone box, my fingers were numb. As the ringing tone sounded, part of me hoped there would be no reply. I doubt whether I should have tried again. Just as I was about to put the telephone down, Margaret answered. She sounded a cheerful person, which accorded with the impression she gave in her letter. Without knowing anything about me, she said that she would like us to meet and could I make it the following day? This was sooner than I had expected, but I had no objection. She suggested meeting at the Swiss Centre in Leicester Square. This was not somewhere I knew, but I agreed as she assured me it was quite easy to find. Once again I had to describe what I should be wearing. This is a distasteful procedure but it is necessary for identification purposes when meeting a stranger. Fortunately nobody was outside the telephone box to overhear. If there had been, I might have abandoned the whole enterprise. As I returned to my room, I felt a stirring of anticipation in spite of my earlier reservations. I told myself that this time, things would be different.
Our meeting was to take place at seven o'clock. Because of work commitments, Margaret could not come any earlier. Accordingly on the Tuesday I stayed at the office until six o'clock. With everybody else gone and no telephones to interrupt me, it was possible to concentrate on my work without being distracted by thoughts of the evening to come. Before setting out that morning, I had checked in my street atlas and calculated that I should allow twenty minutes to reach Leicester Square. I should have preferred to stay at the office until a quarter past six. This was not possible because security staff lock the building at six unless special arrangements are made with the head of department. I was annoyed with myself for not remembering this, but at least leaving at six allowed me plenty of time for my journey. Walking along New Oxford Street, I could not help feeling a sense of foreboding after my experience with Sandra. This taught me that it was possible to gain the wrong impression of somebody from a letter.
Normally I am the sort of person who thinks ahead. Why I failed to do so that day, I do not know. Possibly anticipation overcame my more cautious instincts. First there was my failure to ask permission to stay late at the office. Then as I reached Tottenham Court Road, I found myself unable to remember the way to Leicester Square. This was particularly annoying because thinking the journey straightforward, I did not bother to bring my street atlas. Seeing the restaurant where I ate with Sandra aroused unpleasant memories. I stood near the Dominion Theatre, unsure which way to go. As there was no policeman to ask, I set off along Oxford Street. My hope was that I should recognise the name of a street leading to Leicester Square. Oxford Street is not somewhere I visit frequently as it is too far from the office to reach comfortably in the lunch hour. It is certainly a lively place. Even at a quarter past six, the pavements were crowded. Most shops were closed. Those which remained open sold souvenirs, posters and cheap clothes such as jeans and T-shirts. The interiors were bright with flashing coloured lights. Pop music booming across the pavement from speakers drowned the noise of traffic. How people can work in such a din is beyond me. There are laws about noise in the workplace, but obviously they are not enforced.
None of the street names looked familiar, so all I could do was to head south and hope that I should emerge near Leicester Square. The street I chose was narrow. The blackened brick buildings pressed in on both sides. They looked as if they had been there a hundred years or more. The pavements were partially blocked by piles of rubbish. Between the shopfronts were shabby doorways opening onto crooked and dirty corridors. They all had a musty smell like spilt face powder. The floor coverings were cracked, the walls scuffed and discoloured. I did not much like passing them. Many of the shops sold wholesale jewellery. You find districts in London specialising in clothing or watchmaking, though I never thought there was much demand for cheap jewellery. A snack bar was open, though there were no customers. I was tempted to buy a cup of tea and take the opportunity to ask the way to Leicester Square. After looking through the window at the man behind the counter, I decided not to bother. As a foreigner he would be unlikely to know his way around our city and he looked none too clean.
Naturally I felt anticipation at the prospect of meeting Margaret, but I remained calm. Alas, my calmness was soon shattered. I was idly looking in a shop window as I passed, when it registered that I was looking at colour photographs of near-naked men displaying their muscles. The sight was enough to make me stop in my tracks. The shop sold magazines devoted to pinups of men. I soon moved on when my initial horror and surprise abated. I did not want anybody thinking I was interested in such a display. Imagine my surprise on seeing another shop of the same kind! Only then did it occur to me that I had strayed into Soho. This is a place with a reputation for violence, sex shops and prostitutes. I had heard of it, but I never intended visiting it. The realisation of where I was threw me into a state of confusion. It was essential to leave immediately, though without losing my bearings. This was another occasion when the presence of a policeman would have been welcome, though needless to say there was none in evidence. All I could do was to continue walking more quickly than before and without glancing at any more shops. It is amazing that so close to a famous shopping centre like Oxford Street which is a Mecca for tourists, obscene material is on display for anybody to see.
This was not the end of my difficulties. All the streets in the area are narrow and clogged with traffic. As I tried to cross the road, I was almost knocked down by a motorcycle. The rider hooted and swore at me as though it was my fault when clearly he was in the wrong for driving too fast. I expected other people to take my side, but nobody paid any attention. That is one thing I dislike about being in London: if you are in trouble, nobody helps you.
I was still heading due south. Ahead of me the street looked more unsavoury than the section I had passed through. It was evidently a street market. On the corner was an old-fashioned pub with brown glazed bricks on its walls. I always think this is because they are easy to wash down after men are sick over them. Further along, tramps were scavenging for the pieces of fruit lying in the gutter. I expected to be accosted for money, so I strode on quickly. That was another mistake. My feet slipped from under me and I was sitting on the ground before I could save myself, Pain radiated from the bottom of my spine. Many serious accidents must be caused this way. The awareness of my undignified position made me clamber painfully to my feet. When I looked down, it was obvious what had happened. I had slipped on a rotting tomato. This is what happens when street traders are too lazy to clear up after them. My raincoat and trousers were marked and my right hand was grazed. I felt shaken, but otherwise unharmed. After that I kept a close eye on the pavement ahead of me while at the same time trying to visualise my route on the map. At the end of the street was a warren of lanes and alleys more suited to Dickensian London than the present day. To the right, a lane bent behind the shops. An alleyway lined with shops branched off from it. To the left, the road connected with the parallel street. From memory I was sure that my course lay straight ahead. In front of me was another alleyway with an arch over it and shops on either side. My trepidation as I ventured forward proved amply justified. The scene which met my eyes reminded me of what I saw at Kings Cross on that wonderful night. Photographs of naked women adorned the entrance to a peep show. One man went inside as I watched, turning his face from the passers-by as well he might. A screen inside the doorway hid what went on. I for one had no wish to find out. Even the smell was sickening. It reminded me of the woman in the red coat. On the other side of the alley was another club, this time with a carpeted foyer, marble steps and glittering chandeliers. It could have been the entrance to an expensive hotel except that there were photographs of near-naked dancers by the doors. All I could do was to hurry under the arch. The air reeked of onions cooking on a food stall. That is the sort of place I should never patronise. Apart from being open to the street, all the food looked greasy. To make matters worse, the man in charge was smoking. This is illegal. Opposite was a bookshop devoted to pornographic magazines. Again there was a screen inside the door as a sop to decency, though the magazines in the windows were enough to upset anybody. I felt ashamed to be seen near such a place. How anybody with a shred of self-respect could go inside is beyond me.
My legs felt weak as I continued southwards. After everything that had happened and with the marks on my clothes, I was in no fit condition to meet anybody. Such was my state of mind that I considered hiring a taxi to take me all the way home. What stopped me was my sense of responsibility. Having arranged to meet Margaret, I could not let her down. 
At last Soho was behind me. Ahead was a main road crowded mainly with young people. This was a relief, though it made me more conscious of my dishevelled state. From the main road I glimpsed Piccadilly Circus on my right. That is somewhere else to be avoided, judging by what I have heard. Drug addicts and dropouts congregate there. Fortunately a policeman was on hand to direct me to the Swiss Centre. This turned out to be close by, so in spite of all my setbacks, I still arrived with time to spare.
The Swiss Centre is an office block. It has a canopy like the Dominion Theatre, but the entrance is smaller and leads downwards to shops inside the building. Display cases and shop windows line the passage. At least it was a warmer place to wait than outside the Dominion Theatre.
My hand was still stinging. I did not relish the idea of leaving it unwashed as tetanus can be contracted from quite insignificant wounds, Nor did I want to risk missing Margaret while I was searching for a washroom. My only option was to hope that she arrived soon. To take my mind off my hand, I studied the restaurant menu. The food was more expensive than where I went with Sandra. I glimpsed the restaurant downstairs. Even late in the day it was still busy. My view is that if people accept outrageous charges, then restaurants will go on imposing them.
Several other girls were waiting, but none matched Margaret's description. I avoided catching their eye. Waiting for somebody gives you a feeling of being on display like an object in a shop window. When you are waiting for a stranger, she is free to accept you or to walk on making no sign that you are recognised. As I waited in the warmth of the Swiss Centre entrance, I wondered how many people were left waiting there, perhaps for hours. Once I could not have believed anybody would show such a lack of courtesy, but my experience of how nerve-wracking it is to meet a stranger gave me a different perspective. As I glanced down at my clothes, I feared that I might be the victim of such a practice. Any girl seeing a potential partner in a coat which was as scuffed and dirty as mine might have second thoughts. The marks would have been less obvious on a darker raincoat.
One girl was met by her boyfriend. How animated she became in his company. My hope was that Margaret would be like that, but I had a premonition of waiting all the evening, not knowing whether she had been delayed or whether she had walked past and decided not to know me. Fortunately such fears proved groundless. 
I recognised her immediately as she hesitated, scanning the faces. As she identified me, we both smiled. Her eyes were brown and deep, with a liquid quality as though she had been crying. That made her look vulnerable, which I found attractive. She was a slight girl, shorter than in my imagination. Her shoulder-length brown hair was neat and well brushed. She was more attractive than Sandra and there was a brightness about her which appealed to me. I felt certain that this time, things were going to be different. When I apologised for the state of my clothes, I saw her look of concern.
'Are you sure you're all right?'
I assured her that the only damage apart from the bruising and the marks on my raincoat and trousers was the graze on my hand, though the damage to my clothes was bad enough. Both my raincoat and suit needed dry cleaning.
'We'll have to find somewhere for you to have a wash,' she said in businesslike fashion. 'Do you want to go in the toilets over there?'
There were public toilets nearby, but I should not have contemplated using them. The standard of hygiene in those places is such that to my mind they constitute a health hazard. Instead I asked Margaret what she would like to do for the evening. It occurred to me then that I should have bought an evening newspaper so we should know what films were showing.
'Have you eaten yet?' she wanted to know.
I told her that I had not, but before I could explain the reasons she went on, 'Let's go somewhere to eat then. I don't know about you, but I'm starving.'
There are plenty of restaurants to choose from in central London. My fear was that Margaret might want to go into the Swiss Centre itself. I do not know anything about Swiss food. Fortunately we found a restaurant nearby which sold English food. The first thing I did when we got there was to excuse myself in order to bathe my hand. Margaret agreed this was important. She said that she liked the restaurant. She smiled more that Sandra.
I chose steak from the menu. I was glad when the waitress asked me how I wanted it cooked. All meat needs to be well cooked to remove the risk of infection. With this proviso, steak is a good choice for a restaurant you do not know. Margaret had fish. This is something I avoid because it goes off quickly. Of course, I did not voice my doubts. I must say that when it came, the steak was perfectly cooked.
Margaret was easier to talk to than Sandra. She showed a genuine interest in my studies. In return she told me about her job as receptionist for a firm of accountants. It sounded very interesting. Although I have not formally studied accountancy, it is something which I find interesting. I have read several books on the subject.
The evening was a success. Unlike the previous occasion, I did not find myself looking enviously at other men taking girls out. How fortunate that I had not contented myself with writing a polite acknowledgement in response to Margaret's letter. I envisaged that we should spend many happy evenings together as our relationship deepened. The one doubt in my mind was her interest in religion. It was not something which I liked to bring into the conversation, so I was glad when she raised it.
'Do you go to church?' she asked.
I confessed that I did not.
'Have you thought about going?'
I shook my head.
'Lots of people think it's fuddy-duddy,' she explained, 'but it's nothing like that. I couldn't think of a world without the church now. It takes up most of my time.'
Her fervour was alarming. I wondered whether she was going to pray in front of all the customers, but fortunately she did not.
'You believe in God, don't you?' she asked.
'I suppose so,' I said cautiously. It is not something I think about, but I did not want to upset her.
'Don't you think there's something missing in your life?'
I stared at her because I did not know what she was talking about. 
'Don't you feel there's got to be a way to a better world?'
I made noncommital noises and tried to concentrate on my food. Such talk embarrasses me. Perhaps she was aware of this, for she added, 'I'd better not preach at you, had I? Don't want you walking out on me.'
I assured her that I should not do such a thing. 
'I know you wouldn't,' she assured me, smiling. 'I'm sorry. I talk too much.' 
'I don't mind,' I told her. I felt I was entering another world. Within the course of an evening, my life was being turned upside down. The surprising thing was that I did not mind. 
'What's the matter?' she asked, smiling. 
My feelings are private. I did not wish to explain, particularly as she was the cause of the turmoil in me. It was perceptive of her to be aware of my feelings after we had known each other such a short time. When I tried to deflect her interest, I stumbled over the words. My face went red, which was a silly thing to happen. 
'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,' she assured me. 
My throat felt as though it had a lump in it, stopping me from swallowing. I thought I was going to choke. 
'Are you all right?' she asked, and when I nodded, she assured me, 'We don't have to talk. We can just sit here if you'd rather. I don't mind.' 
When she smiled, her beauty made me forget everything going on around me. I am grateful to have experienced the moment, even if I cannot recapture it. 
'I don't even know where you live,' she asked suddenly. 
It was only then I realised that she knew nothing about me apart from what I told her on the telephone. I tried to think of myself in her place, looking on me as a stranger. 
'In Hornsey,' I informed her. 'It's a nice area.' 
She smiled apologetically. 'I don't know north London at all.' 
'Do you know the Alexandra Palace?' 
'I've heard of it.' 
'Hornsey is near there.' 
'What I really meant was do you share a flat or live with your parents?' 
I explained that I had a room of my own. 
'I live with my mum and dad. Mum isn't all that well, so I have to help her in the house.' 
I nodded, not knowing how to reply. 
'Are you an only child?' she pursued. When I told her that I was, she smiled. 'I thought you were. You can usually tell.' 
'How?' 
'I'm not sure what it is, but you always can tell,' she insisted. 'I'm one myself, so I'm not saying there's anything wrong.' 
That set me wondering how a relative stranger could deduce such an intimate detail. Though it was important to know, I could not upset Margaret by questioning her too closely. It crossed my mind that she might have met other people like me by answering advertisements. 
'Do your parents live in London?' she asked. 
'They're dead.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
I hoped she would not talk about them. They are part of my life which is private. 
'Do you like the food?' she asked. 
I told her that I did. I was glad that she had changed the subject. That showed her sensitivity, but from her hesitation I knew she was going to broach another personal matter. 
'Did what happened with your parents affect your faith?' 
Not wishing to discuss the matter, I just shook my head. Margaret was watching intently. For once that evening, I should have preferred to be alone. 
'You haven't talked to anybody about it, have you?' she persisted. 
'There's nothing to say.' 
'It helps if you tell God. You needn't tell me, but tell God in your prayers.' 
That was her view and she was entitled to it. I had no wish to argue. 
'How does the church take up so much of your time?' I asked, as a way of changing the subject. I was also genuinely intrigued. For me, a church is a place where people go on Sundays. 
'There's a family service on Sunday morning,' she began, ticking the items off on her fingers. 'Then on Sunday afternoons I help with the Sunday school, on Sunday evening there's another service, on Monday we have a bible-reading group, on Wednesday I help with the youth club, then we often meet people from other congregations on Saturdays.' She grinned. 'It doesn't leave much time.' 
I could not imagine devoting so much of my life to a church. 
'I like playing tennis when I get the chance,' she added. 'I play with some of the other people from church. What about you? Do you play?' 
The memory of a similar conversation with Sandra came to me. 
'What's the matter?' Margaret asked, smiling. 'What have I said?' 
'Nothing.' 
She became more serious. 'I've got a suggestion.' 
'What?' 
'I don't know whether you'll like it.' 
'What is it?' 
'Will you come to church with me?' 
This was completely unexpected. Though I tried to conceal my feelings, I must have looked confused. I did not want to offend her, but I had no desire to take up her offer. 
'Come just this once and see whether you like it. You won't know till you try.' 
'I know the sort of things I like,' I insisted. 
'You'll like this, I promise you.' 
I was in a dilemma. I did not want to offend her, but I had no desire to take up her offer.
'Please, Alan. Just this once. If you don't like it, you don't have to come again, but I wish you'd try it.' 
I hesitated. 
'Will you come?' She touched my hand, making me draw it away quickly. As she looked at me, I had great difficulty in keeping my resolve. That was something new in my experience. It was disturbing not to be in control of my feelings. 
'I don't live near you,' I pointed out. 
'You can always get the tube.' 
My worst fears were coming to pass. I was putting myself under an obligation. The strange thing was that because this novel situation excited me, I did not object so strongly as I might. 
'You can have lunch with us if you like,' she offered. 
The prospect of eating lunch with her family was more alarming than the thought of going to church. 
'You don't have to,' she said, as if she were reading my thoughts. 'I thought you might like to.' 
'I'll think about it,' I assured her. 
'Just come for one Sunday service, that's all.' 
If I had not been under Margaret's spell, I should not have agreed, but at the time there seemed no alternative. It is strange how your feelings for another person can affect your rational thinking. Seeing the pleasure in her face, I felt elated that I had pleased her. An evening which began so inauspiciously was one of the most significant of my life. 
After the meal, Margaret said that she had to be getting home. When we said goodbye, the knowledge that we were going to meet again made me happy. I wanted to see her again the next day, but she said that was not possible because of her church commitments. My tenderness for her was such that I did not notice my surroundings when we left each other at Leicester Square Station. 
* 
The thought of going to church preyed on my mind for the rest of the week. Not only was the whole of Sunday going to be disrupted, but in every sense I was entering unfamiliar territory. In spite of this, the prospect of being with Margaret again made the inconvenience seem worthwhile. When I saw couples on the bus or in the street, I felt that I had shared their closeness. Though I did not join in the gossip at the office, I listened with particular interest to the talk about girlfriends. My energy levels were heightened, so that I had difficulty getting to sleep because my mind was racing. Then I awakened at four in the morning and was unable to get to sleep again. Each of the following nights was like that. I wanted to telephone Margaret from the hall, so that everybody else in the house would realise that I had a girlfriend. Fortunately my good sense stopped me from doing any such thing. 
On the Sunday I woke at five, my senses heightened and my thoughts racing over the coming day. An immediate problem was what to wear. My wardrobe is necessarily limited and I did not know what was appropriate for a church service. Nor did I know how long it would take to reach Colliers Wood where Margaret lived, or what I should say to her parents. Instead of being depressed by such worries as I might have expected, I saw them as challenges. My suit seemed most appropriate for the occasion. To be on the safe side, I left home at eight o'clock to get to the church by ten. I am sure when the underground system was constructed, but it must have provided an excellent way of getting around London. Unfortunately it has degenerated so much that I cannot be alone in using it only when absolutely necessary. The filth is enough to put people off. Once when I went to an underground station, somebody had been sick on the platform. It might just have happened, but there should have been somebody on hand to clear up the mess. On another occasion I saw a mouse on the track. With so much rubbish left lying around, this came as no surprise. A more serious hazard is the risk of violence on the trains. What can you do if the train is in a tunnel when somebody threatens you? I have heard that on some lines, gangs of youths rampage through trains robbing passengers. With such lawlessness, it is not surprising that people are wary of travelling by underground. I should have preferred to travel by bus to see Margaret, but the journey entailed changing several times and buses are notoriously infrequent on Sundays. 
It was with trepidation that I entered Archway Station. Those long subways leading to the ticket hall must put people off travelling before they get to the trains. I for one should not care to venture along them late at night. Fortunately there was no trouble so early on a Sunday morning. A train came within five minutes. It was almost empty, though I made a point of sitting near one of the alarm handles in case of any problems. A gang of youths who got into the coach at Camden Town looked as if they might be disruptive. They put their feet on the seats, which is not something they would do at home. I wanted to remind them that other people have to sit there, but that would only have provoked abuse or violence. At least they made no attempt to approach me. 
Colliers Wood was a surprise. The name led me to expect a wooded suburb similar to Alexandra Palace or Muswell Hill, but what I saw as I emerged from the station was an office block similar to the one at Archway, but surrounded by pylons, used car lots and waste land. The station was on a corner. Facing the other exit was a range of small shops. I carried my street atlas so there would be no doubt about which way to go. The time was not yet nine o'clock. A steady drizzle was falling. I might add that being January, the coldness was intense. In order to look smart, I had not put on a pullover, so I was shivering as I stood deciding what to do. My first task was to locate the church. I walked briskly past the shuttered shops, my collar turned up and my coat buttoned against the rain. This was the sort of occasion when an umbrella is useful, but I have never bought one because I think they are dangerous. It is easy to poke someone's eye out with a spoke and they are difficult to store when wet. I do not want a pool of water on my floor. 
A burglar alarm was ringing, but the few pedestrians buying newspapers paid no attention. The sound always frightens me. What would happen if thieves came running out of a shop in front of me, I do not know. Fortunately there was little traffic, so I was able to cross the road to get away from the noise. I do not regard my action as a sign of bad citizenship since it is well known that most burglar alarms go off accidentally. The front of the shop was securely shuttered, so I do not think anybody had broken in. 
The church was in a side road of old terraced houses with tiny front gardens. Some had their grimy red brickwork painted in gaudy colours like red or lilac, with each brick outlined in white. I had expected grander surroundings. In my mind was the church in Highgate which is like a cathedral with its great dome, and which can be seen for miles. Margaret's church was no more than a corrugated iron hall with a brick front to make it appear more imposing. The doors were closed. I did not push them to see whether they were locked. 
As I made my way back to the station, the rain became heavier. I got there at ten past nine. For half an hour I waited in the station entrance, watching the rain lashing the pavement. My trousers were saturated. They clung around my legs. Apart from the immediate discomfort, I knew that the creases would be lost. As I do not have an iron, this is something I try to avoid. The effect of the rain on my shoes also concerned me. My best shoes were in danger of being ruined. I have explained how rain can bring salts out of the leather. 
The station was a dispiriting place to wait. Several times as I felt the rush of air from the escalator tunnel and heard a train pulling in, I was tempted to go home. The ticket collector kept looking at me, probably thinking that I was up to no good. Hanging about gives that impression, which is why I try to avoid it. He was eating a bacon sandwich. The smell made me feel hungry, though I had eaten my normal breakfast and I do not like bacon. And I was shivering with cold as a result of the damp and the inactivity.  
The rain dripped off my hair and down my face as I retraced my steps to the church. I was tempted to return home, but seeing Margaret was more important than my comfort. The church doors were open. Though I wanted to get out of the rain, the prospect of encountering so many strangers disturbed me. While trying to decide what to do, I watched people hurrying from their cars. Some were holding umbrellas; others had coats over their heads as they ran to the church entrance. They were black, which was a surprise to me. Though I am not prejudiced, I am unused to being amongst so many black people. 
I did not notice Margaret waiting inside the doors until she waved at me. Then the inconvenience no longer seemed important. At that moment I felt that this was someone I could marry. I have never thought that about any other person. 
'I didn't know whether you'd come,' she greeted me. 
My surprise at her lack of enthusiasm stopped me from replying. 
'I'll introduce you to my parents,' she continued, leading me inside. The church looked larger from the inside and at least it was warm. The radiant heaters between the windows would soon dry my raincoat. Rain was drumming on the roof. 'This is my dad.' 
Margaret's father was quite short. He looked uncomfortable in a suit. As we shook hands, I noticed that the skin on his fingers was rough and ingrained with dirt. He asked whether he might call me Alan. I agreed to this, though with some hesitation. Using a first name suggests an intimacy which we did not have. Mr Wiggins calls me Alan at work, but using first names is common in offices now. Outside of work, no other adult has called me Alan since my childhood. 
Margaret's mother came forward to shake hands. She looked a homely person. Her teeth were crooked. I tried not to stare at them as she smiled. I did not detect any sign of the illness Margaret had mentioned. When she invited me to lunch, I politely declined. I was introduced to several of the congregation whose names I have forgotten. I think they assumed that I was Margaret's boyfriend, though they did not say so. This was flattering, though I did not look upon myself in that way. After all, we had not known each other for long. A black man with a wrinkled face and grey hair asked whether I had been to one of the services before. Margaret's mother answered for me. She took me under her wing, which saved me from having to respond to any more awkward questions. Meanwhile Margaret had drifted away to talk to other people. She seemed to know everybody in the congregation. 
My idea of a church service is derived from morning assembly at school and school services at Christmas and Easter. What I soon discovered was that Margaret had brought me to something very different. When we had sat down, the pastor began the service in friendly tones, as though he was welcoming friends to his home. He made a point of welcoming me by name, which made everybody turn to look at me and smile. I wish he had not done that. I was glad when he went on to talk about one of the members who was ill. 
'We pray to you our Lord to have mercy upon your servant Florence Smith in this time of trial and that she will bear her sickness patiently and recover her health. We pray to you to give support and faith to her family in their hour of need.' 
People murmured 'Amen' after this. Margaret's parents were on one side of me and Margaret was on the other, her elbow touching mine. I liked her being so close. At the pastor's words drifted over me, I looked at her knees and the way her skirt sagged in the hollow between her thighs. Although I am not religious, I felt ashamed of having such thoughts in a church. I glanced at Margaret's face. She was looking at him so intently that she did not notice me. 
We all stood for the first hymn. The electric organ sounded more suited to a variety show than a church, but nobody seemed to mind. Memories of my parents' funerals flooded back: being in the crematorium with a few relatives I hardly knew and wishing that I could go back to reading my book. Margaret did not appear to notice that I was not singing. I looked around surreptitiously. The experience was totally unlike the solemnity of hymn singing which I remembered from school. Everybody including Margaret's parents was singing lustily. People swayed in time to the music. They were joyful in the way that the Bible refers to joy. I found this bewildering. It made me wonder whether religion really does change people's lives and bring happiness. Margaret had struck me as a quiet person, yet she was singing as uninhibitedly as the rest. I began singing quietly, so the people around should not hear. I am not much of a singer. 
'May the Lord hear our voices,' declared the pastor when the hymn came to an end. 
'Hallelujah,' came the cries. 
'Now Josie is going to lead us,' the pastor announced as we sat. 
A girl of about eighteen went to the front of the church and took the microphone. She wore a blue satin dress which shimmered against her black skin. 
'I want to tell you how I found our Saviour,' she began, caressing the microphone as though she was a singer. There was nodding from the congregation. 'I used to come to Sunday school when I was a little girl,' she continued in the voice of somebody who had learned a speech. It was a husky voice, as though she smoked. 'I'm sure some of you remember me from that time. All my family came - they're here today - so I suppose I came without thinking about it. I'm not saying that was wrong - I think it was good to get into the habit of coming to church - but it didn't mean anything special to me. Then when I got to my teens, I didn't want to go to Sunday school any more, or to have anything to do with the church. I'm sure lots of people go through a phase like that. There was homework to do and I started wanting to go out with friends of my own age in the evenings. We used to hang around the youth clubs and the discos. I love dancing, you see,' she added almost as an aside, 'but I was getting into bad company without realising it. They were into drugs and stealing. One day I went out stealing with them down the market. We thought it was a game. One of us distracted the man behind the stall while the others would take things. Then one day our Saviour came to me when I was in a disco. I was watching my so-called friends dancing and I thought, "What am I doing in this place? How much more of my life do I want to spend like this? What has it got to do with serving our Lord?”' 
'Hallelujah,' came a voice from the congregation. 
'I realised my life didn't have any meaning without Him. I'd been fooling myself all those years, thinking I didn't need Him.' 
People were nodding. 
'It was like coming home. I knew what real happiness was again. And I wanted all my friends to know what I'd found. If they wouldn't accept it, I knew they weren't true friends like my Saviour. But the love of God made me want to help them rather than cast them aside. I prayed every day that He would change them. And because of the love of God, they were changed. One of them got engaged to a good man. Another gave up drugs and went on a youth training scheme. Andrea, one of the other girls, started coming to our Bible classes. I think our Lord was working through me to make that happen. He put me with them so that I could help Him to redeem them.' 
There were murmurs of agreement. Someone called, 'Praise the Lord.' 
'I told my parents everything I'd done and they made me apologise to the owner of the stall. I didn't want to, but it was the right thing to do and now I'm glad they made me.' 
Some of the congregation were nodding. 
'Let's praise the Lord,' Josie urged. She began to sing then. If it was a hymn, I did not know it. It sounded more like a ballad and though the words were religious, it was not at all suitable for a church service in my view. Josie looked as though she were in a trance as she swayed in time to the music. Everybody else joined in the singing. Even Margaret was caught up in the sentiment of the song. I was the only person there who did not know the words. Several people left their chairs and were dancing in the aisle. It was like nothing I had seen before. If my shock showed, I should not have been surprised. I should have walked out if it had not been for Margaret. 
At the end of this exhibition, Josie seemed pleased with herself, smiling broadly as she handed the microphone back to the pastor. On her way back to her seat, several people shook her hand and hugged her. 
There followed a prayer led by the pastor. I began to wonder whether he was drunk, the way he was swaying and crooning, but nobody else seemed to find his behaviour unusual. The prayer was longer than any I knew from my schooldays. The rest of the congregation, including Margaret, became caught up in it as though they were hypnotised. At its end they were crying, 'Amen'. Some were too overcome to recover. One woman began praying aloud. She was on her knees in the aisle. Her eyes were rolling. I thought she was having a fit, but nobody did anything. She was saying something about her son who had left home. Rather than asking him to come back, she was pleading that he should follow his religion. I could not understand that. Then another woman took up a prayer for a sick relative. I began to wonder whether everybody in the hall would be taking turns, in which case the service would continue into the afternoon. I was surprised that Margaret condoned such a display. At one point I wondered whether she was going to join in. If I were asked to participate, I should certainly have refused. 
When the woman became silent and the chorus of Hallelujahs and amens died down, I felt a sense of relief. The drumming of rain on the roof had ceased. Bright sky showed at the windows, making the lights superfluous. 
The pastor announced the next hymn and we were all standing again. If the service was not to last into the afternoon, it looked set to take up the rest of the morning. The organ was being played again, making me want to laugh at its incongruity. This was an especially rousing hymn in which everybody wanted to be heard, so the noise was excessive by any standards. I wanted to put my hands over my ears. It was a lesson to me that next time the need arose to look for accommodation, I should not take a room near a church. 
The end of the service was an anticlimax. The pastor led another prayer which seemed to repeat everything he had said before. After the amens, people were standing. Until I saw them shuffling along the rows towards the aisle, I was unaware that the service had finished. Nobody was in a hurry to leave. Groups of people stopped to talk as they made their way to the doors, so those behind them had to wait. Nobody seemed to mind. Margaret's parents were standing, but they could not get to the aisle. Margaret was behind me. 
'Did you enjoy the service?' her mother asked, turning back to me. She was close enough for me to see saliva looped across the gaps between her teeth. 
'Very nice, thank you,' I answered. 
'We haven't frightened you off?' her father said, smiling at me. His teeth were discoloured. I think he was a heavy smoker. I shook my head by way of answer and resolved to look at Margaret's teeth when an opportunity arose as evidently neither of her parents attended a dentist regularly. 
'Everyone's very friendly here,' her mother explained. 'There's none of this standing on ceremony you get with some churches. That's why we like it. You don't mind me saying that, do you?' I must have looked puzzled because she added, 'I didn't know if you belonged to another church. I don't want you to think I'm criticising. We all worship God in the way we think best, don't we?' 
I have always found talk about religion embarrassing. After my parents' funerals, the clergyman insisted on talking about my feelings. Though he was trying to be helpful, I should have preferred to be left alone. It is all very well for people to believe in God, but they do not have to talk about it. If Margaret's mother was going to talk about God all the time, I had misgivings about visiting her home. Margaret was standing behind me, making no effort to join in the conversation. When I glanced at her, she was watching the rest of the congregation as though she was not paying attention to any our conversation. It puzzled me that considering she had invited me, she was not interested in what I thought of the service. 
'You're coming back with us for lunch, aren't you?' her mother pressed. 
I assured her that I had to get home. I do not like eating at other people's houses. On the few occasions when I went to the homes of my mother's friends as a child, I found it an uncomfortable experience. People kept asking me questions which I did not know how to answer. One woman asked whether I wanted to go to the bathroom. To make matters worse, the food was not always to my taste. I must also say that some people's standards of cleanliness leave much to be desired. 
'Where is it you live?' Margaret's mother asked. 'Margaret did say, but I've forgotten.' 
I told her, though I am not sure that she knew where Hornsey is. 
'It seems a pity to come all this way and then have to rush off before we've had time to talk to you.' 
I explained that my meal was already prepared, though this was not strictly true. Telling lies does not come easily to me. Even white lies make me feel uncomfortable. They can cause no end of problems, as I know from cases where people make false declarations on proposal forms. Unless there is mutual good faith, then the basis of insurance is undermined. One of my tutors repeatedly makes this point. The trouble was that to extricate myself from a potentially embarrassing situation, I could think of no solution except lying. 
'Couldn't you keep your food for tomorrow?' Margaret's mother persisted. 'We'd like you to stay to lunch.' 
'He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to,' Margaret said. I was glad of this support, though her words hardly seemed in character. Even her mother looked surprised. 
'Have you got your car?' Margaret's father asked. 
I stared at him, puzzled by such a question. Of course I do not own a car. If he knew my financial circumstances, he would not have asked! It was not appropriate to go into detail, so I contented myself with explaining that I had come on the underground. 
'I wondered if you wanted a lift to the station.' 
'They might want to walk now the rain's stopped,' his wife said. I was pleased with this suggestion. I glanced expectantly at Margaret. 
'We can if you like.' There was the same lack of enthusiasm in her tone, where I expected her to jump at an opportunity for us to be alone together. I noticed her mother was looking puzzled. We joined the other worshippers shuffling from the church. Now that the rain had stopped, people were gathering on the pavement to continue their conversations. The pastor insisted on shaking hands with me. 
'We all welcome you, Alan. I hope you'll be coming again.' 
I said that I should try to come, but it might be difficult. Once again this was not true. I had no intention of going there again, even if my decision meant making excuses to Margaret. I glanced at my watch as a signal that I wished to be on my way. 
'We'll be seeing you again, I expect,' Margaret's father said. He looked unsure whether to shake hands. In the end he did not. Instead he gazed down the road as though he was interested in the cars. 
'And you will come to dinner one day, won't you?' his wife urged, leaning towards me and showing her teeth. 'Perhaps you could come one evening.' She did not make any effort to shake hands, which was a relief. She smiled at her daughter. 'We'll see you later, Margaret.' 
With Margaret beside me, I watched her parents walking to their car. Margaret waved as they drove off. When she glanced at me, the smile left her face. 'So it's off to the station,' she said, sounding as though it was a duty. As we walked back to the main road, she added, 'This feels like me seeing you home.' 
There was more traffic by this time, though I am sure it was much lighter than on a weekday. The nice thing about being out on a Sunday is the absence of traffic. The pavements were wet and glistening. Pools of water remained where the stones were uneven. I took care to step around them. 
'What did you think of the service?' Margaret asked. 'You didn't like it, did you?' 
'It was interesting.' 
'You mean you didn't like it?' 
'I didn't say that.' 
'You don't have to agree with everything I say.' 
I felt I had upset her, though I was no sure how. We had barely exchanged a dozen words and I do not think my behaviour was in any way improper. This was not the Margaret I knew. My hopes of a life together were in jeopardy and I felt unable to retrieve the situation. A sense of resignation came over me like numbness. Nothing I could say would make any difference. All I wanted was to be in familiar surroundings again. As we walked, I looked at the shop windows. I had no interest in such items as beds, electrical appliances or greengrocery. All I wanted was something to distract my attention. The burglar alarm was still ringing. 
We reached the station without speaking again. The same ticket collector was on duty. Margaret and I stopped by the barrier. She was staring past me. A muscle twitched in my face and I was unable to control it. 
'I'd better get back,' she said. 
I did not know how to reply. Though I longed to escape down the escalator and to be alone, not losing Margaret was important to me. I refused to believe that the magic of our evening together could not be recaptured. 
'So it's goodbye,' she added, drawing her attention back to me and forcing herself to smile. I knew then that I should not see her again. She let her gaze slide away. She seemed anxious to leave. 
'Shall we meet one evening next week?' I persisted, though I knew she would make an excuse. There was an inevitability about my words, as though I was taking part in a play and Margaret did not know her lines. 
'Can we leave it? I'm going to be busy.' 
That was the nearest she came to saying that she did not want us to meet again. I know we should have talked about what was wrong, but by then all that mattered to me was extricating myself from the immediate situation. In justification I can only say that the occasion was beyond my experience. This was the price of trying to extend my social life. 
'I've got to go now,' she said. 
I wanted somebody to tell me what to do, but of course there was nobody. Even the ticket collector was paying no attention. He might have been looking away on purpose. 
'I'll say goodbye then.' Margaret turned away as though everything had been said. 
'What about the church?' I called after her, but I do not know whether she heard. At any rate she did not look back. She was leaving the station. For a moment she was framed in the brightness of the entrance. It was like seeing a photograph. Then there was just the brightness. Before the ticket collector could pass any remark, I hurried down the escalator. The platform was deserted except for a man at the far end. I was glad of some time to myself. At a bus stop you are exposed to the public gaze in a way which is unpleasant when you are the victim of strong emotions. In an attempt to avoid thinking about Margaret, I studied the map carefully. The extent of the underground system is quite surprising, reaching out into the countryside. In summer it must be pleasant to go into the country, though I should prefer to travel by bus. 
What a relief when the train came and I was leaving Colliers Wood with all its associations. Such was my self-absorption on the journey back that I hardly thought about muggers. The lights seemed dimmer than before as I stared at the posters, or perhaps my mood made me think that. Seeing the familiar stations of north London was a relief. Although I have lived south of the river, it is like a foreign country now. 
I went home from Archway Station in a daze. In streets you know well, it is easy to concentrate on your thoughts. My relief at getting back to my own room was immense. I took off my raincoat and shoes and fell on the bed. It was not that I wanted to dwell on what had happened. Indeed, my only wish was to put it out of my thoughts. I do not think I slept. All I can remember is that by the time I felt ready to get up, darkness was coming. I had eaten nothing since breakfast. The room was cold without the electric fire on. There was no question of doing any work, in spite of my natural desire to be up to date with my studies. Concentrating on textbooks was impossible. My mind was too numb. I remember switching on the radio later in the evening and listening to a discussion on law which did not interest me. At nine o'clock I went to bed. Though I expected to have difficulty in getting to sleep, I slept more soundly than during previous nights. In the morning I still felt tired, but it was Monday and I had to go to the office. Work is a great therapy. 
Margaret's behaviour still makes me feel angry. At first I thought she would see the error of her ways. Whenever the telephone rang over the next few evenings, something irrational in me anticipated that she was ringing to apologise. This was silly because she did not have my telephone number. Each morning I made a point of not leaving home until the post arrived, but no letter came from her. I felt sure there had been a misunderstanding. After three days without hearing from her, I felt compelled to write. This was not a decision undertaken lightly. Composing a letter took two evenings. Thinking back, I am appalled that I took such a step. The sensible course was to have no further communication with her, but my feelings distorted my judgement. But the letter was sent and nothing can change that. Its contents I shall not reveal. Suffice to say that I blamed myself for what had happened and pleaded with Margaret to forgive me. Another rash action was to reveal my telephone number. At the time I hesitated to do this, but I wanted to give her every opportunity of getting in touch with me. When the letter was eventually finished, I knew the wording by heart. I went over and over it in my mind before falling asleep. It was essential to be sure that the wording was right. I thought that by explaining everything, she would realise how well we got on together. 
The next morning I posted the letter on my way to work. After that came the waiting. My secret hope was that Margaret would visit me, glad of the opportunity to put things right between us. My preoccupation affected my work. Mr Wiggins had to point out an error in my calculations of a premium, which no doubt pleased some of my colleagues. Over the course of next few evenings it was quite impossible for me to study. I was too intent on listening for the telephone. When it rang, my heart thumped like a hammer. I made a point of answering it before anybody else could get to the hall. That is the only time anybody has telephoned me. 
'I got your letter,' Margaret began. She sounded cautious. The Chinese girl was standing in the doorway of her room. I turned my back on her. 'I couldn't understand it properly,' Margaret was saying. 
'I don't know why.' This was not what I meant to say. The trouble was that her comment took me by surprise. As I have explained, the letter made my position perfectly clear. I felt annoyed and angry that she had not read it carefully. 
'I'm not sure what you're trying to say,' she continued. When I did not reply, she prompted. 'Alan.' 
'Yes?' 
'I wondered whether you were still there.' 
'I'm here.' 
She did not respond immediately. 'I don't think we ought to meet again,' she said at last. I wanted to ask why, but I was afraid of the answer. At least the Chinese girl had gone back to her room and closed the door, though she might still have been listening. 'I enjoyed our evening,' Margaret was saying, 'but I've got a new beau.' When I did not answer, she explained, 'I met him through the Church. It's rather special, so I'd rather not see anybody else for the moment. I'm sorry.' 
She was still talking as I put down the telephone down. I think I was crying. Fortunately there was nobody to see. I despised myself for a display of emotion which was more suited to a schoolgirl. Back in my room I turned up the radio so the Chinese girl should not hear my sobbing. I hated Margaret then. I wanted her dead. It satisfied my sense of justice that she should be killed with a knife. I wanted to watch her face as the blade went in. I am not a vindictive person, but she hurt me and that needed to be avenged.

Chapter 5

If knowing Margaret did one thing for me, it was to show how I should order my life in future. There would be no more girlfriends, not more trusting people. All the truths about human nature I should have known and did know if I was honest with myself had been proved correct. I deluded myself into trying to be like other people. If I had remained content with my own company, the meetings with Margaret and Sandra would never have taken place.
The initial shock of losing Margaret passed, of course, though when I was able to see things rationally again, I still found my hands clenching whenever she came into my thoughts. Within a week I was able to resume my studies. This came as a considerable relief, as I have always disliked getting behind in my course work.
To pass time on the bus journeys to work I devised schemes for killing Margaret. One stumbling block was that her parents could describe me. If I had not made that fateful journey to Colliers Wood, my task would have been easier. Writing to her was another mistake. Apart from revealing my state of mind, the letter gave away my address and telephone number. The only way of killing her without bringing suspicion on myself was to make her one of a series of victims. This was an idea which needed thinking about carefully. It is easy to rush into something which looks simple at first and then proves more complicated than expected. Though attention might be distracted from my connection with Margaret, a series of deaths exposed me to greater risk. The challenge appealed to me, but the dangers needed to be assessed. My insurance training proved invaluable here.
Killing Margaret was not something to be rushed. Indeed the longer the delay, the less chance that suspicion would fall on me and the more pleasure I should derive from planning her fate. Within the course of a few days I experienced both love and love turning to hate. Far from making me feel better equipped to face the world, gaining new knowledge about myself frightened me. It is alarming how emotions can control of you. Not long ago I should have scorned any such notion, but love and hate are both terrifying in their power. Symptoms such as crying, not wanting to eat, indigestion and terrible fatigue all seemed real, though the causes were in my mind. Until meeting Margaret my feelings had always been under control. Naturally I experienced emotions, but in the world of insurance you learn to suppress them and rely on facts. The analogy is with a doctor who has to be objective in treating his patients. Sentiment has no place in assessing a claim.
When my colleagues talk of the excitement which girls arouse, I used to think they were exaggerating. Mine was an ordered life with no place for relationships. I enjoy my work and my employers have a good pension scheme, yet suddenly this sense of order was lost. Now I believe there was something in what my colleagues say. I am like a man clinging to wreckage after his ship has sunk.
One symbolic act remained to be enacted after that terrible Sunday. Such a notion was something new in my experience, but I considered it necessary as a way of distancing myself from what had happened. The task was to burn all correspondence received as a result of my advertisement. This had to be done in a saucepan which I placed in the sink to reduce the risk of the fire getting out of control. Even so I approached the task with trepidation. Fire is always dangerous and there is no fire extinguisher in the house. This is something else I have repeatedly raised with the landlord. Fortunately the task was completed without incident, though the smell left behind was unpleasant. I had to open the window to get rid of it, which is not something I care to do in cold weather,
Normally I dislike winter, but the lengthening days gave me another concern. Without darkness there would be no opportunity to find more excitement. Already too much time had passed since the last occasion.
Power was something new to me. In my mind it is older people like headmasters, career advisers, managers and bus inspectors who assume positions of power by virtue of their seniority. This idea might be considered outdated, but it is what I believe. After all, these are people who have worked for their positions and who have considerable experience to draw upon. I distrust smart young businessmen who drive around in fast cars and earn inflated salaries. Money which comes easily can be lost easily. It is awesome to reflect that my power is greater than theirs. I have control of life or death. This is my secret.
It was four weeks since Christmas and there had been no further mention of Eileen's death in the newspapers. Instinct told me that although things had been easy on Christmas Eve, they would not be like that again. The girls around Kings Cross would be on their guard. I should not have been surprised if plain-clothed police officers patrolled the streets. At least for a while I should be unable to go to there again. 
Could I find somewhere similar? I approached the question systematically, going through my street atlas page by page and considering whether I had visited the area shown and whether it had potential for my purposes. Of course many areas were unknown to me. Those in the suburbs could be excluded, but there were numerous possibilities among those which were left. How my life was going to change as I used my weekends to visit them. There were good reasons for looking further afield. If I confined myself to north London, the police would be more likely to deduce where I lived, especially if further deaths occurred along the bus routes to Hornsey. The danger of taking in a wider area was that I should involve myself in more travelling and in consequence an increased risk of being noticed. This dilemma was something which I savoured. I knew there had to be a solution. It was a matter of assessing risks. Soho was an obvious place to examine in more detail, but I felt reluctant to go there again. Its reputation for violence worried me. One day I knew I should be drawn back there, but that was some way into the future.
The following weekend I departed from my usual routine and went out on Saturday evening. This gives some indication of how much Margaret disturbed me; it was the first time I had done such a thing since coming to London. Choosing suitable clothing was a problem. Normally at weekends I wear casual trousers and a sports jacket, with a coat if the weather is cold. This is a far cry from the scruffy jackets, T-shirts, jeans and trainers which pass for casual clothing these days. There is a tendency for young people to equate casualness with slovenliness. It is possible to dress casually and still look smart. For example I always make a point of ensuring that my shoes are polished. I should hesitate to wear the sort of things some people put on, but I did not want to appear conspicuous on this evening. Once a youth in a car called out that I ought to stop wearing my grandfather's suit. Such comments deserve to be ignored, but they do show that my clothes make me noticeable. Several times I have considered buying something different to wear, but without bringing myself to go in a shop which sells gimmicky clothing.
I put on casual clothes: sports jacket and twill trousers. My raincoat covered them, so in the dark I did not think that I should be noticeable. The first stage of my journey was a bus to Archway. The frustration of waiting for buses is enough to put people off travelling in the evening, particularly with the worry of having to repeat the process on the way home, but there was no alternative if I wanted to find excitement again. Ideally I should have walked to minimise the risk of being noticed, but this was out of the question given the distance involved. As on Christmas Eve I paid my fare rather than using my pass. At least the bus was not crowded, though the two girls sitting in front of me were making a lot of noise which the driver did nothing to check. Youths crowded outside a pub in Tottenham Lane, intent on causing trouble. Of course there were no policemen in sight. Further on, rowdy youngsters of school age were hanging around a fast food restaurant in the Broadway, balancing on skateboards and climbing on the raised flowerbeds. Food containers littered the pavement and there would undoubtably be more before the end of the evening. In daylight you can see the grease stains on the concrete. These are the sort of teenagers who have no interest in improving themselves by taking courses or getting good jobs. What the world will be like when they have children of their own does not bear thinking about. Not do I understand how parents can allow their children to stay out late and get into trouble. We seem to be living in an age when people do not care about anything except acquiring possessions. Trampling the flowerbeds is terrible.
Beyond the Broadway the bus followed Crouch End Hill. This is like no other part of London. I can feel that I am in some Italian town straddling the hills. Night lent it a particular magic. The chains of yellow street lamps strung across the hillsides made me feel in the centre of a web of human activity. This was reassuring. I like to feel that I am part of the city, though I do not always like the other people. Balcony lights marked the position of the council flats. All the ugliness of daylight was taken away.
At Archway I waited for another bus in the company of an old man in a filthy overcoat who drank lager from a can and a West Indian women with a brightly-coloured headscarf. Junction Road is not a pleasant place in which to wait at night. The shabby shops with their two floors of flats above are the sort of places which belong in old photographs. The intervening years have been a time of wear and neglect. All the shops have grilles over the windows, which is a sure sign of the violence on our streets. I recall one shop used as a minicab office with worn armchairs in the window and a hatch in the partition at the back. It was squalid. That is the only word. In the neighbouring kebab house was mincemeat which looked as if it was left on a skewer for several days. That certainly constitutes a health hazard.
My destination was Bayswater. It was not a place I had visited before. The second bus journey was much longer, providing a grandstand view of London life. In a bus at night you can feel detached from your surroundings, as though the world outside is nothing more than pictures on television. Shops mark the change from one area to another. You can tell the districts which have gone up in the world and those which have come down by the state of the shops. Junction Road must have been a flourishing shopping street at one time. Away from Archway a few second hand shops survive between boarded-up shops and houses converted into flats. Beyond the cluster of shops around Tufnell Park Station we passed a grander terrace with long front gardens where trees grew. On such journeys I speculate about where I should like to live. Kentish Town has a good range of shops and a spacious library. In that respect it reminds me of Holloway, but I glimpsed far smarter terraces in the side roads. If I had to move, Kentish Town would be a good place to live.
Then we were past the shops and into the Camden one-way system. This area was familiar from my visit to the cinema in Camden. The houses belong to an older world than Hornsey or Junction Road. Though some are run down, nearer Regents Park they are gracious and expensive. One interesting aspect of working in insurance is glimpsing people's lifestyles by seeing the buildings and contents policies for houses you know. The marvel is how people can afford to buy houses in a place like Camden, considering that I work hard in a responsible job and find it a struggle to rent a single room.
The bus skirted Regents Park which was clothed in darkness. I have visited the park on three occasions. It is pleasant to stroll amongst the tree-lined walks and see the skyline of London around you. This is something which can only be experienced in a park in a great city. Lots of foreigners go there, their voices high-pitched as they argue with each other. Arab women take their children to play on the grass. The park is a magnet for everybody who wants to get away from the bustle of London for a short while. My favourite time to visit is in winter, when the tourists have gone and the place is peaceful. I have never visited the zoo which is in the park, though I heard the trumpeting of an elephant. I do not like animals very much.
The bus sped along Albany Street. There was little traffic and no red lights stopped us. I am sure that the bus was going at more than the permitted speed. It is a road of contrasts. On one side are blocks of council flats and on the other the backs of elegant houses which overlook Regents Park. It must be nice to have a park outside your window. I have never been in that fortunate position, though it is something I aspire to. 
Drizzle spattered the windscreen. I was glad that I had my raincoat with me. In the comforting warmth of the bus I speculated on where my fellow passengers were going. Most only travelled a few stops. On the high seat at the front sat a group of girls looking as if they were out to enjoy themselves. Their laughter reached me. The nearest one had fluffy blonde hair like candy floss. It was most unnatural. She could have been no older than fifteen. I felt the sort of curiosity which a painter must experience as I marvelled at the outline of her thighs where the tiny black skirt was pulled taut around them. Her weight made a dent in the seat. I watched her wriggling as she laughed. Unfortunately she noticed me looking at her. This always makes me feel uncomfortable. I do not like to be thought of as lewd. I try not to let my gaze be drawn by girls, yet their bodies exert such fascination. She said something to her friends and they all started giggling. I knew they were talking about me because one of the others leaned forward to get a better look at me. My face flushed, which made them giggle all the more. Though I had acted imprudently, there was no excuse for gross bad manners on their part. Fortunately they soon lost interest as I went back to staring out the window. They got off at Baker Street. I watched them through the window, wiggling their bottoms in an exaggerated fashion as they walked from the bus stop. Girls like that are asking for trouble.
Sussex Gardens near Paddington Station is somewhere I know, because for a few days I stayed nearby when I first came to London. My chief memory is of returning to the terrible hotel after each day of looking for work and for somewhere more permanent to live. Dust from the incessant traffic in the street below covered every surface in spite of the windows being closed. It got into my lungs, giving me a cough. Perhaps I noticed it more because I was new to London. I am hardly aware of it now. 
Since those days I had never gone back. The gardens themselves are frequented by tramps, though I did not see any from the bus. The presence of prostitutes nearby would not have surprised me, though I was not aware of the area's reputation when I stayed there. From the bus it still looked the sort of place which people pass through. Only if Bayswater proved a disappointment would I come back to Paddington. I think of it as a place where the streets are constantly in the shadow of tall buildings. Every other shop is a snack bar. 
Most of the remaining passengers got off the bus at Paddington. My stop was a little further on at Queensway. My first impression of Bayswater was of grand stuccoed terraces reminding me of those around Regents Park. Unfortunately some of the houses badly needed decorating. I cannot understand why all people who live in a terrace do not get together to have it painted regularly. In this way it would always look clean and smart. As it is, if one or two houses are left in a terrible condition, the whole terrace is spoilt. Some buildings deteriorate to the point where the stonework crumbles and weeds grow from ledges and gutters, yet people still live there. In Bayswater I noticed that some houses were painted grey. This might have been fashionable once, but the surfaces had become flaking and dirty. Several houses were converted into hotels, though no prostitutes waited outside as they would in Kings Cross. Others were let as single rooms. I know this because I could see into ground floor rooms resembling my own. It was interesting to see what tenants made of them. Some people do not bother to keep anything tidy. One room looked as though somebody had thrown a sack of clothes in the air. There is no excuse for this. Such matters as light bulbs without shades may be the responsibility of the landlord, though I am sure that tears in the curtains are the result of carelessness. Almost all the rooms had posters on the walls. In this respect Bayswater is no different from Hornsey, though a few of the rooms would not have looked out of place on the cover of a magazine. Mine never looks like that, however much I clean it. A lot must depend on the cooperation of the landlord in replacing shabby furniture and adhering to a regular programme of redecoration. The surprising thing is that I never visited Bayswater when I was looking for accommodation. Certainly I should never have taken a room on one of the upper floors. Many of the houses are six storeys high. Places like that in multiple occupation are notorious fire risks. This is something you become aware of when you work in insurance.
During my walk along Queensway almost all the people I passed were of my own age. Though there are many young people in Hornsey, most of them are either students or still at school. The atmosphere in Bayswater is different. Here the young people have more money. I came upon crowded restaurants and clubs, where girls in expensive clothes hung around the brightly-lit canopies like butterflies. They made the students in Hornsey seem dowdy by comparison. Bayswater is a place where working girls who lead independent lives enjoy themselves. Like the couple who live opposite me, many are quite happy to conduct their affairs in a goldfish bowl. In the course of a short stroll I glimpsed through uncurtained windows a girl cooking and another talking with friends. The way this girl gesticulated reminded me of the couple who live opposite. In another room, a girl was putting on make-up. I lingered as long as possible without drawing attention to myself, watching as she leant over a small circular mirror, absorbed in her task. Her straight black hair was cut as though a pudding basin had been put over it. This style appears in hairdressers' windows, though I cannot see that any skill is involved.
The girls I glimpsed were not prostitutes. Their clothes were meant for going out and they did not loiter on the pavement, watching men. Some were not wearing coats in spite of the cold, which I thought most unwise. Many walked in twos or threes, laughing and chatting. It was easy to think of them as beings from another world when they were arrayed in such fashionable clothes. It was satisfying to watch their breath rising like steam. It made them seem real. Killing one would have made them seem real.
It always intrigues me to see girls together. How did they come to know each other? What do they talk about with such animation? Do they share a house? I can never imagine being on close terms with my fellow tenants, still less going out with them. Perhaps some of these girls shared rooms. This seems popular amongst girls. I was offered shared rooms when I applied to accommodation agencies. Naturally I turned them down, though they were cheaper. I should not care to undress in front of a stranger.
The bustle of Bayswater surprised me, though perhaps Saturday was not a typical day. What puzzled me was where were all those girls were going. It was inconceivable that they could all want to visit clubs and restaurants. I was tempted to follow one group just to find out, but I did not wish to be deflected from my task. Some would be going to parties. Whenever the couple who live across the road from me hold a party, it is on a Saturday evening. I say Saturday evening, but on the last occasion I could still hear the music and the raucous voices at two o'clock the following morning. I considered telephoning the police, but that meant getting dressed to use the hall telephone. Instead I read a book as sleep was impossible. The next morning I found empty lager cans in the garden outside my window.
A newsagent's window attracted my attention. From the time when I was looking for a room, I knew that prostitutes advertise in such places. Two men were avidly reading the cards. Not wishing to be seen with them, I crossed the road and looked in the window of an electrical store until they had gone. I felt dirty as I approached the newsagent's window. Prostitution has that effect upon me. Any woman who indulges in such a practice deserves all she gets.
The advertisements which confronted me revealed a very different side of Bayswater from that of sophisticated working girls. Almost without exception the cards advertised the services of prostitutes, though the word prostitute was never used. These girls offered lessons or what they called services, but it was clear what they meant. After my experiences at Kings Cross, such advertising did not surprise me. It confirmed my suspicions that there were prostitutes in Bayswater. It was fortuitous that a report on a court case involving one appeared in the newspaper when I was looking for further news on Eileen's accident, otherwise I might have overlooked Bayswater completely. I memorised a couple of telephone numbers for long enough to write them down when I was well away from the shop. My outing was providing me with plenty of food for thought. Obviously I knew nothing about the routines of prostitutes, but I felt sure it was possible to gain access to their rooms on the pretext of being a client. My biggest qualm was being able to sustain such a pretence. I assessed the risks involved. Being in a room rather than in the street when the accident occurred would ensure that I was undisturbed as well as delaying the discovery of the body. A disadvantage was that escaping from a building might be more complicated than simply disappearing into the darkness as I had done before, but it was difficult to be certain of this without knowing the precise circumstances. The temptation was to delay my activities for a week, giving me an opportunity to make plans. This would also allow me to enjoy the pleasure for longer. It may seem strange to defer something which is enjoyable, but this has become natural to me. I learnt as a child that when pleasurable events happen straight away, you feel let down afterwards. Perhaps it is for this reason that the exciting moments of my early life stay alive in the memory in spite of my efforts to lose them. From those days until Doreen's accident there were few opportunities to feel that tingle which signifies something magical is about to happen.
Holidays provide the most exciting memories of my childhood. I recall looking forward to a family holiday in Bournemouth. I could hardly sleep the night before setting off. After reading the adventures of children like the Famous Five I expected a holiday by the sea to be like those in books. The journey lived up to expectations. Seeing the heathland of the New Forest stretching to the wooden horizon gave me that tingle. It was a landscape from a story book where the Famous Five might find adventure or where bandits like Robin Hood's merry men might roam. After such hopes it is not surprising that the holiday failed to live up to its promise. Staying in a guest house meant a makeshift life of sleeping in the same room as my parents and only having the two books to read which I brought with me. Sharing the dining room with other families was distasteful. I felt uncomfortable when other children were scolded for refusing to eat their food, or when men wiped their plates with crusts after eating breakfast. Even being on the beach with my parents lacked magic. They sat in deckchairs. I played by myself, away from the other children, building sandcastles and exploring rock pools. 
My English teacher Mr Parker called me a late developer In a school report. That comment has remained in my memory. I was standing beside my mother as she read it. Making such a personal remark was distasteful, particularly when it was seen by my parents. It annoyed me, though naturally I did not let my feelings show. Looking back I think Mr Parker was perceptive though lacking in tact. Things other people do in their teens such as travelling abroad or indulging in expensive and dangerous hobbies like skiing or hang-gliding never interested me. Reading provided all the adventure I wanted. The sort of things I have done recently such as voluntarily going out in the evening I should never have contemplated a year ago. The changes Doreen's accident brought about in me have been profound, though nobody else would notice. I gain satisfaction from having a life nobody knows. Listening to my working colleagues as they brag about their evenings in discos makes me pity their mundane lives. To think that once I felt a secret envy of them. This is indeed a strange reversal.
In spite of my caution I did not leave things until the following Saturday. My reasoning was that in winter you never know what the weather is going to be like from week to week. I recall one year when there was heavy snow in March. Something like this would disrupt any arrangements I made. The unpleasant task was telephoning the numbers taken from the newsagent's window. Speaking to a stranger on the telephone is difficult enough for me, but contacting a prostitute took all my courage. To make matters worse, the telephone box was in a disgusting state. A box of chips was trodden over the floor, the mouthpiece stank of tobacco and there were stickers with telephone numbers of prostitutes all over the back wall. The temptation was to abandon my plan, but having come so far I felt that I must go through with it. The first girl sounded guarded. She pressed me to come the next evening. When I explained that this would not be convenient, she rang off without saying any more. Such rudeness always upsets me, though I try not to be affected by it. Knowing my courage would fail me if I put off the second call I made it straight away. This proved more promising. A girl named Tracy gave me her address and invited me to her home that evening, though she was insistent that I should wait until eight o'clock. She sounded very nice which put me at my ease. I gave my name as Robert. When I put the telephone down, my initial sense of relief at her response gave way to foreboding at the enormity of what I was undertaking. In spite of the cold, apprehension made me tingle as though my blood was boiling. My legs were so weak that I had to lean against the glass panels of the telephone box to stop myself from collapsing.
It was fortunate that I had the foresight to bring my street atlas. To ask directions invites being remembered. Tracy's address was nearer to Notting Hill than Bayswater. Drizzle was falling again. I did not relish walking in the rain for an hour. This is the sort of problem that arises when you need to fit in with other people's routines, which is why I do not care to have a social life. Doubtless some people in my situation would have gone into a public house. Wherever you go in London, there is always one close at hand. All I can say is that getting wet strikes me as preferable. I considered going in an amusement arcade where I should at least be dry, but such places attract mindless youngsters for whom gambling is an addiction. I have no desire to associate with people like that. Another option was to go into a fast food restaurant, but sitting there for half an hour would give too many people a chance to notice me. Nor did I wish to eat the sort of food they provide. My only option was to continue walking. 
Time passed slowly. Even the pleasure of looking into other people's rooms palled as I became wetter. My trousers were clinging to my legs and my raincoat was saturated. More worrying was whether my shoes would suffer permanent damage. My best pair have never been the same after the soaking they got in Colliers Wood. I not mind admitting that I was tempted to go home, but I told myself that having made arrangements to see Tracy, it was silly to give up. At least walking allowed me to know the area well, which was potentially useful if I had to escape quickly. Few people were on the streets, which reduced the chances of my being seen.
Towards Notting Hill the grand terraces peter out as though the builders knew that upper class people would not live there. Instead there are short terraces, villas and pairs of houses surrounded by gardens. This gives the area a different character to Camden or Hornsey with their long terraces, though the air of neglect is the same. The trees and overgrown shrubs give the passerby the illusion of being in the country rather than the town. The trees overhanging the pavement dripped on me and shaded the light from the street lamps. I felt uneasy walking there. It was a mugger's paradise with all those hiding places.
Tracy's house was at the end of a short terrace. The poor state of repair was obvious even in the dark. The garden was choked with weeds. Part of the garden wall was pushed out by the roots of a tree, so that it was near to collapse. The window frames were falling apart. Plasterwork over the door had crumbled, revealing the bricks underneath. I stared in horror, feeling tempted to go straight home but knowing that this would be a coward's action. Tracy had told me to ring the bell for the ground floor flat. The curtains in the bay window were drawn. A pink light showed around the edges. I wondered whether the room was in as bad a state as the outside. The time was half past seven. The idea passed through my mind of hiding in the garden until eight o'clock to watch any comings and goings, but the rain made that impossible. Instead I walked to the centre of Notting Hill. Like Bayswater it was quite busy. The sight of two cinemas surprised me. I should have been tempted visit one if there were more time to spare. At least it would get me out of the rain. Curiosity prompted me to cross the road to see what films were showing. In the subway a man was playing a guitar. This is a common sight in London, in spite of the signs clearly stating that the practice is illegal. His presence made me think twice about visiting the cinemas. I do not like passing near beggars. Instead I retraced my steps and looked at the menus in restaurant windows to pass the time. By making the food seem exotic, it can be sold at inflated prices. This seems common sense to me, though not to other people judging by the numbers of people eating there. What surprises me is that so many people have money to waste.
The bustle of Notting Hill was soon left behind as I retraced my steps to Tracy's house. There was something unreal about that walk back through the wet, empty streets, as though I was observing my body rather than being part of it. All my emotions seemed taken away. I had no plan worked out. Somehow my mind would not focus on the problem in hand. Only at the last minute was I aware of any anxiety.
The light still showed around the curtains in Tracy's window. The door opened as I drew near. spilling light across the path. A short, middle-aged man emerged. In other circumstances I should have thought he was perfectly respectable. Feigning no more than a casual interest I continued walking, slowing only when I was around the corner and hidden by the side wall. Fortunately the man went the other way. The side wall of the house was daubed with graffiti, which is to be expected these days. Much of it was obscene. In my opinion aerosol cans should be banned. Then our streets would be much cleaner.
My anxiety increased as I turned back after making sure nobody was watching. The branches of a bush brushed against my face as I walked up the path. This set my heart thumping, even though I quickly realised what it was. I brushed the droplets of water from my face. All the arguments for not going ahead with the task passed through my mind, but my body acquired a momentum of its own. I felt powerless to intervene. This is what I mean about looking down upon myself. As the bell sounded in the hall, rain dripped from the gutter three storeys above and thudded on the felt roof of the bay.
The woman who opened the door was older than the one who had spoken to me on the telephone. Her hair was greying and held in place with grips. Her clothes looked dirty.
'Are you Robert?' 
When I did not reply immediately, she repeated the question so peremptorily that I was tempted to abandon my task there and then.
'You're a bit early,' she said when I admitted my name. Her tone had softened. I pointed out politely that I was told to come at eight o'clock.
'It's not eight yet, but I suppose you'd better come in now you're here.'
There was a finality about the door closing behind me, as though I was being imprisoned. I was alarmed by her presence. I had not expected anybody else to be there except Tracy. In the dim lighting I saw a threadbare floral carpet which stopped at the foot of the stairs. The wallpaper was torn and worn shiny where countless sleeves had rubbed against it. There was a smell of damp. The plastic lampshade was full of little holes, spraying the ceiling with pinpoints of light which shifted as the lamp swung in the draught. The narrowness of the hall meant that the woman brushed against me as she passed. This is the sort of contact I try to avoid. The floorboards creaked as she moved. She opened the door to the front room and motioned me inside. I went forward with trepidation. 
The perfume was overpowering. That and the heat made me want to cough. The room was bathed in the pink light which I had glimpsed around the edge of the curtains. The woman slipped behind the red velvet curtain hung across the arch to the back room. The bed occupied most of the space. What offended me was that the sheets were rumpled. There is no excuse for letting a stranger see a bed when it had obviously been used. A girl I took to be Tracy turned from a mirror on the chest of drawers to face me, a tube of gaudy lipstick still in her hand. She was no more than nineteen. Her blonde hair glinted in the pink light. What struck me most was the size of her eyes. They seemed to take up half her face. Outlined in black they resembled the eyes of a clown. I felt unsure if the effect was supposed to be comic. She wore a pink dressing-gown made of a material which shimmered as she moved. She looked surprised.
'Your clothes are all wet.' 
This was the voice I had heard on the telephone. I explained that I had been walking in the rain.
'You'll have to pay first. Forty pounds.'
Something of my surprise must have shown, because she added, 'You've got it, haven't you?'
I nodded, though I should never carry such a sum on me, particularly at night. My normal practice is to withdraw sufficient money from the cash machine at the bank each Friday to cover my anticipated expenses. I remember thinking the pink furry toy on the chest of drawers was incongruous. The woman behind the curtain coughed. 
'I've got a headache,' I explained, turning to the door. My only thought was to escape. The risks entailed in killing Tracy were too great.
'Don't you want it then?' she called in a scornful voice. I shall not repeat her other comment. 
The older woman never came to see me out as I fumbled with the catch on the front door. What a relief it was to be outside again, even though the rain was if anything heavier. I walked briskly towards Bayswater without looking back, determined never to repeat the experience. I cannot recall much of the journey home except the warmth of the bus lulling me almost to sleep, the damp smell of my clothes and the long wait for another bus at Archway. At least there was no need to worry about being recognised. 
How relieved I was to be back in my room. I undressed without switching on the light. I did not want to see myself. I felt soiled just by being in Tracy's room. The curtains were not drawn. I watched the rain glistening on the shrubs outside. The light was on in the room where the students lived. They were talking with friends. The inevitable bottle of wine was on the table. The girl put her arm around the man. For a moment she glanced in my direction, but I do not think she saw me. I felt no emotion as she kissed him. The event was remote, like something seen in a film. I lay in bed watching until the friends had gone and the couple pulled the curtains.
If the next day had been Monday, at least work would have prevented me from dwelling on what had happened. One consolation was that nothing could be worse than the Sunday in Colliers Wood. Walking is always a good therapy, so armed with my street atlas I set out for a long walk. The Broadway was quiet, in contrast to the previous night. Staff were cleaning the fast food restaurant. Flowers had been torn from the flowerbeds and thrown into the road. I cannot understand why such vandalism is allowed to continue. If the restaurant closed at a reasonable time, I am sure that the problem would be much reduced. With the cooperation of schools, police and parents, it could be completely stamped out. Much of the trouble is copycat behaviour. Thinking back to my schooldays, it is easy to identify those boys who thought they would look big by aping the hooligans.
Beyond Highgate were the northern fringes of Hampstead Heath. This was somewhere I enjoyed. With the heath stretching to distant woods it was like being in a country road. Even the public house would not have looked out of place in a country village. It was difficult to believe that central London lay beyond the trees. By then it was only ten o'clock, so I went for a walk on the heath. The ground was muddy from the overnight rain. The only people in sight were exercising dogs. I watched an Alsatian bounding after a ball. How graceful it looked. You need to live near a large open space if you own a dog like that. In the distance was a big country house which would not have looked out of place in a painting. The wind made a mournful sound in the trees. For a moment I was a child again, walking home from school beside the park. The wind in the line of poplars used to make a similar sound. On one occasion I was set upon by other children. They left me pressed against the railings, crying. Everything from my satchel was scattered in the long grass around me. The thought still makes me shiver.
My lunch is at twelve-thirty on Sundays, so I wanted to get back in good time. I am sorry to say that my walk did not give me an appetite. All I ate was a tin of creamed rice.
During the afternoon, the events of the previous evening stole into my thoughts again. Usually listening to the play on the radio takes me out of myself, but it did not do so on this occasion. How difficult it is to control what is in your head. Thoughts you do not want come unbidden and will not leave you. The worst thing is that their prominence will not let you concentrate on what is important, however hard you try. Several times that afternoon I tried without success to resume my studies. The thought of going out again crossed my mind, but there is little to do in Hornsey on a Sunday. Anyway in winter dusk comes by four o'clock and I had no wish to stay out after dark. There seemed nothing I could do. My sense of frustration made me bang my fists on the table.
During the course of the following week, my spirits revived. I believed that I could recapture the pleasure Doreen gave me, though my experience of trying to find a girlfriend convinced me that this was not the way. Nor could there be any dealings with prostitutes for a while after the incident with Tracy. The more I thought about what had happened, the more it became clear that I was becoming obsessed by prostitutes, while there were opportunities nearer home to be exploited. As an example, three girls lived in the same house as me, if Mrs Leary was classed as a girl. This is not to say that I wished to draw attention to myself by involving my immediate neighbours, but it does illustrate that there were plenty of girls nearby without my having to resort to prostitutes. Nerve-wracking ordeals such as the visit to Tracy were unnecessary, though I hoped to approach prostitutes in the street again when I felt safer. In a sense that was a public service. For a few weeks at least the streets of Kings Cross were a safer place for ordinary people because of my efforts.
On reflection it was clear that the risks which prompted me to go to Bayswater were not as great as I had at first thought. Kings Cross in easily reached from many parts of London. There was no reason why the police should assume any link with Hornsey. Even the death of a girl in Hornsey proved nothing about my address if the next victim was in somewhere like Colliers Wood. The police would be running all over London!
Sorting things out in your mind can have a profound effect on your spirits. My mood changed from depression to contentment, so that I was able to pursue my coursework again. I was pleased about this. Subjects such as maritime insurance and reinsurance demand careful study because I have no experience of them. 
It is no exaggeration to say that the world in my head is more important than the people and places around me. This is why I usually feel quite content staying in my room. Some people do not possess such an inner world. I pity them their lack of imagination. They would never consider listening to a play on the radio, for example. I enjoy imagining the appearance of the characters and what their surroundings look like. Lying in the dark listening to a good play is like having a theatre in my mind.
At the age of seven I went to a real theatre for the first time. The whole class was taken to an afternoon performance of the pantomime. Panic rose in me when I had to travel in the coach with all the other children. I hated having to be with them, but even then I had learned not to let my feelings show. I must have been rigid with fright. When one of the teachers spoke to me, I was too confused to reply. I should have stayed behind if that had been allowed, but how much I should have missed. Being in the auditorium with its domes and gilt decoration was like having a picture book brought to life. It was a palace. I could not imagine anywhere more wonderful. The other children no longer existed for me. When the lights went down I thought something had gone wrong. I gripped the brass rail in front of me, fearful that something terrible had happened and I should have to be dragged back to the everyday world. Then the great red velvet curtain went up with a swish, revealing a brightly-lit stage. This was indeed a world of magic. I knew nothing so funny as seeing the bulging pantomime dame trying to cook sausages in her kitchen while two villains tried to distract her so they could kidnap Cinderella. At the end I clapped with everybody else, imagining that somehow this would make the magic remain. My parents must have been surprised by my enthusiasm. For days I could think of nothing but the outing. I wanted my mother to take me again, but she said that she could not get tickets. I was too young to question her explanation, but now I wonder whether she was making an excuse. If I could not go to the theatre, I could create the magic myself. This was the start of my interest in toy theatres. It would have been easier to operate one with somebody else to help, but involving other people would have spoilt the magic. Not that there was anybody to ask except my parents and I never considered involving them. I liked to devise and enact little stories. Once my mother looked in the room to see what I was doing. That made me stop. I preferred not to have an audience. 
Operating the lights interested me as much as performing plays. With the beams of two torches directed to the stage. The effect was magical. I liked torches which could be focused, so that they made sharp circles of light. The trouble was that the batteries did not last long. Once I tried using a table lamp. My little stage became so bright. Even now I remember the smell of the plastic shade as it grew warm.
My first theatre was a shoe box covered in crepe paper. Later I made one from hardboard and painted the interior white. The scenery was cut from magazines, or sometimes I painted it myself. Some of the figures were taken from magazines. One of my favourite presents was a set of printed card figures made for a Victorian toy theatre. They became greasy and bent, but I still kept them. The surprising thing was that my mother should buy me something I wanted so much.
A stage needs a curtain. My mother found an old piece of velvet which I attached to a piece of broom handle so it could be wound up. What a sense of anticipation I felt as the torch beam shone on the red velvet like a spotlight. The most dramatic effect was late in the afternoon as darkness fell. It was on winter evenings that I most enjoyed playing with my toy theatre. Some of the stories I enacted came from things which I had read. Some were from my imagination. These were never written down, so they have largely slipped from my memory. I improvised plots and dialogue without ever realising the complexity of what I was doing. One plot was about a king who went to a foreign country in disguise and who was treated like a peasant. When I enacted the story, I used the printed figures though their dress was inappropriate. 
During lessons at the infants' school I had the chance to make up stories and illustrate them. On open day I was proud and apprehensive at the same time when the teacher showed one of the stories to my mother. On her death I discovered the story in her dressing table. Looking at the clumsy printing and the crude drawings in rainbow colours, I realised how embarrassing were all the things I said and did as a child. If only it were possible to change the past. Of course I destroyed those early efforts, though I wish I could recapture their spontaneity. Now my essays on aspects of insurance are written slowly. Even on a second draft I read them through and feel dissatisfied. The language must be precise. This is vital in insurance. There can be no room for ambiguity in the wording of a policy.
Reading was another way into an imaginary world. One of my teachers noted that I had a fertile imagination because I read a lot. At the time I did not know whether this was something to be pleased about. One of the few pleasant things about school was having so many books and magazines to read. How I looked forward to the weekly session when we could read what we liked. I wanted to read everything in the big school cupboard. So long as I had something to read, the world of the classroom did not exist.
At playtime it was more difficult to hold on to my own world with the other children shouting and laughing around me. Only on the fringes of the playground was there any peace. I looked longingly at the world beyond the railings, imagining what it was like to have the freedom to do what I wanted. There were bushes beside the railings. In one term each year they were alive with caterpillars. I loved watching the bodies arch on their invisible threads, yet within weeks they were gone. They never appeared in such numbers again.
In the playground I had a companion nobody knew about. His name was Egbert. How I came upon the name I do not know. It must have appeared in a book. The character probably occurred to me after seeing Pinocchio. He was two inches high and he lived in a gap between the bricks. In the corner where the cloakrooms joined the main building, I was out of sight of the rest of the playground there. Egbert could nestle in my hand. advising and encouraging me. I felt able to confide in him in a way which was impossible with anybody else. He knew the things which made me afraid, like slugs and the noises the plumbing made at night. I told him of my hopes, like wanting to put together the coveted jigsaw of a galleon which other children always claimed from the toy cupboard before me and hoping to be in Miss Jones's class the next year because she was nice. If anybody came near, I hid Egbert in my pocket. At the end of each playtime I put Egbert back in his hiding place. It was Egbert who advised me which way to go home at the end of each day: whether to pass the toy shop, its windows filled with the cars and soldiers I dreamed of owning, or to take the road where in autumn the verge was strewn with walnuts. At the end of term I took Egbert home with me. He looked forward to the change of surroundings. In summer he lived in the gap between the garden shed and fence. In winter I kept him in my toy box. He was my companion when I played with my model cars or when my soldiers had battles. Sometimes he encouraged me to be naughty, such as when I fired a water pistol at the girl sunbathing in the adjoining garden, or when I moved the wing mirror of a car. That was when the owner shouted at me. I expected him to ask where I lived and then tell my parents what I had done, but nothing happened. 
When I left infant school, Egbert did not come with me. That was not the result of any conscious decision on my part. I suppose I was growing up. Sometimes I missed him at my new school. Perhaps another child like myself befriended him. Egbert was a real person to me, with a personality more forceful and mischievous than mine. At times I was afraid where his impishness might lead. Adventure and excitement were foreign to me. By the time I got to secondary school, my need for a companion lessened like my interest in toy theatres. Reading fuelled all my fantasies. School stories and adventure stories transported me to times and places I did not know. My pulse raced and I held my breath as Biggles followed his opponent from the newsagent's shop where the secret message was left. Giving up childhood meant leaving such excitement behind.

Chapter 6

One piece of news made me walk with a spring in my step. The police admitted that  they were baffled. The word baffled was actually used in the newspaper. If the report on Eileen's accident was correct, I had nothing to fear.
The killing of Margaret was not forgotten, but there was no hurry for that. I revelled in the planning, turning over in my mind how I could trick her into meeting me and how the killing should take place. It was essential that she realised how much she had hurt me by her duplicity. The wider question was where I could turn for pleasure. The fear in Kings Cross would subside, but I could not risk being seen there for several months. I had no wish to return to Notting Hill for several months. If only Tracy knew how lucky she had been. I needed some way of making contact with girls without revealing my identity. For several weeks on those journeys two and from work I wrestled with the problem till I despaired of ever finding a solution.
I have already mentioned that I like to go for a walk on a Sunday. One Sunday in February I revisited the market at Camden Lock. This is an interesting place in which to browse, though I should not care to buy anything there. Beside the canal is a cobbled yard where stalls covered with tarpaulins display such items as homemade jewellery, bric-a-brac, books and records. Behind it are sheds where larger items like pine furniture, dresses and wooden rocking horses are sold. Unfortunately the market attracts hippie types. I should not be surprised if some of them used drugs. What intrigues me is how they make a living. If I were an employer, I should not give a job to somebody with filthy, unkempt hair and eccentric clothes. These people probably live on social security handouts. The alarming thing is that some of them have children, no doubt supported at the state's expense, who will grow up with the same casual attitudes as their parents.
Several stalls sell food. They do a thriving trade judging by the number of people who crowd around them, though I have no doubt there are plenty of cases of food poisoning the next day. The canal is another world. It is less crowded than the market, though the litter along the towpath shows that it is a popular place to walk. Penalties for dropping litter need to be increased. In summer you can take boat trips from Camden, which must be a pleasant family outing. Whatever the weather there are always fishermen sitting by the canal bank. They never seem to catch anything. If they did, I cannot imagine anybody wanting to eat any fish from that filthy water. Road bridges punctuate the towpath. They are so low that you have to bend your neck to pass underneath. 
What I like about the canal is the calm which being by the water brings. Stop walking and you can hear water lapping the bank, while the traffic noise is reduced to a distant rumble. From the towpath even familiar roads are difficult to recognise. Walk further from the market and you meet fewer and fewer people. Sometimes you can be completely unobserved. 
It is strange how a place can imprint itself on you, determining your course of action. For example little things can prompt you to rent a room such as the view from the window or a picture on the wall. As I stood enjoying the solitude and watching a family of ducks on the canal, I knew that this was where I wanted to kill Margaret, though I had no idea how to lure her there. That night I dreamed of meeting Margaret by the canal. She did not see the knife until we were close; then it mesmerised her. She was like an animal which was unable to move as it saw death approaching.
The day following that Sunday walk I remember well because of what happened with Steve Jenkins. Arguments are something I dislike intensely. I have to steel myself for such encounters and afterwards it takes me many hours to restore my equilibrium. What triggered this incident was that Steve left his motorcycle blocking the yard, so that access to the dustbins was impossible. There was little to be done immediately, though I did leave a note stating 'Please do not park across the pathway' on the tarpaulin cover and secured with adhesive tape. Doing this set back my morning routine by seven minutes, but fortunately I got a bus straight away. As is usual on a Monday, work was particularly hectic, so that by the time I got home, the events of the morning had slipped from my mind. As I prepared my evening meal, there was a knock on my  door. This was disconcerting in itself, because I never have visitors. Sometimes people knock at the front door, selling things or collecting for charity, but only tenants have access to the hall because the front door is kept locked. When I asked loudly who was there and Steve Jenkins answered, the events of the morning came back to me. I opened the door expecting to receive an apology. Instead he was abusive, demanding to know why I had left the note. His comments were intemperate and unnecessary. I attempted to reason with him, but he stormed back to his room. When I had closed and locked the door, I had to sit on the bed for five minutes to recover. I felt sick, so that I lost all desire to eat. From that moment Steve Jenkins joined my list of people to kill. There are more obvious means of taking action such as complaining to the landlord, but I know from experience that this does not achieve anything. The method I used for dealing with Doreen and Eileen would not be suitable for Steve Jenkins, so I had something else to think about when I should have been preparing for examinations in July. Revision needs to begin well in advance. Trying to go over everything at the last minute is of little value.
That night I lay turning over in my mind the problem of what to do about my aggressive fellow tenant. It is easy to see why somebody of his type should be so attracted to a dangerous and noisy machine like a motorcycle. His violence feeds off the speed and the outlandish clothes. One obvious method of dealing with Master Jenkins was to tamper with his motorcycle. I know nothing about machines, but I felt sure that something could be done to the brakes. This was something I resolved to explore in greater detail.
Now two people were on my list to be killed. Naturally I wanted to be strictly impartial in making such decisions. Vindictiveness is alien to me. After much thought I felt convinced that my actions were justified and that anybody else in possession of all the facts would agree. The behaviour of both Steve Jenkins and Margaret was wholly unreasonable. In Margaret's case I was particularly unlucky because of my high hopes for our relationship. She was quite pretty and she seemed interested in what I had to say about insurance. Details about her kept coming into my mind. She had an appealing way of tilting her head on one side as she smiled, which reminded me of a bird. Her scent was attractive. The thought of her still brought back its smell. Her hands were well manicured, which is something I always appreciate. I recall sitting next to a girl on the bus who spent the entire journey from Hornsey to Kings Cross biting her nails. This is a disgusting practice, particularly on the part of girls. If there had been another seat available, I should have taken it. Bitten nails and nails which are not kept clean betray the 'couldn't care less' attitude which I abhor.
I am convinced that Margaret's behaviour was influenced by her excessive interest in religion. What surprises me is that down-to-earth people like her parents should become associated with an extreme sect. I am not against religious belief, but it should be shown in a seemly way. Displays of emotion are always offensive. Last summer I was on a bus when a woman began crying for no apparent reason. All the other passengers were embarrassed. The man sitting next to her got off at the next stop and nobody else would sit next to her. Emotion needs to be kept in check.
When my parents died, I did not cry. Death is a natural occurrence. People say that rituals help the relatives when somebody dies, but I do not see why. The fire destroyed papers such as insurance policies, which complicated the business of winding up my parents' affairs. I regret that I did not insist on seeing how the solicitor set about his work. It would have been fascinating to watch the process at first hand. For a few weeks after the accident I stayed with Auntie Hilda. I did not enjoy being there. Her bathroom smelt of talcum powder. She kept saying that it must be a sad time for me and that I had to bear up like mother's little boy. She imagined that I was still five years old, like the time when she came to stay. Although she suggested that I go to live with her permanently, I think she only made the offer out of a sense of obligation. When I declined, she looked relieved.
Auntie Hilda retrieved from my parents' the lounge a few ornaments which were undamaged. They were so blackened as to be hardly recognisable until she washed them. She seemed surprised that I did not want them as mementoes. I was more concerned to look for any of my books which had survived, but I was not allowed to do so. Apparently the damage to the staircase made the upper floor of the house inaccessible. I do not know what happened to the rest of the contents, though I was disturbed to discover that my father had not maintained adequate contents insurance. This was surprising for someone who was normally so careful in his habits, though it is not unusual. What money there was helped to establish me in London. The balance I invested in a building society. I manage well enough on my earnings by not being extravagant and by keeping careful accounts. It is satisfying to have a full record of my spending. I feel that bookkeeping should be included in the ACII course.
A possible way of contacting girls presented itself one morning as I sorted the post in the hall. On one letter was a name I had come upon several times before. Presumably he was a former tenant who had not left a forwarding address. As I put the letter aside, the idea struck me that the same thing must happen in all tenanted properties. If I could gain access a similar house, my problem would be solved. Using that address and an assumed name all I had to do was to pick up the reply which was sure to be left in the hall with other unclaimed mail and there was no way of connecting the address with me. The only risk would be when I collected the replies and this could be minimised by going first thing in the morning. On the daily bus journey looking for houses with multiple tenants provided me with a new interest. In some of these the front door must be left unlocked, though I should not care to live in a house where there is so little regard for security. Otherwise I foresaw no problems unless there was a conscientious person like myself in the house who returned unclaimed mail!
Finding a suitable address proved harder than I imagined. The bus route is along main roads lined with shops rather than houses, so the journey to and from work were not helpful in this respect. The following weekend was devoted to walking as many streets as possible. Many of them were known to me, but I had never looked for anything so specific before. Houses in multiple occupation as they are called are easy to recognise. They often have a down-at-heel appearance. The telltale signs are an untended garden, bags of rubbish left by the gate, different patterns of curtains at every window, stickers on the windows and an array of bell pushes by the door. Where there is no fridge in the house, you see cartons of milk left on window sills. This is an unsightly and unhygienic practice which landlords should not allow.
By the Sunday afternoon my legs were aching. I had walked around Hornsey, Muswell Hill, the southern part of Highgate, Tufnell Park, Kentish Town and Holloway. As a result of my efforts all I discovered was one house in Highgate where the door was left open. Each flatlet had its own letterbox in the door, each with a wire basket behind. To discover whether the postman used them I should have to visit the house immediately after the postman had called. This was not convenient as it was a considerable distance away.
I continued with my search the following weekend. By the Sunday afternoon I despaired of finding anywhere suitable. It was fortuitous that I happened to see a group of girls in their late teens crossing the lawn in front of a modern building which otherwise I should not have looked at twice. Though I am not superstitious, such a happy circumstance almost made me believe in fate. As I watched, the leading girl pushed open the door and the whole group trooped inside. A sign revealed that what I had assumed to be a block of flats was a hall of residence belonging to the university. My next task was to discover whether the hall was open to men. As I debated how to do this, fate came to my aid again. A youth who by his clothing was obviously a student went in the building by the same door as the girls. That decided me. Without further ado I followed him. On the long path leading across the lawn to the entrance I kept expecting somebody to call me, demanding to know who I was. It was reassuring when nothing happened. I pushed open the door as the others had done. Nobody was in the lobby. The polished floor tiles and the central heating made the hall outside my room look dowdy by comparison. If this is how students live, then I have little sympathy with their complaints about inadequate grants. 
Another door separated the lobby from the corridor leading to the rest of the building. Nobody was in sight through the glass panels. What interested me was the array of pigeonholes occupying the wall behind the door. The letters it contained must have been there since at least the Saturday delivery. Apparently students do not bother to collect their post regularly, which does not surprise me judging by what I see of them. What annoys me is that they expect working people to subsidise their extravagance. Graduates come into insurance and are promoted to senior positions after a short initial training. This is grossly unfair. I was given the task of showing one graduate trainee how house and contents policies are processed. He sat in with me for a day before going on to look at the work of another section. My impression was that he had little interest in the work. Nor was he particularly clever judging by some of the questions he asked.
Each pigeonhole was assigned to a group of numbered rooms. Any unnumbered post was left on the table underneath. My search was over. As I made a note of the correct postal address, I could hear a radio playing. Laughter came from the corridor, but it sounded some way off. When I left, I did so without hurrying. As far as any passers-by were concerned, I was a student.
I walked home feeling on top of the world. As silly as it seems, I felt the Victorian streets of three-storeyed houses were laid out for my approval. On a hill where I could see over the slate roofs, I had the illusion of floating above them. London was mine.
Naturally I was anxious to put my plan into effect as soon as possible. Fortunately a newsagent's shop was still open, so I was able to purchase a copy of Time Out. Back in my room I made myself a cup of tea and selected five advertisements. This time there was no need to concern myself with whether the girls were suitable partners. For writing the letters I wore the rubber gloves I use for cleaning the sink. Before starting I practised disguising my writing. It is difficult to write like another person. This was something I had never appreciated before. I tried writing with my left hand, but the result looked like a child's scrawl. Handwriting experts are supposed to be able to tell your writing, even when you try to disguise it. I appreciated this, but there was no alternative to writing letters by hand. Unfortunately I do not have access to a typewriter. I have seen word processors in shops, but I shall not be buying one of those. I cannot see computers being of much use in insurance, where so much depends on an experienced person making an assessment of the risk.
Another problem was what to do about the telephone number. Using the number of the telephone outside my door was out of the question, but if I gave no number, the recipients of the letters might become suspicious. The only solution I could think of was to apologise for my telephone being out of order.
The letters had to be carefully worded to reflect what the girls wanted to hear, so there was no question of copying the same wording five times. I tried to make them both chatty and informative. It is difficult to present yourself as another person. Most obviously my name had to be changed. I called myself Kenneth Kershaw. I also had to present a different personality each time, portraying five men whose interests and attitudes were different from my own. For the girl who liked foreign travel I mentioned my recent safari to Kenya and a forthcoming visit to China. Another girl who called herself attractive and vivacious claimed that she liked wining and dining. I informed her that I went to clubs every night. I told her I was public relations consultant. By nine o'clock these were the only two letters completed to my satisfaction. Fatigue was catching up with me, so I went to bed. I like to be fresh for work.
On Monday evening I settled down to continue Kenneth Kershaw's search for the girl of his dreams. 'Susan is sincere, home-loving and affectionate,' the next advertisement began. Kenneth became somebody who worked in a bank, who liked reading and who visited historic houses at weekends. This letter was easier because the character was nearer to my true self, though I was careful to impart the right degree of sincerity. Next came a letter to somebody who described herself as 'a girl lost in a big city looking for a soul mate to bring romance and fun into her life'. This proved more difficult since she revealed nothing about her tastes. This Kenneth was a teacher who liked going to art galleries and who belonged to an amateur operatic society. I particularly liked the latter touch.
The following evening I was ready to begin the final letter. This was to a 'cat desperate to find a companion for a scatterbrained owner who likes cooking, weaving and talking'. Kenneth became the owner of a pet shop. I wondered whether this was too obvious, but I thought it might appeal to her. It is difficult to predict how a stranger will react to a letter. Kenneth's interests on this occasion were visiting zoos and making jewellery. My visit to Camden Lock made me think of the latter. With this letter completed, all five were ready for posting. I did not read them again, or I should probably have wanted to change them.
The days of waiting were difficult. The following weekend I had to restrain myself from going to the halls of residence. Instead I went for long walks around Camden and Islington, looking for other houses which I might use. It was as well to have several suitable addresses. One house which showed every sign of being let as single rooms had its front door ajar. I should have liked to look in the hall, but I could not risk doing so while people were passing. I went home frustrated at my caution. 
Margaret was still in my thoughts. Sometimes I hoped she might be one of the girls who advertised, but that was wishful thinking. I should have to attend to that madam another way. Nor was Steve Jenkins forgotten. On my Saturday visit to the library, I studied a manual on the servicing of Honda motorcycles. I did not want to take the book out in case it was traced to me after Steve Jenkins had his accident.
There are people at work I should like to deal with in a similar way. For instance there is Peter Sullivan whom I have already mentioned. A few weeks earlier he tried to get me into trouble with Mr Wiggins. I should explain that each clerk is allocated work on an alphabetical basis according to the policyholder's name. In this case a woman changed her name when she married, so that responsibility for dealing with her policy passed from Peter Sullivan to me. As he gave me the form, he told me that the change of address card for the index file had already been changed. Normally I should check this myself, but because of a sudden influx of work I omitted to do so. A few days after I sent the letter of acknowledgement, it came to light that the index card had not been changed. Peter Sullivan denied telling me that the card had been prepared. Mr Wiggins reprimanded me, though I consider that this was unfair. I knew the correct procedure, but Peter Sullivan had assured me that the card was made out. This incident taught me never to trust him. The unfairness made me wonder whether I should look for another job, but I wanted to deal with the matter of the replies to my letters before facing such an upheaval.
Excitement built up in me over that week. Several times I reread the advertisements, imagining what the girls were like. The thought passed through my mind that I should get on so well with one of them that all my plans would change, but I did not really believe that this would happen.
On Saturday I went back to the halls of residence before many people would be up. This necessitated waking up at the same time as on a weekday, but my eagerness was such that I thought this was worthwhile. It was a bright morning which made my fingers tingle with cold. My chest was tight as I crossed the lawn. Close to the entrance my courage almost failed me. My steps faltered as I tried to decide whether to go ahead. It would have been easy to abandon my plan, but the thought of what was at stake made me press on. At any moment I expected somebody to challenge me. This was silly because the street was empty apart from a man wiping frost from the windscreen of his car. Looking through the glass panel of the door, I could see that the lobby was empty. Whatever my fears, I could not have wanted anything better. Indeed as I was to discover when I went inside, I had chosen a particularly good moment: the morning post was still bundled in an elastic band on the table. A few letters lay alongside, presumably from previous deliveries. There was nothing for me among those, but the bundle yielded one envelope addressed to me. 
When voices came from the corridor, I left hurriedly, turning up my collar so that my face should not be seen. On my way home my curiosity got the better of me and I took the envelope from my pocket. It was mauve. Girls like coloured stationery. The postmark was south London. The writing was a beautiful italic script, though the black ink was smudged where it had got wet. There could only be one or two sheets inside. From previous experience I knew that the people who wrote several pages were the ones who wanted a meeting. A single sheet might mean that she was only giving me her telephone number.
Her name was Janet. I lay on my bed to read her letter, with a cup of tea to warm me. The paper matched the colour of the envelope. It had a pattern of flowers at the corners. As I expected, she told me little about herself except that she was a teacher of twenty-three. This lack of detail was deliberate, because she said she wanted to wait until we met. There was not even an address on the letter, only a telephone number. I had trouble recognising her as one of the girls who advertised. 
Overcoming my dislike of using the telephone, I called Janet from a public telephone box on my way to the launderette. The girl who answered seemed surprised at anybody ringing so early on a Saturday morning, though I should not consider nine o'clock to be early. She informed me brusquely that as Janet was not yet up, I should ring again in a couple of hours. In any other circumstances this would have been an end to the matter. I object to having my Saturdays disrupted. Because I was anxious to arrange a meeting, I rang again on my way back from the library, which meant hanging about outside the telephone box until the girl using it had finished. She held the door open for me. When I went inside, the box smelt of her perfume.
This time it was Janet who answered. I was disconcerted when she called me Kenneth, but I do not think she noticed. There must always be some nervousness in such a situation, though Janet sounded such a confident person that I was surprised she needed to advertise. She wanted us to meet at Charing Cross. This was not ideal from my point of view as it is a long way from the office and I do not know the area well. With hindsight I should have decided on a meeting place before I telephoned. This is another example of impatience getting in the way of clear thinking. I was annoyed with myself for letting it happen. Reckless behaviour could expose me to unacceptable risks.
On the Sunday I decided to reconnoitre Charing Cross. Fortunately a bus came within five minutes. It took me to Trafalgar Square, which is near the station. Often there is a restricted service on Sundays, so I was lucky to get a bus so quickly. With the shops and offices closed, Trafalgar Square was almost deserted except for a few tourists feeding pigeons. This is a practice which should be made illegal. Pigeons are vermin.
Charing Cross is one of those Victorian stations typical of London, with a forecourt which must be unchanged from the days of horse traffic and a huge hotel above the station entrance. I found the meeting place on the concourse without difficulty. My next decision was where I should take Janet. This had to be my choice. I should need to be insistent if she wanted to go somewhere else. I needed somewhere quiet, but the problem with looking around London on a Sunday morning was that I could only guess at what it must be like on a weekday evening. It would have been better to go there the next day after work, but I do not care to stay out after dark unless absolutely necessary.
Initially I examined the area behind St Martins-in-the-Fields. The buildings there are old. Finding the massive tenements was a surprise. They are built of a whitish brick which is unusual in London and they look out of place so close to a tourist attraction like Trafalgar Square. Beyond these I came upon a range of small shops selling everything from food to antiques, though few were open on a Sunday morning. This is the sort area which it is pleasant to wander around if you have time to spare. I noted many small offices in Victorian buildings. Places like these are a headache for insurance companies. Further on was a large square with an arcade along one side. This turned out to be Covent Garden. It was somewhere I had heard of, though I had never expected to visit such a well-known place. Unfortunately it was not suitable for my purposes.
As time was getting on I turned south to other side of the Strand. This proved disappointing. Though the streets were quiet, they were much too wide. I could imagine them being used as car parks during the week. What I wanted was an area of narrow alleys and hidden corners. The gardens beside the Embankment looked promising initially, but the gates would be locked at night. It looked as if I had drawn a blank. I made my way to the road under Charing Cross Station. My intention was to look at the district on the other side. The sight which met by eyes was disgusting. Tramps congregated there, male and female, and of all ages. Some had dogs which looked no cleaner than their owners. Lining the pavement were cardboard boxes, sleeping bags and filthy mattresses. Empty wine bottles and cider bottles were everywhere. These people who could not afford homes had no trouble finding money for alcohol and cigarettes.
I was thankful to leave that scene behind. Beyond Charing Cross are more gardens. Whatever opportunities they offered, regretfully I concluded that Janet would object to going into a garden at night. I headed back towards Trafalgar Square in the shadow of tall, grim offices which belonged in the last century. To get away from such oppressive surroundings, I went into a side street. Much to my surprise this brought me into Whitehall. The Horse Guards were something else I had never seen before. London is indeed full of the unexpected. I was looking for somewhere quiet which was suitable for a killing and instead I came upon this most famous of English scenes. 
Whitehall presented no opportunities for what I had in mind. As I crossed the road leading through Admiralty Arch to Buckingham Palace, an alley caught my eye. This was more promising. I wondered through a maze of alleys and steps within shouting distance of Trafalgar Square yet hidden from it. By then the area was familiar to me. I was well pleased.
On crossing Cockspur Street and making my way north to the National Gallery, I discovered another two courts. One was locked. The other was more promising. It was a dead end, with only the entrance visible from the street. As I made my way home, I wondered how I might persuade Margaret to go there.
*
By this time I was becoming used to the procedure for meeting strangers. Because there was ample spare time after leaving the office and because there would not be another chance until later in the evening, I went into a sandwich bar and had a cheese and tomato sandwich and a cup of tea. These proved most acceptable. The snack bar was spotlessly clean. To get to Charing Cross I walked through Covent Garden again. It is a lively area in the evening, thronged with young people. In spite of the cold, a crowd was listening to two buskers. It was not my sort of music, but the couple seemed talented. The crowd appreciated them. Nobody could realise that my kitchen knife was in my inside jacket pocket. It was reassuring and exciting to feel it there. I bought the knife on first coming to London, so I knew its sharpness. Before leaving in the morning I had thoroughly washed the handle to remove any fingerprints. After that I only handled it with gloves. So the point should not damage the lining of my jacket, I wrapped paper around the blade. In one of the quieter streets closer to Charing Cross I pulled this off and turned the knife so that the handle protruded from the pocket with the blade protected in my wallet. It felt uncomfortable, but that was a minor consideration.
At seven o'clock Charing Cross was still busy with commuters. I waited beside the newsagent's kiosk, imagining all the things which might go wrong. One immediate risk was that people should remember seeing me with Janet. For future occasions, I thought it prudent to adopt some form of disguise. Glasses seemed appropriate, totally changing my appearance yet being easy to remove after they had served their purpose. Mr Wiggins provides an example of this. When he takes his glasses off to clean them, I hardly recognise him. Now glasses are easily available in shops, obtaining them presents no problem.
Janet was five minutes late, which did not give me a good opinion of her. Nor did she apologise. Though she was pleasant enough and neatly dressed, she was not attractive. Her face was cadaverous, like that of somebody who is ill. She smiled a lot and her front teeth were irregular though they were very white. Her make-up was heavily applied, which surprised me as she was a teacher. Perhaps she was trying to disguise a poor complexion. A blob of makeup caught on her eyelashes, gave the impression that she had not washed properly. In normal circumstances I should not have cared to go out with her. I still had no idea which of the advertisements was hers. This was a problem because it meant that I did not know what my job was supposed to be. I felt keyed up now the difficult stage had come. The less we were seen together the better. I wanted everything to be over quickly so that I could be home by eight o'clock. Radio Four was presenting an interesting feature on the British economy.
'What would you like to do?' I asked, knowing that whatever she said we should go in the direction I determined. It is reassuring to predict what will happen when so much has to be left to chance. 'We could eat, or we could go to a cinema if you wanted,' I added.
'How about a wine bar?' 
She spoke as though everything was exciting. I think she came from a well-off family. It was easy to imagine her teaching small children.
'I know one not far away,' I told her.
'Lead on.'
We did not talk as we left the station. Janet smiled as we glanced at each other. I liked the way her smile died when I did not respond, though it occurred to me that I should do better to lull her into a false sense of security by being attentive.
'You seem to know your way around,' she said as we headed towards Trafalgar Square.
'There's a wine bar I use sometimes.'
'I like coming to the West End. Sometimes in the school holidays I come up to see an art exhibition and go round the shops with my flatmate.'
So she shared a flat. I wondered how long it would be before her flatmate reported her missing. I hoped that she had not said too much about our meeting.
'I work not far from here,' I told her.
'Where's your school?'
I could recall mentioning in one letter that I was a teacher, but not what my other interests were. Not keeping a copy of the letters was a mistake.
'Kenneth, where is it you teach?' she repeated as though I was one of her class.
'What's your day been like?' I asked as a way of deflecting the conversation from myself.
'As hectic as usual. I'm beginning to wish it was the end of term.'
'That's makes two of us.'
'Which way are we going?'
'We've got to cross all these roads, I'm afraid.' 
We were waiting for the lights to change at Northumberland Avenue. 
'Is it down Whitehall?' she wanted to know. 
'Not far away.' 
We crossed the road with several other people. 
'It's on the other side of Whitehall,' I informed her. 
'I hope it doesn't rain,' she said as we ran to the traffic island. Normally I do not cross the road when the lights are against me, but on this occasion I followed Janet's lead. I did not wish to seem overcautious. 
'The weather forecast said it was going to be dry all day,' I was able to reassure her. We reached the far side of the road where there is an imposing bank. I pointed out how impressive it looked through the lighted windows with its chandeliers and decorative ceiling, but Janet was not interested. We waited by the other kerb to cross the Mall. 
'Wouldn't it have been easier to cross the Strand?' she queried. 
'I do know the way.' 
'Sorry. I didn't think there were any wine bars this way, that's all.' 
I made no reply and she was silent as we waited for the lights to change. I preferred it when we were not talking since it was clear we had nothing in common. If we were on a real date, I should have sought an excuse to terminate our evening immediately. 
That crossing is particularly dangerous. There are no pedestrian-controlled lights and traffic turns into the Mall from Whitehall behind you as well as from the Strand. 
'You haven't told me where your school is,' Janet reminded me when we were on the other side. 
'Ah.' 
'Why are you being so mysterious about it?' she persisted. She sounded irritated. Instinct warned me that I had to be careful not to upset her. 
'I wasn't meaning to be mysterious. It's in Westminster, which is quite close.' I pointed towards Buckingham Palace floodlit in the distance. 'In fact if you carried on along here, we should come out near my school. Not that we're going to go looking at schools in the dark.' Nervousness was making me talk too much. 
I speeded up as we passed under Admiralty Arch because the thought of birds roosting overhead made me anxious. One of the unpleasant aspects of central London is that at dusk flocks of birds settle on the trees and buildings, filling the air with noise and making the pavement underneath white with their droppings. You could see the telltale white line on the pavement beneath the parapet of the arch. Once we were on the other side, Janet stopped by a twisted piece of metal I had not noticed on my previous visit. It seemed to fascinate her. 
'Is it a Henry Moore or a Barbara Hepworth?' she asked. 'Or don't you like modern sculpture?' 
She sounded as if she was making fun of me, which annoyed me considering I was the one who was taking her out. I tried to remember what I had said about liking art in any of my letters. 
'It's intriguing, isn't it?' She was walking around this tangle of metal which deserved to go in a scrap yard. The delay was adding to my nervousness, but I refrained from hurrying her. 
At last she seemed satisfied and we could go on our way. I led the way to the steps I had walked before and stood aside to let her go first. This was the moment when distracting her attention was crucial. 
'What sort of teaching do you do?' I asked. 
'Eight to eleven year olds. I like them to be smaller than me.' 
The steps turn at a right angle to form a narrow alley between the buildings. The only light comes from the streets at either end. I was close behind Janet as we reached the darkest point with the knife in my hand. 
'Do you - ' 
She turned to speak, but she broke off. I thought the knife was hidden behind my back, but the alarm on her face showed that she knew what was going to happen. Her scream echoed through the narrow alley until my ears buzzed. Taking advantage of my hesitation she ran towards the far end. The only thing left to me was to escape. After slipping the knife into my coat pocket, I ran back to the Mall, almost falling down the steps in my haste. The quickest way home was to go through Admiralty Arch, but Janet would have gone to Trafalgar Square to seek help. I had no wish to meet her again, especially as a policeman might have heard her cries. Instead I crossed the Mall and headed south, behind Whitehall. Not since my schooldays had I run so far or so fast. The unaccustomed exercise showed how unfit I was, for within a couple of minutes I had to slow to a walking pace. On one side of the road was a park. By following a path into the trees I felt reasonably safe. The problem was what to do next. My fear was that Janet has given the police a full description of my appearance and that they were already searching for me. One possibility was to stay in the park all night. Although I did not relish the prospect, at least I should avoid capture. In the morning I could go straight to work. What deterred me from this course was the prospect of not being able to wash and shave or to change my clothes. To appear in the office in a dishevelled state would itself arouse suspicion. 
Another problem was what to do with the knife. Should I dispose of it so that I should not be incriminated? Throwing it into the lake beyond the railings would have been easy, but even in an apparently empty park I was afraid of being seen. The alternative was to keep it hidden on my person. At least I should not have to buy a replacement. This decided me. I transferred it to my inside pocket again with the blade protected by my wallet. 
How was I to make my way home without being seen by the police? My instinct was to get as far from Trafalgar Square as possible, but my legs were weak. Whether that was the result of shock or the unaccustomed exercise, I do not know. I am sure that any further attempt to run would have caused me to collapse. To compound the problem I was in a part of London which was unknown to me and because I had not expected to go anywhere out of the ordinary, my street atlas was at home. One thing was certain: I could not catch the bus from Trafalgar Square. Not checking such elementary facts as bus routes and the nearest underground stations was another mistake. If such carelessness continued, I deserved to be caught. 
By this time I was on the far side of the park. Loitering at such an hour would have attracted attention, so I crossed the road and plunged into a side street. This proved fortuitous, because in no time I found myself at an underground station. The entrance was in a large and elderly block of offices like the one where I work. To be on the safe side I walked around the building instead of going in straight away. This gave me an opportunity to decide what to do. Imagine my alarm when I found myself confronting New Scotland Yard! This decided me: my priority was to get home as soon as possible, so using the underground became essential. A second entrance to the station faced New Scotland Yard, so I did not have to retrace by steps. Going through the swing doors was like entering an office building. There was a peculiar smell, like grease, floor polish and smoke combined. It was not unpleasant. 
The station was almost empty. This was the first time I had travelled by underground in the evening, so I was not sure what to expect. To avoid waiting I decided to take the first train, wherever it went. One advantage of the underground system is that you can always change at another station. Within a couple of minutes I was on an eastbound Circle Line train. It was not crowded. A man at the end of the coach was smoking, which is banned and which I deprecate. But it was not up to me to do anything and the other passengers took no action. I sat as far from them as possible, partly to avoid being recognised, but also so they should not see my hands were shaking uncontrollably. All I could hope was that nothing else about my appearance drew attention to me. My fear was that police would board the train to search for me. As it approached the first station, my anxiety grew. I scanned the platform as the train drew in, but there was no sign of police uniforms. The further we travelled, the more secure I felt. My thoughts turned to finding a route home. As I studied the map over the doors, I tried to visualise the destination boards on the buses which passed near my home. Kings Cross was an obvious place to get off, but I felt happier taking a route which did not involve travelling so far by underground. It would be ironic if I had to summon the police because I was attacked on a train. 
At the Monument Station there is an escalator connection to the Bank. From there a Northern Line train took me to London Bridge. This entailed waiting a long time at the Bank, but fortunately the platform was almost deserted. It is no wonder that out of the rush hour people are robbed on the underground. Your cries would not be heard. Somebody had been sick against the wall. Doubtless the offender was one of those louts who insist on drinking cans of lager. I stood well away from the mess. 
This was my first visit to London Bridge Station. The bus terminus is in the station forecourt. My bus was already there, though it did not leave for ten minutes. There was only one other passenger. 
It is interesting to cross London Bridge at night and to see the river glittering far below, but my real concern was getting home as quickly and as safely as possible. I paid for a ticket rather than showing my bus pass. As a final precaution I alighted at Holloway Road and walked over a mile to my home in spite of my tiredness and the lateness of the hour. It was gone eight-thirty when I got back. How pleased I was to be in the privacy of my room again. Images of the evening kept flashing through my mind: Janet's grin when we first met, as though she did not want to show her crooked teeth, the way she turned her whole body sideways when watching traffic like somebody with a stiff neck, her curiosity on seeing that so-called sculpture and the expression which told me she had seen the knife. The images crowded out sleep. An hour passed before I could bring myself even to undress. 
The next morning my body felt leaden from the shock and the lack of sleep. This was hardly a reason for not going to work, though some people take days off at the slightest pretext. Of course I have colds and headaches, but they are hardly excuses for not going to the office. Apart from the moral obligation towards one's employers, a day off means that work does not get done. Worse still is having somebody trying to do it for you. Though this is meant to help, I do not want other people's low standards being applied to my clients. 
On that Monday morning I was on my way to the bus stop when a police car cruised by. I am sure it slowed. My stomach turned over, but I forced myself to continue walking as if nothing had happened. The turmoil almost made me faint. Fortunately the police car did not stop, but for an hour after reaching the office, I was unable to concentrate. At lunchtime I bought an evening paper to read in the restaurant. Though there was only time to scan it before my food arrived, I was reassured to see nothing about the incident the previous evening. Afterwards I went straight back to the office where a thorough reading confirmed my initial impression. This was a considerable relief, though it did not prove that the police were not looking for me. How fortunate that I had the foresight to take a circuitous route home. I could imagine the police making enquiries at the halls of residence, but even if they found more letters to Kenneth Kershaw, they could do nothing. Nobody would collect them. The only risk was that Janet could furnish my description.  
After such a disaster I lost all desire to go out in the evening. Instead I reverted to my former pattern of living, though for my peace of mind I should have liked to know what had happened. Janet might not have gone to the police. Perhaps they did not believe her, or perhaps they abandoned the case for lack of witnesses. There was no way of knowing, but as time went by, the more my chances of discovery were reduced. My sleep which had been disturbed by the incident was improving, but though the evening with Janet was becoming a memory, the long-term problem of finding pleasure remained. Indeed it was made more difficult by not being able to use the halls of residence again. Even if the police did not keep watch, the university authorities were bound to tighten security. My search for another address had to continue and I did not have high hopes of finding somewhere as suitable. 
By this time I was buying magazines every week to read the lonely hearts advertisements. I had discovered three magazines including one devoted to such advertisements. It seemed as if everybody in London was finding partners that way. Some advertisements were exotic, describing highly-educated beauties from rich families, or ambitious female executives who travelled the world. I cannot understand why such people need to advertise. Some girls included a photograph, which was something I should never contemplate. There were several advertisements I should have liked to answer, but I could not do so until I found a mailing address. 
Work no longer interested me so much. This was a change which I found hard to understand, though I do not think it showed in my approach to day-to-day office tasks. It was just that things outside of work seemed more important. On the bus journeys home I was sometimes tempted to get off at Kings Cross. Of course this was out of the question. One weekend I walked past the halls of residence. All the time I was looking for an unmarked police car. If a policeman was watching, he was well concealed. I made a point of not staring at the entrance. It would have been helpful if somebody else had gone in so that I could see whether the door was kept locked. Unfortunately this did not happen.

Chapter 7

A way of concealing my identity presented itself fortuitously at the office. A  policyholder who was moving informed the company by letter that further correspondence should be sent to a post office until he notified us of a permanent address. I had not realised before that such an arrangement could be made. At lunchtime I telephoned the nearest post office. Naturally I used a public telephone box. This was partly to avoid being overheard by colleagues, but also because as a matter of principle I do not use the office telephone for personal calls. The pity is that other people have no such scruples. I let the telephone ring for three minutes, but nobody answered. This is a deplorable standard of service. Staffing levels are often reduced during the lunch hour, but a public utility should make better provision for telephone enquiries.
The following day I tried telephoning again during the lunch hour. This time the number was engaged, but after dialling repeatedly I managed to get through. The response to my enquiry was encouraging. The post office has what is called a poste restante facility. For a fee I could have letters addressed there for collection whenever I wanted. My initial euphoria soon faded, however. Having mail redirected to a post office might arouse suspicion and my own address could be traced. This problem was not solved until the Saturday when I consulted the Post Office Directory in the library. Finding the solution was like fitting the final piece in a jigsaw. It was so simple. I could use any address! All I had to do was redirect the mail to the poste restante address. If the police found the chosen address on one of my letters, they could question everybody at the house I selected and watch it for months without discovering my identity. Even at the post office my true name and address would not be known, so my only risk was in collecting the mail.
After what happened with Janet, Kenneth Kershaw had to disappear. Now I was Robert Parker. The new name came to me one morning as I was cleaning my teeth. The sun shining through the window encouraged my optimism. People might have been able to see in, but there was hardly anybody about early on a Saturday. I took the risk and did not bother to pull the curtains back. It was enjoyable to think that after all the times I had watched the couple opposite, now they had a chance to watch me, if they bothered to get out of bed.
When I came to enquire at the post office, a problem became apparent: there was a heavy charge for redirection. This was something I should have anticipated. So as not to attract attention, I did not enquire about using about poste restante facilities at the same time. Instead I telephoned another post office. There was a charge for poste restante facilities as well, which was to be expected. So there was my choice. Going ahead with my plan would entail a considerable outlay, but no alternative presented itself. To abandon it would mean giving up the pleasure which had changed my life, unless I found another way of contacting girls. After a day spent wrestling with the possibilities, my conclusion was to go ahead. 
The arrangements were as foolproof as I could make them. I paid for the poste restante address in cash. The post office was so crowded in the lunch hour and the staff so harassed that I did not think I should be remembered. The second part of the operation - redirection of post from my chosen address in Cromwell Avenue - proved more difficult. I only discovered at this stage that the Post Office would not redirect mail to a post restante address and required evidence of my address. This threw my plans into disarray. All I could do was to make use of the address I had set up, but to use it on one occasion only. This was expensive, but I had no choice. 
Ideally I should have waited several weeks before replying to any girls, so that no connection should be made with Janet. I regret to say that impatience got the better of me. I wanted to see how my arrangements would work. It was also a long time since Eileen's accident. That very evening I went through the current magazines, marking all the likely advertisements. There were scores, though of course I had no intention of responding to them all. I enjoyed whittling the numbers down. The girls concerned did not know that I was making life or death decisions on their behalf.
The following Saturday morning was devoted to my regular chores, it was not until after lunch that I began composing the letters. This time I made a point of listing what I said about myself. Of all the girls I could have written to I contented myself with three as a test of my mailing arrangements. Assuming three different personalities was enough for one day. One girl described herself as a new age child (Virgo), looking for a soul mate. I was not sure what she meant, but the star sign gave me a clue. My occupation was an astrologer, which I thought should appeal to her. I described a search for a companion which had taken me to America without finding anybody emotionally suitable. 'Somewhere the ideal girl was waiting for me,' I told her. 'Are you that girl?' I ended by explaining that because I was changing my address, all my mail was being redirected to the Post Office. 
The second girl called herself a go-getter. This was not a description which would normally appeal to me. For her I was an investment adviser to a merchant bank. I would be delighted to meet somebody equally ambitious and I looked forward to a meal together and perhaps a visit to the theatre. As a reason for not giving my telephone number, I explained that I was staying with various friends while my own flat was being decorated.
Finally I wrote to a girl who gave her name as Fiona and who described herself as 'scatty but home-loving'. She was looking for somebody to 'share her life and love her Persian cat.' I am not fond of cats. With matters like litter trays and fleas to think about, I should never countenance owning one and I should be uneasy in a house where one lived. None of this showed in my letter, of course. I claimed to love cats, though I was not able to keep one in my own flat because I travelled a lot. My particular love was going in the countryside at weekends, so I hoped Fiona might join me.
Writing three letters occupied the rest of the day. I missed my evening meal which is most unusual, because I always eat at five o'clock on Saturdays. At eight o'clock in the evening I had a tin of creamed rice. This is something I had not eaten for some months, so I was surprised at how pleasant and filling it was. It went on my shopping list in subsequent weeks.
The Sunday morning walk remains vivid in my memory. It was one of those occasions when ordinary events are charged with meaning you are hardly aware of at the time. Doubtless the sun helped to create this mood. Although the winter has not been severe and no snow has fallen, almost every day is dull and wet. The low March sun made the buildings look different. Each brick and each slate cast a shadow, reminding me of how I played with lights in my toy theatre. I explored streets beyond Archway which were new to me. The terraced houses have long front gardens crowded with trees. In this hilly district some gardens are like rockeries, with long flights of steps up to the front doors. 
Highgate itself resembles a country village, with old buildings clustered around a village green which is now a triangle of asphalt. It would be nice to see a lawn there, perhaps with a pond. I am surprised nobody has thought of this.
Beside an old-fashioned dairy is a lane leading downhill from the centre of the village. The high walls on either side are overhung with trees. Walking there is like no other experience in London. By the entrance to a cemetery the whole of London is spread before you in a valley. You really understand that London is in a river basin. Buildings like Centre Point are identifiable, but I could not spot my office. For several minutes I stood looking at the view. The lane seemed hardly used. My pleasure was enhanced because nobody else appeared to have discovered the view. I think that it will stay with me for ever, bringing me a sense of liberation whenever I think of it. I felt buoyed up. I remember going through a gate in a high wall and finding myself in a beautiful park. This belonged in a dream. I felt invisible to the neatly-dressed family groups. This was a park for well-off people. The trees, the arcades and the tiered gardens with their tall shrubs made hidden places. Some of the trees were coming into bud. 
The house in the shrubbery was unexpected. Part of the ground floor was used as a cafe. The French windows were open. People were sitting on the verandah in their coats. A tiny girl perched on a chair, swinging her legs as she peeled the paper from a cake. A grey squirrel climbed a tree, which is something I have never seen before. Walking in London is a tonic.
One reason for going to Highgate was to see Cromwell Avenue, from where mail should have been directed to my post restante address. I was annoyed that bureaucracy had disrupted my plan, but I was still interested to see the address I had chosen from the street atlas. Cromwell Avenue is near the park. I walked back that way, It is a quiet, safe street of large terraced houses. I should like to live there. The appropriateness of my choice pleased me.
It was a good day. I counted how many weeks had passed since the ill-fated Sunday with Margaret. How naive I had been to imagine that our relationship might blossom into love. The more I thought about what happened, the more I could see that a girl so obsessed with religion would not make a suitable companion. Whoever her 'new beau' was, he would discover that for himself. I hoped her parents had asked a few awkward questions about why she was no longer seeing me.
Over the ensuing days I tried to work out a strategy for when the replies came. Every time I used the kitchen knife, the disaster of what happened with Janet came to me with uncomfortable clarity. One thing was certain: the next meeting would not be at Charing Cross. The place chosen had to be well away from my home and it needed to be chosen in advance so that I could respond promptly to replies and not allow the girl to specify the meeting place. With Charing Cross rejected and Bayswater too far away, finding somewhere suitable was a challenge. On the following Saturday afternoon I continued my exploration of London. My first visit was to the Barbican. I had seen advertisements for it. My first impression was disappointing. Instead of a prestigious concert hall and theatre, all I saw were grubby concrete towers more suited to the East End. The site is so large and sprawling that finding the main entrance took all my time. The rain had begun again, making the brick walkways slippery. Architects like brick paths, but they do not have to walk on them. Eventually I found the doors. They face a lake which is probably quite nice in summer, but on a bleak March day it was not very cheery with people hurrying past to get out of the rain and struggling to stop their umbrellas from blowing inside out. 
Going into the foyer is like entering a shopping mall. It is vast. Hundreds of people can get in there and indeed there was an exhibition of photographs being held on the day of my visit. I stayed until the rain abated. I should have liked to go home, but I was determined not to be deflected from my task. The Barbican was obviously unsuitable for what I wanted as it lacked dark, quiet corners. Instead I walked around the City of London, which was somewhere I had only passed through before. Since the area is largely given over to offices, it is deserted at the weekend and is probably the same in the evening. It was like travelling back a hundred years as I walked in cobbled alleys which never saw the sun, with Victorian offices on either side and cast-iron bollards by the kerb, Then within a few yards I was in the main road again and looking at towering office blocks of glass and steel. London is indeed a city of contrasts.
The churches of the City are famous because many were designed by Sir Christopher Wren after the great fire of 1666. I read this in a guide book when I first came to London. I have a keen interest in history. At school it was one of my favourite subjects. Without wishing to boast I may say that I knew the dates of every English king and queen better than my history teachers. I came upon a church, but it was closed. At first I thought it was derelict. Sandwiched between office buildings dwarfing the steeple and with its windows caked in dust, it looked as if it could do with a clean and a coat of paint. This disappointed me after all I had read. 
Had there been more time, I might have visited such well-known tourist attractions as the Tower of London and St Paul's Cathedral, but I wanted to get home before dusk. Summing up my day, although seeing new places is always interesting, the City proved a disappointment. It might be quiet in the evening, but I should have difficulty getting a girl to meet in an area where everything was closed.
On the Sunday my explorations continued. This time I went out immediately after breakfast. The rain had stopped. It was pleasant then, with the coldness of winter left behind and the streets quiet. There was a smell of damp. Droplets of water clung to spiders' webs and formed beads on my raincoat when I brushed against bushes overhanging the pavement. Snails left silvery trails up garden walls. I had to wait a long while for a bus, but I did not mind. The world seemed more relaxed than on a weekday. It was hard to believe that I was in the same city when everything looked so different.
My destination was Mayfair. When I arrived, an open air art exhibition was being set up along the railings of Green Park. Art has never been a particular interest of mine. At school it seemed a pointless subject, included for the benefit of less able students, though I realise some painters are masters of their art. I have already mentioned that I intend to visit the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. As somebody who lives in a rented room, I am not able to buy paintings, but those on the railings were very good. Particularly memorable were some paintings of birds. They were almost as good as photographs, though at £15 I thought they were overpriced. At least you could tell what the subject was. Some famous modern painters are no more than charlatans. How they get money for daubs that any child could do is beyond me.
Across the road from the park are narrow streets crowded with tall houses. Sometimes it is difficult to tell whether people live there or whether they are used as offices, but I noted with approval the expensive locks at the top and bottom on the doors. If only more people would pay as much attention to security. In one essay for my course I stated that insurance companies should insist upon higher standards of security, but my tutor did not agree. His view was that insisting on too stringent standards would deter people from insuring their property. I could not follow his argument.
Further into Mayfair are shops selling expensive clothes and jewellery. I had a good walk around, but what stays in my memory is a tiny square hemmed in by buildings and with narrow roads and alleyways converging on it. It is like a picture of a market square in some old continental town. On one side is a public house and on the others are small shops and cafes. It must be a pleasant place in which to relax on a summer evening and watch the world go by, but I should not care to be there after the public house has closed at night. I can imagine the place as the setting for a nineteenth century murder. Unfortunately it was unsuitable for my purposes. The presence of the public house meant that it would be busy until late in the evening. I had no wish to wait around until then  and no girl would stay out that late. Reluctantly I was coming to the conclusion that the area around Trafalgar Square was worth reconsidering, though I could not bring myself to invite anybody else there so soon after what happened.
The visit to Mayfair which I expected to take the whole morning was completed in an hour. This extra time gave me an opportunity to look further afield. The problem was not knowing where the girl would come from. I could not see her wanting to meet beyond Hyde Park unless she lived somewhere in west London such as Ealing. Accordingly I moved in the other direction, towards Soho. I did this without needing to consult my street atlas. My knowledge of London was increasing by leaps and bounds.
Soho appeared tranquil on a Sunday. How easy it is to be deceived. Entering its warren of lanes and alleys from Regent Street felt like walking into a trap. All the time I was on edge, expecting something terrible to happen. This was irrational. In central London people are not dragged into doorways in broad daylight. Anyway most of the doors are closed on a Sunday. The shops looked quite ordinary: clothes shops, print shops, sandwich bars and the like. It was difficult to imagine gangsters operating there, but this is what happens. Soho is renowned for its violence, prostitution, protection rackets and drugs. What I find strange is that this should be public knowledge, yet the situation is allowed to persist.
It must once have been a select neighbourhood. Several houses with blue plaques denote that famous people lived there. It has come down in the world. As I moved towards its heart, the apparent respectability gave way to strip clubs and unsavoury bookshops. Fortunately these establishments were closed on a Sunday morning. As not many people were about, I glanced at the photographs in a window. It is amazing that such filth can be put on public display. The magazines demean both the girls who pose for them and the men who read them.
It took a few moments for me to recognise my surroundings. Then I noticed the alley with the archway over it. This was the way I had come on that fateful evening when I met Margaret. Experience made me careful where I was walking. This time there was no rotting fruit on the pavement, I am glad to report. If there were, I should certainly have informed Westminster City Council. 
In spite of Soho's reputation I thought the only suitable place for what I had in mind was an alley off Berwick Street. I had passed it on my previous visit, but then I was too preoccupied to notice. It was barely a yard wide. Though I liked the thought of staging an accident there, I foresaw difficulty in persuading a girl to follow me into such squalid, cramped surroundings. Then I discovered the cul-de-sac behind Oxford Street. I found it by chance while looking at the street atlas. Viewing it involved a detour, but the inconvenience proved worthwhile. A lane off Great Marlborough Street called Ramillies Street gave access to a service road called Ramillies Place behind the Oxford Street stores, while the lane dwindled to a flight of steps leading up to Oxford Street. The short section of service road to the right was a dead end. It was ideal in many respects, though I could only guess at how many people would use the steps on a weekday evening.
My ideal was to collect all the replies from the post office at one time to minimise the risk of being recognised, though this meant delaying my visit as long as possible. Accordingly I resolved to wait three weeks. During that time, my concentration was markedly impaired. Even Mr Wiggins noticed this when I made a silly error, confusing policy documents for two similarly-named clients. When he pointed out my mistake, I think he expected me to tell him what was worrying me, but of course I said nothing.
Several times I was tempted to venture out after dark in the hope of finding pleasure. Returning to Kings Cross was still out of the question. On one occasion I walked to Finsbury Park. Like Holloway this is not a prosperous area. Gangs roam the streets, so I do not go there often. Some of the girls who were alone could have been prostitutes. I watched them in the hope that I could seize my opportunity if one went into a quieter street on her own,  but there were too many people around. On my second evening walk I intended going to Highgate again. As the streets were almost empty and the large number of trees could conceal muggers, I though it safer to defer my trip. 
On the morning of my visit to the post office, I experienced considerable anxiety. This was silly, for emotions serve no useful purpose. Although I kept telling myself this, it made no difference. Several times I had to force myself to concentrate on my work. The anxiety grew as half past twelve approached, making it necessary to double check everything I did. As I left the office, I was tempted to forget about my plan and to go straight to the restaurant as usual. I dislike having my routine disrupted. However I felt that it would be silly to abandon the plan when so much time, effort and money had been devoted to making the arrangements. I consoled myself with the thought that there was nothing illegal in using a poste restante address. If I did not respond to the letters, nobody need know my identity.
I had to queue for a long time in the post office. This hardly improved my state of mind, particularly when the clerk was gone for such a long time after I told him my assumed name. The woman behind me in the queue complained to anybody who would listen about people who make awkward requests at lunchtime. This was unfair because I had no reason to know that there would be a long delay, but I did not draw attention to myself by replying. When the clerk did return, he was holding one envelope. This was hardly the response I expected. It crossed my mind to ask him to check again, but I did not want to further antagonise the people behind me. Then instead of passing the letter across the counter, he asked me for some form of identity. This was something I had not anticipated. All I could do was to stare at him. I do not think he was English. 
'Can you identify yourself?' he repeated. His tone was that of an interrogator rather than a civil servant. I was in two minds whether to run out of the post office. For all I knew he might already have called the police and now he was trying to delay me until they came. I forced myself to behave rationally, whilst watching for any signs of undue delay.
'I filled in all the forms,' I explained.
'Have you got a credit card or a driving licence?' 
'I filled in the forms,' I insisted. 
'You haven't got any means of identifying yourself. Is that what you're saying?'
He was talking to me as though I was a child. I felt anger towards him, but I did not show it. I just nodded. 
'Wait a minute.' He looked irritable as he left the counter again. The envelope was on the other side of the glass screen, just out of reach. Behind me the woman was sighing. Somebody else was complaining about awkward customers who saved their queries till the lunch hour. I dared not look back to see how many people were waiting. My main concern was how much time I should have for an escape if the police were on their way. Running out of the post office would itself arouse suspicion and cause people to remember me, but it was the lesser of two evils. I was ready flee when the clerk returned with a form. I recognised my writing. It was the form I completed on setting up the poste restante arrangement. 
'Can I have your signature please?' He pushed a scrap of paper and a pen under the screen. Nervousness made my writing unsteady, but he seemed satisfied when he compared my signature on the paper with that on the form. At any rate he gave me the envelope. By then the queue stretched to the door.
Going to the post office made me late getting to the restaurant. Because few seats were left, I had to sit near the kitchen entrance. This is a position I usually avoid because of the noise and the constant coming and going, but the inconvenience meant little to me on that day. All I could think about was the envelope in my jacket pocket. I wanted to open it there and then to find out who was replying and what she had to say. All my hopes were pinned on her. After such a fuss I should not be able to go to that post office again. 
I could have returned to the office where it was at least warm, but to avoid gossip and curiosity, I preferred to be alone when I read the letter. With this in mind I went to the gardens in Bloomsbury Square. In summer they are well-frequented, but in early spring when the weather is still cold, you have a seat to yourself. After making sure I was not overlooked, I opened the envelope. It was Fiona who replied. She was the girl who described herself as 'scatty but home-loving', and who had a Persian cat. She had sloping writing which was difficult to read. A lot of her letter was devoted to a description of her cat, which I did not bother to read. One useful feature was that she enclosed a photograph. A girl of about twenty with long dark hair smiled up at me. The narrowness of her face made her brown eyes seem large. Although not unattractive she was not the sort of girl I should wish to meet in normal circumstances. It is interesting how you can make this judgement from a photograph. However intriguing somebody sounds in an advertisement, it is her appearance which is decisive. I was coming to appreciate why many advertisers asked for a photograph. 
Fiona lived in Watford. She worked for an advertising agency, though she did not tell me where. She gave her home telephone number and invited me to ring her. I was pleased with her detailed response though I should have liked the others to reply. That evening I telephoned her. By this time I knew that contacting a stranger you wish to meet is giving a performance, whether you do so by letter or telephone. You put yourself across as confident and attractive, whatever you are really like. The other person knows you are pretending, but goes along with it. The routine was becoming familiar to me. 
I hope I acquitted myself well. Fiona sounded an enthusiastic, confident person. Evidently she too had learnt to play the game. At my suggestion we arranged to meet on the Friday evening, when I should not have to get up for work the following day. Fortunately Fiona worked in the West End, which was convenient for the place I had in mind. 
Our meeting was for six-thirty, which left me with the recurring problem of how to pass the time after work. Though I could have stayed late at the office as before, it occurred to me that deviating from my usual routine was to risk exciting attention. This had to be avoided at all costs. Instead I left at the usual time and took the chance to look at the shops along Tottenham Court Road again. It is strange how you become comfortable with a place after visiting it a several times, while going somewhere new is threatening. Of course excessive familiarity means that you do not notice your surroundings. I can hardly remember the shops I pass on the way to the bus stop each morning.
I enjoyed looking at the hi-fi shops again, though I had no intention of buying anything. Seeing them brought back my evening with Sandra. Though only a couple of months had elapsed, how much I had changed. I felt that I had grown up. 
At six o'clock I headed west towards Oxford Circus. This brought the chance discovery of a quiet alleyway off Tottenham Court Road which led into Oxford Street, so my time was not wasted. The knife was ready in my inside pocket. There was enough time for me to visit Ramillies Place. This was the first time I had approached it from Oxford Street on a weekday. The flight of steps between the stores was so inconspicuous that you could walk along Oxford Street without noticing it. The traffic of Great Marlborough Street was visible at the far end. I descended carefully because it is easy to slip when the light is poor. Ramillies Street can be seen throughout its length by anybody passing in Oxford Street or Great Marlborough Street. Of more interest to me was Ramillies Place which crosses it. The dead end I had noted before was unlit and invisible except from the other section of Ramillies Place where the only street light was situated. Cardboard boxes and wrapping paper were strewn around the wheeled metal bins. All I had to do was to entice Fiona there. How to do this was still preoccupying me as I reached Argyll Street which is near Oxford Circus. 
The meeting was outside a public house I had noticed on my previous visit, though I wish to make clear I had no intention of going inside. Fiona arrived a few minutes early. She was the first girl I had met who had done such a thing, which raised my opinion of her until she admitted that she was not sure whether we had arranged to meet at six or six-thirty. She was slighter than I had expected from her photograph. As with Janet, I did not think heavy eye make-up suited her. Some girls spend so much time worrying about their make-up that they do not bother about other aspects of their appearance. I look for telltale signs such as scuffed and torn leather around their heels and mud spattered on their tights. This is the sort of slackness which annoys me. I noticed that Fiona's shoes and white tights were immaculate. She had the disconcerting habit of thrusting her face close to mine as though she thought I was deaf. 
'What would you like to do?' I asked, hoping that she had not already planned something. 
She shrugged. 'I don't mind. Would you like to go in here?' She indicated the public house behind us. 'It's quite pleasant - lots of Victorian mirrors and cast iron.' 
'I'd rather go for a meal.' 
'Okay. I've got my car round the corner.' 
This threw me. I had not expected somebody working in London to have a car. With hindsight, going to an underground car park or being with her in a car might have provided a new range of opportunities. All I could think of at the time was that my plan would be disrupted. 'I know a place not far away,' I told her.
'Fine - so long as it's not Chinese. I can't get on with Chinese food.' 
She talked about monosodium glutamate as we walked. I did not understand what she was saying. I told her that the restaurant I had in mind was Italian, which seemed to satisfy her. 
'I like pasta,' she said. 
I assured her that they would have plenty of pasta. 
'They're sure to if it's Italian,' she agreed. 
Fortunately Oxford Street became less crowded as we walked away from Oxford Circus. Fiona's shoes clacked against the pavement in a particularly annoying way. That was part of her eagerness which I was going to snuff out. 
'Tell me about your job,' I invited. 
'I told you I worked for an advertising agency, didn't I? It sounds very glamorous, but really I deal with the accounts.' She glanced at me. 'You don't mind, do you?' 
'Why should I mind?' 
'I thought you might be disappointed. You're very quiet.' 
'I don't mind at all,' I assured her. 
'You haven't told me what you do yet.' 
I had been vague in my letter because by that time I was becoming short of things to say. It is difficult to create three different personalities. What I should have done was to work out the details of Robert Parker's life before the meeting. This was another in my trail of mistakes, but at that moment my main concern was that we were nearing the steps. 
'I didn't say too much because it's rather difficult to explain,' I improvised. 'I work for a firm of architects, but I'm not an architect. My job's on the administrative side.' 
'Sounds interesting.' 
'We're involved with a lot of big projects, so it is pretty interesting.' 
'I'd like to do something else. I've been in the same job three years now.'
'That's hardly a long time.'
'I thought it was.'
'Not when employers have paid to train you. It's how long I've been in my job and I'm not thinking of moving.' I stopped walking and pointed to the steps. 'We have to go down here.' 
'Where's the restaurant?' She sounded disbelieving. Her brow furrowed. The sound of her steps had ceased. 
'It's in Great Marlborough Street. This is the quickest way.' 
'We could have gone down Argyll Street. That would have been easier.' 
I shrugged, not knowing what to say. As Fiona clattered down the steps, she asked, 'Is your firm involved in building those big office blocks in the City?' 
'Not so much in London. We do a lot of our work abroad, so I have to travel to the continent fairly regularly.' 
'Lucky you.' 
I tried to continue chatting, but as we neared Ramillies Place, my chest felt tight. 
'Are you all right?' she asked. She was looking at me with concern. By then we had reached the corner of Ramillies Place. Nobody was in sight. 
'I think I'm going to be sick,' I said. This was not something I had intended. In truth I had no plan for when I got to the corner except to lure her into the dead end. It was a happy chance that Fiona thought I was ill. I could feel her arm around my shoulders as we advanced into the darkness, pushing away the cardboard with our feet. There was the unpleasant smell which comes from dustbins. At that moment I really did feel sick. I went behind a metal bin which was as tall as me. Fiona still had her arm around me. By bending forward, I was able to take the knife from my inside pocket without her noticing. 
The killing was over quickly. The bin moved with a rumbling sound as I pushed her against it. I was afraid it might roll backwards, but fortunately it caught against something. A hissing sound escaped her lips as the breath was pushed from her body. She was off balance and clutching at me. The knife went in smoothly after some initial resistance which might have been where it caught a rib. She gave a moan rather than a cry, as though despairing that anybody could help her. It was so soft that nobody passing in Ramillies Street would have heard. Then she slumped against me so that I was taking her weight. To be on the safe side I withdrew the knife and pushed it in again in a slightly different place. The force was not great, but it was enough to make her fall back against the bin again. She was making little choking sounds. I thought it prudent to keep pushing the knife in until she was quiet. In reality it must have been less than a minute before her body slumped to the ground. I had stabbed her so many times that the action became repetitive. What I realised immediately was that I had nothing to wrap the knife in now it was covered with blood. What I should have done was to keep a plastic bag by me. If things had gone right with Janet, I should have known this. It is the sort of thing which is learnt by experience. 
At this moment the worst happened: there were voices. All I could do was to shrink into the darkness behind the bin with Fiona's body at my feet. A girl was saying something about a layout she would have to do in the morning if Jasmin didn't come in. I was surprised by my own calmness. When the voices receded, I counted to twenty before leaving my hiding place. From the corner of Ramillies Street I saw people on Oxford Street passing the top of the steps without paying attention. In the other direction Great Marlborough Street was empty. I walked towards the steps, forcing myself not to hurry and all the time expecting to hear shouting from behind me. Nothing happened. When I rejoined the crowds in Oxford Street without incident, I felt that the greatest risk was behind me. 
To make my route home difficult to trace I took a westbound bus to Bayswater. It was not until I was settled in the front seat that I noticed the blood on my raincoat. It must have got there when Fiona fell against me. All my pleasure evaporated. The discovery sickened me so much that black clouds blocked out my vision and I felt the blood being sucked from my face. I had to breathe deeply to prevent myself from fainting. My hope was that nobody behind me noticed what was happening. I was willing myself to regain my composure when an alarming thought struck me: anybody passing me in Oxford Street could have seen the bloodstain. At that moment the killing seemed a stupid and pointless act. Having always prided myself on my rationality, I could not understand why it had seemed so important or how I had been seduced into thinking that it could bring me pleasure. 
My immediate concern was that the bus conductor had seen the stain. It explained why he stared at me for a long time when I paid my fare. I had to find a way of getting off the bus without attracting any more attention and as we were already at Hyde Park, Bayswater was only a few stops away. The best I could think of was to take off the coat and carry it, though this in itself was enough to make me noticeable on a cold night. At least the rain held off. 
Nobody appeared to pay much attention as I got off the bus. After the discovery of the stain, it was more important than ever that I should cover my tracks. The notion of throwing the raincoat away passed through my mind, but I reasoned that if it were found, the police might have a way of tracing it back to me. Instead I walked to Paddington with the raincoat over my arm, carefully folded so that the stain was hidden. All the way I was trying to recall whether anybody who passed me in Oxford Street had paid me particular attention. So preoccupied was I that at one point I lost my way and wandered through dark, empty streets for ten minutes before coming upon a corner which was familiar from my previous visit. 
As I sat in the bus taking me towards Archway, I remembered the knife. I almost cursed my stupidity out loud. In my anxiety to get away I had not given the knife any thought. It would be found in Fiona's body as a clue for the police. Fortunately it was bought so long ago that no shop assistant will remember me, but when details of the incident appeared in the paper, Janet might tell her story to the police. It crossed my mind to deal with Janet before that happened, but I did not want to rush into any ill-considered actions. Anyway, the task would need doing that night, which was hardly feasible. 
From Archway I walked the rest of the way. By this time it was raining, but I did not dare put on my raincoat. At least the steady drizzle meant that there were few people on the streets to see me. My suit was saturated, so my first task on getting home was to hang it up to avoid creasing. I hoped that it would not suffer irreparable damage. The raincoat I soaked in cold water. Whether that would get rid of the bloodstain, I did not know. If I was to avoid destroying a perfectly good coat, every trace of blood had to be removed. 
I was unable to eat anything, in spite of having had nothing since lunchtime. Once I had dried drying myself and got warm, I tried to order my thoughts. What should have been a wonderful evening had turned into a disaster. Later as I lay in bed, another mistake occurred to me. While I was hiding behind the bin in Ramillies Place, I had been too frightened to think of looking in Fiona's bag for my letter. It was fortunate that I had the foresight to conceal my identity. My hope was that a sample of the handwriting would not be displayed in the newspaper. I had tried to disguise my own writing, but somebody like Mr Wiggins might see the resemblance. 
The following day was Saturday. At least this meant that I did not have to face the journey to work. I wanted to go out as little as possible in case I was recognised. For the first week since moving to Hornsey, I did not go to the launderette. Fortunately my library books were not due for another week, so there was no need to visit the library. The only reason for going out was to buy food. This could not be put off because I had almost nothing left to eat. I went to the supermarket as soon as it opened at half past eight. Perhaps this was an error: I might have been less noticeable when it was crowded later in the morning. With so much on my mind I was incapable of making rational decisions. I stocked up with plenty of tinned food and items which keep well such as porridge and long life milk. With these supplies I could stay in my room for several days if necessary. 
It was good to get home with the shopping. I felt safer when the door was closed behind me. To prevent myself from brooding, I turned on the radio. I do not usually listen much on a Saturday morning. For lunch I had a tin of frankfurters with instant mashed potato and tinned peas, followed by creamed rice. Sometimes during the day I tried to remember the exact wording of my letter and whether I had inadvertently handled it with my bare hands. After a lapse of several weeks it was difficult to be sure, though I had made every effort not to leave fingerprints. Such was my state of mind that I wondered whether I had made a mistake in licking the envelope. I suppose that thoughts like this are to be expected in a state of shock. 
The afternoon play on the radio was good that day. It gave me some respite from my preoccupations. At dusk I went out to buy an evening newspaper in the corner shop. I do not normally go there because of its questionable hygiene standards, so I was not known. The Asian man behind the counter showed no interest in me. I do not think his English was very good. 
My tea consisted of bread and peanut butter, While eating I scanned the paper for the report of the death. It was on page two. Coverage was better than on previous occasions. People are not concerned when prostitutes die. There was a picture of Fiona. She was smiling. It was a strange experience to recall that smile from the previous day. It made me feel a bond with her. In a way I was closer to her than any other boyfriend, because I knew her last minutes. Police were appealing for witnesses. I could only hope that none of the people on the bus read the evening paper carefully. A description of the knife was given. Its loss was unfortunate because my only other knife was too blunt for preparing food. Buying a replacement was too much of a risk for a few days.
On Sunday I did not go for my customary walk. Instead I listened to the radio all day. I do not know what I should do without my radio. Whenever the sound of a car engine reached me, my heart started thumping. I would glance towards the window, expecting to see a police car. As the day wore on, the room came to seem like a prison. Never had going out become more important. I kept weighing the risk of going out after dark. The question also had to be faced whether I should go to work the next day. The likelihood of an identikit picture appearing in the newspapers had to be balanced against the risk of drawing attention to myself by varying my routine. Any unusual behaviour attracts attention. This is something which I learned early. A memory which has never left me is of my first day at school. What puzzled me was how so many of the children knew each other, though now I realise that they had been to playschool together, or their mothers knew each other. Being with other children was a new and unwelcome experience for me. I wanted to go home, but there was nobody to take me. As I watched the others in the playground, a girl came up to me. She told me that her name was Jane and that she wanted to sit next to me at dinner. She was somebody I neither knew nor wanted to talk to. I remember her look of puzzlement when I did not reply. She went back to her friends. I saw them talking about me. After dinner they all came up to me. This time a girl with a sore on her lip asked me my name and again I did not reply. 
'He's stupid, he's stupid,' she chanted, twisting her face sideways and pushing it close to mine so she was almost looking up my nose. I was afraid of catching her sore. I could not understand what was the matter with her. People like that are beyond contempt. Perhaps I was mature for my age to think in such a way. I enjoy watching people and anticipating what they will do. Watching teachers was more interesting than watching my fellow pupils, whose childish habits were predictable. Mrs Rowse was always smiling and nodding encouragingly. Even accidents like spilling paint on the floor which annoyed other teachers did not perturb her. Then a boy splashed water at her in the cloakroom and refused to admit what he had done. That made her angry. She drew back her neck as though her whole spine had suddenly become rigid. Her eyes were like slits as the muscles of her face tightened. Her lower lip moved as if it had a life of its own. I hoped that she would hit him, but she did not. I never did discover how much she would have to be provoked before she would hit somebody. 
There was no such doubt with Mr Fairburn. He was my first male teacher and the first man I knew who had a moustache. That made me associate moustaches with being bad tempered. I was afraid of him. I always hoped that he would not ask me a question in class, for he became angry if the answer was slow in coming. Sometimes he went red and started shouting. His movements grew jerky and uncoordinated like those of a puppet. He looked as though he was trying to shake off his arms and legs. When some of the class started laughing, that made him worse. The unfortunate victim did not laugh. 
The best occasions were when Mr Fairburn used his slipper. That happened every few weeks. He went wild then, hitting again and again until his victim cried. Despite my fear I had to hold my breath to prevent myself from laughing. Mr Fairburn seemed to grow calm after this outburst of violence. Soon he was talking as though nothing had happened. This change in his mood fascinated me. It reminded me of a thunderstorm which suddenly passes to reveal clear sky. 
At secondary school there was a different teacher for each subject. It was easy to recognise their moods. What I enjoyed particularly was watching my fellow pupils learning to exploit the teachers' strengths and weaknesses. The geography master could always be led into reminiscing about his experiences in East Africa. The religious knowledge master was unable to keep order. That made him angry. He banged his book on the desk, but nobody took any notice. When things got too bad he would give up, staring in disbelief at the chaos around him and telling anybody who would listen that he would not continue until there was silence. Once a teacher from the next classroom came in because of the noise. That made me want to laugh.
Watching people is like watching insects. As a child I liked disturbing ants' nests in order to watch the ceaseless activity. Stirring the granules of soil with a stick threw the ants into a frenzy as they tried to save the eggs. That was my power. With people my only power used to be in anticipating their moods and actions. I learned to do that with my parents at an early age. They were the only people I have known intimately. Soon I could anticipate what they would say or do. I grew out of needing people. Henceforth it was facts which preoccupied me at a time when my schoolfellows were obsessed with sex. This was something which did not greatly concern me. I knew no girls and I made no effort to do so. It seemed pointless to expend so much effort in discovering the foibles of another person. Had it not been for Doreen, nothing would have changed. 
On the Monday I wanted to stay in bed when my alarm rang. This was when the decision about what to do could no longer be delayed. While I was thinking about it, I went about my morning preparations as usual. Over breakfast I concluded that behaving normally was the safest course. Once a routine is established, it must be kept up.

Chapter 8

Evenings were lengthening. In spite of my qualms it was heartening to watch the trees coming into bud. Since moving to north London I have made a habit of visiting Alexandra Palace when the weather is nice. I intended to do this. Set on a hilltop and with lawns all around, the palace is like an historic house, though I understand that it is not very old. From the surrounding parkland you can see across London. It is surprising how much greenery there is in a built-up area.
One witness came forward in response to the police appeal. He was one of the people I passed in Oxford Street. The raincoat with the bloodstain was mentioned, but apart from that the description was vague. So long as nobody on the bus noticed me, I felt reasonably safe.
The raincoat posed a problem. A combination of overnight soaking and scrubbing was effective in getting rid of the bloodstain, but the area where it had been looked unnaturally clean. I wanted to weather it, but I did not know how. I discovered that if the coat was left unbuttoned, the cleaned part was hidden. This was what I did, though the weather was rather cold for this.
My vow to do something about Steve Jenkins was not forgotten. On each visit to the library I was learning a little more about motorcycle maintenance. Unfortunately the library is crowded on Saturdays, so I often had trouble finding a seat where I was not overlooked. Motorcycle maintenance holds no interest for me, so I had to concentrate to grasp the principles. Each make has its own peculiarities. It was fortunate that the manual on Honda machines was never borrowed. 
As you do not need a tool kit while living in a single rented room, my next task was to buy tools. On the Saturday following my traumatic weekend, I purchased an adjustable spanner, a pair of pliers and a craft knife in a self-service store devoted to motoring accessories. With these I felt competent to do whatever was necessary. It was not a shop I liked visiting. As somebody who does not own a car, I felt conspicuous. I realise this is irrational. The young man behind the counter was more concerned with bragging to his friends about his new car than dealing with customers. I know his type. They tear around in noisy cars which should be banned. But at least the chances of my being remembered were reduced by his lack of interest, particularly as I intended to let a week elapse before putting my plan into action. The pity was that after so much expense I should have to throw the tools away when my task was completed. Where to dispose of them was something I decided not to worry about until nearer the time. I should have liked to buy another kitchen knife, but instinct made me hold back.
By the time I had done my washing at the launderette, bought food for the week, visited the library and purchased the tools, the morning was gone. Reading about motorcycles took more time than I expected. For lunch I had a chicken pie and frozen peas. This was a meal I particularly enjoyed in my childhood and which I sometimes give myself as a treat. In the past I should have relished the opportunity to devote the remainder of the day to study, but now I was unable to concentrate on textbooks. My restlessness was such that I could not even concentrate on the radio, though I might have done so if the play were better. Cleaning my room is another weekend task which I could not face.  As a break from my normal routine I went out in the late afternoon. How different from the previous weekend when all I wanted to do was to hide in my room. That shows how well I had got over the threat from Fiona's death. 
I set out with no destination in mind. This is something which I wish to emphasise. I took the first bus which came, using my bus pass as there was no need to conceal my identity. Though the journey was along the same route as I travel each day, the passengers were different from the office girls, students and schoolchildren who fill the bus in the morning. Here were people returning from shopping, or setting out to enjoy themselves. A group of young girls carried roller skates. Where they were going I do not know. Housewives were loaded with shopping. Some were with their husbands. Younger couples had children with them. One little girl sat in front of me. She was constantly talking and wriggling. I was concerned because the highly-coloured lolly which she was waving touched the back of the seat on at least one occasion. Hairs stuck to the lolly, but she still sucked it. I wondered whether to tell her mother, but I did not want to be accused of interfering. Parents might be unable to keep their children in order, but they soon get indignant if anybody else tries.
As I watch children with their parents, I try to remember whether I was ever like that. I am sure that I never made such an exhibition of myself. It was not often that I went out with my mother. She would be pleased at how I have got on, though she never suggested a career in insurance. Once we went for a walk which took us along Cardigan Road. It was at the time when I went to school on my own, but I should never have dared to take that route. Cardigan Road was on the oldest part of the council estate. The gardens were choked with weeds. Cars rusted away and furniture was left to be smothered by weeds. When one house had a fire, the burnt-out mattress lay in the garden for months. Windows were always being broken. Often they were patched with cardboard. The children who lived in Cardigan Road went about in gangs. One boy in my class was beaten up by them.
'This is where you end up if you don't get on at school,' my mother told me. I became afraid that if I did not get good marks, she would send me to live there. When I took my school report home at the end of term, I was terrified. She made me stand in front of her while she read my report.
'You've got some way to go yet,' she warned me each time. 'You'll be spending your life in Cardigan Road if you don't pull your socks up.'
By the time I got to secondary school, I realised what my mother meant. She still persisted with the threat. In my second year she was already looking forward to my career.
'It's never too early to start thinking about the future,' she insisted. 'A steady job with good prospects: that's what you want.'
My mother had gone to grammar school. She often told me how the headmistress predicted a brilliant career for her. Instead she left to get married. I was her only child. 
One winter evening as I struggled with my geography homework, she leaned close enough for me to smell the powder on her face and said, 'I'm not having you take a job that pays well while you're young and then they find another youngster to replace you.'
She was right to warn me.
'Once you're in a profession, you won't have to worry about being made redundant or whether you'll get a pension,' she told me as we passed some men digging a hole in the road. 'You don't want to be like them, do you?'
I looked at the men with their huge naked bellies hanging over filthy trousers. On the arm of one was a tattoo of a snake which seemed to take on a life of its own as he worked. Of course it was only the movement of his muscles which gave that illusion. The oldest and fattest man had a handkerchief knotted at each corner and draped over his head. I felt glad that he was not my father.
When I was in the fifth form, my mother went through the local newspaper each week, marking professional posts which were advertised. When I came home from school on Thursdays, the paper was waiting by my plate. On one occasion my mother took me to the job centre. The careers adviser said that I should not apply for any posts until I was ready to leave school, but he did give her some leaflets on careers in medicine, accountancy and the law.
My mother always insisted that I call my father a local government officer. He worked for the cleansing department, though I wish to make clear that he was not a refuse collector. He was an inspector. His job was to assess loads which did not form part of normal household refuse such as garden waste, furniture and mattresses. Many of these could be disposed of in the normal way with his agreement, but some required a special collection. This was something my father had to arrange. His job was quite responsible, though he did not work in an office. He showed less interest than my mother in my career. 
'Let the boy get on with his own life, Bea,' he would say when my mother pressed him. 'He can't decide anything yet.'
'He'll be leaving school before he knows it,' she told him.
'He's a long way off leaving,' he muttered as he turned away. Whenever an argument threatened, he would leave the room. My mother never shouted after him. Only common people shout at each other. Instead she banged things down: the knives and forks if she was washing up, or the top of her work box if she was sewing. Sometimes she pretended to straighten books I left on the table, but she only did it to slam them down again. Then she would announce that the argument had given her a headache. I was glad when she went upstairs to lie down with the curtains pulled. Speaking to her when she was in that sort of mood only invited more criticism. The house became quiet, but the atmosphere she had generated remained. Sometimes a faint sound came from the front room as my father's chair creaked or as he picked up another of his stamp albums. That feeling of being alone when people are close is one I still experience when I hear noises from the other residents like coughing or radios playing. Once the Chinese girl was talking on the telephone outside my door as I was changing my clothes.  It was a heady experience to be so close, yet to know she could not see me. I did not dress immediately.
My father's stamp collection was quite large. Once a month he attended meetings of the local philatelic society. He looked forward to them. Several days beforehand he sorted out what he would take. 
'Don't touch any of these, will you?' he told me, patting the pile of album leaves on the front room table. My mother wanted him to keep them in his bedroom, but he claimed that loose stamps might fall out if he had to carry the albums up and down stairs each evening. When the day of the meeting came he would put the sheets he had selected carefully into the small, shiny leather suitcase he kept for the purpose in his bedroom. There was something jaunty about the way he said, 'I'm going to my meeting now.' He would not get home till ten o'clock, opening the door quietly so as not to disturb my mother or myself. I could hear him taking off his coat, putting his case in the front room and trying to avoid the creaking stair tread as he came to bed. After he had used the bathroom, the landing light would go off. A few sounds like the opening of the wardrobe came from his bedroom. Then there was silence. In the morning my mother always claimed that the noise he made when he came in woke her, but I do not know whether this was true. My father apologised and said that he would try to be quieter next time. Apart from those monthly excursions, he never went out in the evening. 	
On Saturday afternoons I went with my father to the library. My love of reading came from those weekly visits to the library as a child. I enjoyed the chance to get out of the house and away from my mother. We went in the car. My father was particular about where he parked. 
'Never get in a position where you can be hemmed in,' he advised me. 'A lot of people don't care, so you have to care for them.' 
Before leaving the car he checked that the windows were wound up and that the boot and the doors were locked. The library was crowded on Saturdays. In those days no computer system was installed, so there was always a queue to have books checked in. I remember the trays of dog-eared tickets and the bloom of the oak panels beneath the counters. The librarian with a humped back insisted that people wait against the partition so they would not block the exit. She still worked there when I went to the library by myself. She never seemed to age.
My father always chose his library books carefully, so he did not take out ones which he had already read. He would select a novel for my mother. She liked detective stories. Her favourite author was Agatha Christie. She often complained that the book my father chose was one which she had read before. My father always assured her that this was not the case. He kept a record of all the books he borrowed for her, so I am sure he was right. She never came to the library herself. She said that she could not spare the time.
My father preferred travel books and biographies. He took out a book for himself every week, which he would read during the evenings when he was not sorting his stamps. He did not watch television much. His favourite biographies were those of nineteenth-century travellers. 
'There were plenty of places left to explore then,' he told me. 'There was a place in the world for adventurers.' I think he wanted to be an adventurer. He was proud of his collection of colonial stamps. 'You can trace an empire in its stamps,' he told me. 'You can follow the explorers and the traders.' He became animated as he spoke. Nothing else did that to him. 
Sometimes he would borrow books about stamps, but the library did not have many. 'Old catalogues aren't much use, especially the simplified ones,' he advised me. 'You don't keep old seed catalogues, do you?' 
Sometimes he ordered a book. As the librarian searched for it under the counter, a queue built up. I was afraid that somebody would complain, but that never happened. Later I realised that my father was uncomfortable about it as well. If a lot of people were waiting at the counter, he would stand by the entrance and watch the traffic for a few minutes until the queue cleared. It took me several years to realise why he did this.
My father was not one to push himself forward. This was why he never held office in the philatelic society in spite of being a member for so long. Once when we were going to the cinema on a Saturday afternoon, I wanted to run through the department store because I was afraid we should be late for the film. So rarely did he take me that I could hardly contain my excitement. 
'You're drawing attention to yourself,' he cautioned as I pulled his hand. He said the same thing when we were on holiday and I screamed at finding a jellyfish in a rock pool.
I cannot remember seeing my parents out together except for the two occasions when we went on holiday. The first was a package holiday to the Costa Brava. The three of us had to sleep in the same room, which was something I disliked. My mother had a headache almost every day, so she stayed in the room a lot while I went exploring with my father. I think he appreciated the freedom. He was more jaunty than usual.
The other holiday was a week in Paignton. I enjoyed seeing the steam railway and looking down on the sea from the cliffs, though once again I had to sleep in the same room as my parents. This time they sat together on the beach, though my mother insisted that we should not stay in the sun for too long.
My mother felt that my father did not stand up for himself. When his car allowance was reduced by his employers, she said that he should not have accepted it. 
'If they started cutting your salary, I suppose you'll let them do it,' That was her attitude. I thought he might argue, but he went into the other room to look at his stamps. He rarely showed anger. Only once did I hear him raise his voice. It was on a Sunday afternoon when I was about eight. My mother was annoyed because he would not buy another car. 
'We can't afford it,' he kept telling her as she complained about the leaks in the floor, the draughts and the erratic heating. This prompted her to complain about his job and the lack of promotion. Throughout my childhood he was in the same post. 
'I'm quite happy with my job,' he insisted in a pained voice. 'I don't want to look for promotion.' 
When my mother asked him whether he wanted to stay where he was for the rest of his working life, he told her quite sharply that he did. Then he went out in spite of the heavy rain, closing the front door carefully behind him. My mother went to her bedroom. I listened for sounds of crying, but I did not hear any. 
It was an hour before he came back. After taking off his coat he went in the front room. When I looked around the door half an hour later, he was examining a stamp through a magnifying glass. He showed me where to find the plate numbers on penny reds. Had I not been in the house earlier, I should not have suspected that anything was wrong. 
My mother did not come down for the rest of the day. The next morning she said that she still had a headache.
I had as little contact with my mother as possible. I was afraid of her. When as a small child I came out of school to find her waiting at the gates, I felt that I had done something wrong. Fortunately she left me to play by myself for much of the time. When were in the house together during school holidays, she would call to me when meals were ready; otherwise she did not speak to me. I was thankful.
As I have stated, I had no destination in mind when I boarded the bus on that Saturday afternoon. Being lost thought, I hardly bothered to look out the window as I travel the same way every day. Imagine my surprise when I glanced up to find we were nearing Trafalgar Square. I was returning to the place where I left Janet. This seemed an omen. I alighted with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. It was irrational to think that anybody should recognise me from the previous time I was there, but I could not help thinking back to that occasion. I still had it in mind to deal with Janet.
The square was more crowded than on the Sunday morning. I considered going to the National Gallery, but by then it was late in the afternoon. Anyway I was too preoccupied to appreciate paintings. To rid myself of my fears I needed to visit the alleyways again. I considered taking a short cut across the square, but crossing the road from the corner by St Martins-in-the-Fields is dangerous and I did not wish to walk through all those pigeons. One woman let them perch on her arms. The sight made me shudder. 
By walking along the north side of the square, past the National Gallery, I was able to use the pelican crossing. Even at the crossing a girl who was a tourist judging by her clothes ran across the road when the lights were against her. This sort of practice should be made illegal as I believe it is in America. Waiting for the lights to change gave me an opportunity to admire Nelson's column. What I cannot understand is how the statue was raised so high without the benefit of modern technology. As an additional mystery, there is a pedestal at the northwest corner of the square with no statue on it.
Having crossed Cockspur Street on the south side of the square, I turned into a side street behind the prestigious offices. Here is a tiny public house. A notice proclaims that it was built in the seventeenth century, though it does not look old. The lane ends by the entrance to a multi-storey car park. Steps lead to a road at a higher level. This was my pilgrimage to exorcise the ghost of Janet. I should hesitate to venture that way under normal circumstances. Being hidden from the road, it is the sort of place which attracts undesirables. I paused, listening to the laughter and excited voices of girls. They were talking in French. It is interesting to overhear the chatter of girls who think they are alone, even when you cannot understand what they are saying. You share their privacy. I recognised the language because I learned French at school, though I cannot remember much of it and they were speaking too fast for me to follow.
Across the road at the top was another flight of steps. It was the very flight where my encounter with Janet had ended. Imagine my excitement when I saw a girl standing there, consulting her map. Providence was kind. She had not noticed me. I thought she must be one of the French girls. The others were walking away. This was another girl whose clothes and appearance which marked the laggard as foreign. She was about sixteen. Her skin had the olive colour of someone from the Mediterranean. She had prominent cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes which made her beautiful. Her skin was smooth. I dislike girls with spots. Though some of them cannot help it, I think the cause is often poor personal hygiene. Her chestnut-coloured hair hanging around her shoulders had a lovely burnished look. I longed to stroke it. She wore a dark green anorak of a waxed material and the ubiquitous faded blue jeans. These are all very well as working clothes for men, but I disapprove of them for casual wear, particularly for girls. You cannot press them.
I went down the steps again. Somebody had left a half-eaten hot dog on the steps. The smell of onion was nauseating. When the girl appeared at the top of the steps, I was on the landing, pretending to do up my shoelace. She had to move closer to the wall to pass me. She seemed to appraise me as I stood up.  This always gives me a feeling of panic. I do not know where to look or what to do with my hands. 
It was essential to stop her calling for help, which meant acting quickly. The pity was that I did not have a knife. Keeping one hand over her mouth, I banged her head against the wall. She tried to claw at my face. If she had not been wearing gloves, she would have scratched me. When she was unconscious, I strangled her. She wore bright red woollen gloves. I think the colour is vulgar.
Nobody was in the road at the bottom of the steps. One insignificant detail which made an impression on me was that the street still had gas lamps. It is strange that this escaped me on my first visit, whereas I noticed it when I should have been more concerned with getting away quickly. Gaslight is much softer than the yellow sodium lights of today. London was completely lit by gas a hundred years ago. This is difficult to imagine. There were no garish neon signs in those days, of course, but apart from that I am glad that now we use electricity. Gas carries a greater risk of fires and explosions.
I crossed the road at the top of the stairs and took the passageway between the office block and the terrace of grand houses. Now it held no terrors for me. My previous experience was useful in finding my way home. I crossed the Mall and walked through St James's Park to the underground station, taking the first train which came. Once again this was eastbound, although it was on the District Line rather than the Circle Line. There is only one track in each direction, so I do not understand how two services use them. The train was crowded with tourists. Unfortunately I got into a coach where a drunk was sitting. He kept talking. I think he said something to me, though I could not understand what he was saying. His clothes were disgusting. At the next station I changed to another coach. As on the previous occasion I got off at the Monument, walked through to the Bank and took a Northern Line train to London Bridge. I had to wait longer for a bus than before. Because of all the travelling involved, I was only just home in time to hear Stop the Week which is one of my favourite programmes. I admire people who can speak fluently on any topic.
*
Sunday was my day for recovery. My thoughts were clear now. I felt in control of everything. I was like God. That made me smile. I could inform Margaret that I was God and that she should be worshipping me!
On my Sunday walk I went to Archway and back, which was a shorter distance than usual. I did not pay attention to other people. My life was so much richer than theirs that I pitied them, It would have been interesting to revisit the stairway behind Cockspur Street, though this was out of the question. I could imagine the tapes keeping the public away and the lane leading to the car park being choked with police cars. No girls would use that short cut for a while.
The need for pleasure was like a nagging pain now that I had tasted it again. Toothache must to be like that. I did not want to hide like an animal, denying the things which were important to me. Of course prudence was needed, but a balance has to be found in all things. This is something I learned in biology lessons. It was the only science subject which appealed to me. My teacher was very keen on the idea of balance. To give an example, I once saw a sparrow catching a butterfly. The beautiful red-speckled wings fluttered as the insect struggled to get away from the bird's beak, but I knew it was doomed. It was easy to feel sorry for the butterfly, but it was one amongst thousands. To achieve a balance in nature, not every individual can survive. The law applies as much to birds as to butterflies. The sparrow might have been eaten by a cat the next day. It was only obeying its natural instincts in seeking food. This is how populations are controlled. The idea is so beautiful that once I grasped it, I could not see the world in the same way again. A balance has to be found in all things and for too long it had been tilted against me as I conformed to what other people wanted. Now it was my chance to assert myself. 
One thing I noticed was that my attitude to my colleagues at the office was changing. I have already mentioned Peter Sullivan and his 'couldn't care less' approach to work, as well as his attempts to get me into trouble. He tried another of his tricks, saying that I had misinterpreted a telephone message from a policyholder whose claim he was processing. I had noted down the message precisely as it was given to me. I became quite angry, pointing out that in view of the circumstances surrounding the case, the policyholder was trying to confuse the issue. Not only this, but I always emphasise the necessity of writing to confirm any statements made by telephone. My heated retort surprised several people who regard me as mild mannered. Even Mr Wiggins looked surprised. Sometimes I feel that at his age he should have risen beyond the position of senior section clerk.
At lunchtime on Monday I scanned the early edition of evening paper. This was becoming something I looked forward to. The girl on the steps was indeed French as I had surmised. Her name was Isabelle, Her death was reported on the front page, though admittedly it was below an item on interest rates. This prominence was flattering. I liked the photograph of her. Some people do not photograph well, but with her fine bone structure, Isabelle looked beautiful. According to the report, the police were investigating links with other deaths, though which ones were not specified. This omission was annoying. I did not understand why they should see any connection with Fiona's stabbing, or with the deaths of a couple of prostitutes. Once again they were appealing for witnesses. It is ironic that with so many people in Trafalgar Square on a Saturday afternoon, nobody noticed me. 
On the Monday evening I did not go home as usual. It was time to change the rhythm of my life, I decided. Certainly I enjoyed watching people hurrying to bus stops and the underground station. I have heard the rush hour described as like an ants' nest, but this was the first time I saw it like that. When you are involved in it yourself, you do not realise what is happening.
I walked down Kingsway. It is a pleasant road, though there are not many shops to look at. A dual carriageway is unusual in central London. With its wide pavements it resembles a road in a new town. Turning into Kemble Street with its tenements is to enter an older London. Buildings like that should have been pulled down years ago. They are a disgrace to a modern city.
Drury Lane is quite famous. Ahead of me were the sheds of what looked like a railway station. These lower buildings allowed me to see the magnificent sunset. Rays of pink light shafted upwards from the dark clouds. For a moment I stopped in admiration, not caring whether I was lost. On such occasions I wish I had the talent to capture the scene on canvas.
The building which I had assumed to be a station was one of the arcades of Covent Garden. On my previous visit I had approached it from the other side, which is why I did not recognise it immediately. Some of the shops in the arcades were still open and quite a few people were strolling about. I was reminded of the model shops which children have, or the old-fashioned shops you see on Christmas cards. Everything from kitchen equipment to herbs was being sold, but Covent Garden is not the place to buy everyday items like grocery. Like all pleasant areas, it attracts undesirables. As I left the arcade, I noticed tramps sheltering in the portico of some old warehouse across the square. That is the sort of area where the police need to make their presence felt.
On the north side of the square the pavement runs beneath the arches of the adjoining building. This was something I remembered from my previous visit. I was reminded of the Italian squares in my father's library books. The pounding music from a cafe reached me in spite of the door being closed. Though I should have liked a cup of tea, that was definitely not the place to go. In spite of this I am glad to have savoured the atmosphere of Covent Garden. Once it was a fruit and vegetable market. The buildings cannot have changed since then, though it is difficult to imagine what the area was like with all the noise and dirt of a market. I am sure it was colourful, though the cleaner Covent Garden of today is preferable.
I must repeat that I had no destination in mind. My intention was to give myself a change from routine. In truth I suppose I wished to exorcise the fear of being recognised, but any intention of finding another girl was far from my thoughts. This was to be a relaxing evening stroll.
After a while it is easy to find your way around London. You orient yourself by the major roads, most of which run north to south or east to west, Shaftesbury Avenue being the only exception which occurs to me. Once I recognised my surroundings, I knew how to get to the Strand. The street lights were on by then. The rush hour was still in full swing. What stays in my memory is the sight of two theatres side by side with their lights brightening the pavement. I have always intended to visit a London theatre.
Villiers Street leads from the Strand to the Embankment. This was the way I came on the Sunday morning when I first visited Charing Cross. Going back there I could not help my thoughts dwelling on the girls who had affected my life since then. In spite of what happened with Isabelle only two days earlier, I felt depressed by my circumstances again, as though all the pleasure and excitement had been taken by other people. This was difficult to understand, particularly as I had felt quite content when leaving the office. It made me wonder whether my break with routine was such a good idea after all. Seeing the down and outs preparing to sleep on the pavement under the railway bridge did nothing to raise my spirits. How people can let themselves get into that state is beyond me. They are obviously not ill. I think they are mentally defective or on drugs. Either way they are an affront to normal people.
To get to the Embankment, you have to cross the concourse of the underground station. There is no way of avoiding this. Imagine my disgust when a girl standing by the shuttered kiosks asked me for money. Her coat was torn and dirty. There were sores on her mouth. Of course I ignored her and quickened my pace. That made her shout abuse at me. Nobody made any effort to stop her. Killing somebody like her would be a service to the community. The pity is that I could not bring myself to go near such a person. The thought of touching her is abhorrent. People like her are vermin. If I dealt with her, I should have to burn my clothes afterwards and shower thoroughly.
Fortunately in a few steps I was out of the station. The girl did not follow me. Before me was the Embankment. I crossed the road to be near the water. I could have walked under the railway bridge, but I was wary of doing this because of pigeons roosting overhead. I preferred to head towards the City of London. 
Walking by the river I almost forgot my cares. With the buildings floodlit and the lights glittering on the black water London looked beautiful. I stopped to enjoy the effect of the string of lights along the other bank being reflected on the water. Behind them the floodlit Festival Hall seemed made of glass. This is another place I have never visited. There is so much to do in London. Particularly enjoyable was the sight of ships moored against the Embankment. They are used as restaurants, but they are real ships. I could imagine that I was standing beside a dock. I have never been so close to ships before.
Walking at night is calming. You can order your thoughts, finding out what is important and what get things into proportion. I realised was that I had been worrying unnecessarily. People take no notice of what goes on around them. There were no witnesses to anything I had done. I had left no clues for the police, except a kitchen knife of a kind which could be obtained anywhere. Only Janet could tell the police anything and because of my foresight she did not have my real address. My secret life was inviolate and that was the way it would stay.
I walked as far as Waterloo Bridge which spans the Embankment as well as the Thames. Though I could see many more floodlit buildings along the curve of the river ahead of me, I did not want to venture too far from my bus route, or to pass the tramps under the bridge. To avoid going through the Embankment Station again I crossed the road with the intention of heading north towards the Strand. This meant going up a stairway to the level of the bridge. It is the sort of concealed place which muggers like, but I had little option. The apprehension took away some of my pleasure, though fortunately nothing happened. Very soon I was back in the Strand and looking at more theatres. The number of theatres in London is amazing.
The desire to go back to the steps where I had encountered the French girl was something I only felt as I approached Trafalgar Square again. Perhaps subconsciously it was this wish which caused me to go along the Strand rather than heading north along Kingsway towards the office. My first thought was that such an action would be foolhardy, but rationally I could see that there was no undue risk. The people I encountered were hardly likely to have been there on Saturday afternoon.
The National Gallery was floodlit like so many of our important buildings. This was something I had not appreciated when I met Janet. Even Nelson on his column was picked out with a spotlight, creating a dramatic effect. Traffic was heavy even at this late hour. It was the time of the evening when I met Janet.
I must to confess to some apprehension on crossing the Mall and approaching Cockspur Street. As the visit was unplanned, I felt unsure which way to go. What I did was to follow the route I took with Janet. Beyond Admiralty Arch was the sculpture she so admired. I wished I could have dealt with her while she was examining it, pinning her against those bronze projections, but that was out of question because anybody passing in a car could have seen us.
The passageway between the two buildings brought back the memories. The moment when Janet turned to look at me came back with such intensity that I shivered though I was not particularly cold. I thought I might be catching a cold. A sense of foreboding gripped me, making my stomach churn, because I was not sure what to expect at the end of the passage. I felt that somebody had divined my intentions and that I was walking into a trap. This was silly, of course. I forced myself to continue walking. The road at the end was empty except for parked cars. Opposite were the steps leading to the lane. I went that way to reach Trafalgar Square again. It was strange to pass the spot where two days earlier a girl had died. Now there was a lager can on the landing. If alcohol has to be freely available, I wish something could be done to make lager louts stop throwing their cans everywhere.
My original intention was to go straight home, but retracing my steps like that gave me a feeling I can only describe as a gnawing hunger for pleasure. I could not go back to my room, though I had no idea where to go instead. At that moment all my optimism evaporated. My inadequate knowledge of London was revealed. The only two places I could think of were Soho and Kings Cross. I was running back to where I had been before and killing in the same way. This was hardly the new life I promised myself. I was like a rat trapped in a cage and unable to escape.
I took a bus to Kings Cross. Not much of the journey has stayed in my memory, except that the bus was always stopping and starting and that it seemed dimly lit. I kept looking out at the streets which I had walked earlier like the Strand and Kingsway. Once more I was retracing my steps. This was brought home to me again with renewed emphasis when I got off just before Kings Cross and entered the streets where my new life began. It is strange how a place can assume a different character according to your mood. This time the sense of menace had gone. My journey became an admission of failure rather than a triumphant return. I felt no fear or excitement, but only a sense of what had to be done. The darkness between the tenements was my world. I had not ventured there on my previous visits. I was not afraid. In the shadow under a first floor balcony I pressed against a wall and waited, invisible, listening for the sounds of a girl coming home. In the distance was the rumble of traffic from Euston Road. The sound of televisions tuned to different channels came from nearby flats. As I looked up, I could see tier upon tier of balconies on the tenement opposite with their inadequate lights. For some ten minutes I waited, till I was shivering with cold. Perhaps somebody would come if I stayed a few minutes longer, I kept telling myself this, though I knew it was wishful thinking. I could wait for hours without any girl appearing on her own. But I dreamed that she appeared. I dreamed of her surprise turning to fear. However unpleasant fear seems, I do not believe that it lasts. I think at the end there is a realisation that death is the release. Then the girl was grateful to me for showing her how to escape.
As I walked from the tenements, I felt uncertain whether I was in a dream myself. I think it quite likely that I was displaying the early symptoms of flu. It was good to be on the move after standing for so long.
I was surprised and disappointed to see no prostitute standing at the corner. Still more surprising was that the terrible street leading to Kings Cross looked quiet and respectable. Were it not for the neon signs, I should have thought I had come to the wrong place. At first I could not understand what had happened. Then the sight of the police car made everything clear. Though it is right for the police to stamp out the pernicious practice of prostitution, I only wish they had chosen another day.
If I had kept the confidence I felt early in the evening, I should have I walked straight past the police car to Kings Cross Station. Instead I took the next turning. I am sure the station rivals any of the buildings on the Embankment, but my mood prevented me from fully appreciating its architecture. 
How busy York Way seemed compared with my first visit. It was crowded with parked buses. Some things had not changed: a tramp was slumped in a doorway. The police should have picked him up. As I moved further from Euston Road, I saw prostitutes watching me. That gave me a feeling of excitement. Then a police car cruised by. I could have cried with frustration at what was happening to my evening.
A few parked cars remained in the side turning where I met Doreen. The doorway was empty. After so many weeks nobody would remember her except me. I walked on towards Caledonian Road. As I passed the waste ground beyond the warehouse, I was tempted to slip through a gap in the fence and wait until one of the prostitutes passed. There would be plenty of stones and pieces of timber I could use for dealing with her. Then I thought of my long wait at the tenements. I had no wish to repeat that, particularly in a place where there might be rats. Sorrowfully I continued on my way to Caledonian Road, from where I  caught a bus home. Circumstances such as meeting the French girl on the steps cannot happen every day.
I did not go all the way home, though the bus would have taken me there. Instead I got off at Hornsey Rise. Here the road goes over what used to be a railway line. Now the line has been taken up and replaced by a path. Sometimes I walk along it on Sundays, trying to imagine the scene when the railway was working. Steps lead down from road to what must have been a station. There are no lights, so nobody goes that way at night. I hesitated on the bridge, looking down into the darkness of the cutting and hoping irrationally that a girl would come. Hanging about for too long would have looked suspicious, so I walked on, thinking that I might as well have stayed on the bus. Ahead were the lights of the shops. The fast food shops were still open, attracting crowds of young people. Some were no more than schoolchildren. That revived my spirits. I was hesitant about pursuing my activities so close to home, but I reasoned that providing I did not limit myself to any one area, there was no undue risk. In a sense it was safer to find pleasure there because I could get home quickly.
Nothing could be done while all the youngsters were together. I wondered how long they would stay out. As they had to get up for school in the morning, they could not be there for much longer. I watched from a bus stop. Some youths were in cars. I noticed one tossing food wrappings out the window. I know the type. They rev up their engines and screech away from traffic lights. I wanted them out the way. More interesting to me were the younger girls who walked home. Having not eaten since lunchtime, or drunk anything since afternoon coffee at the office, I hoped that I should not have to wait for too long.
She was fourteen or fifteen, quite small and with extremely long fair hair. Watching her cramming chips in her mouth was like watching an animal eat. She wore jeans and trainers, with only a cotton jacket over her T-shirt. All young people have trainers these days. They may be suitable for playing sport, but not for wearing at the office as Peter Sullivan does. I am surprised Mr Wiggins has not said something to him. At that moment I could have done with rubber soles. The girl was a dozen yards ahead and walking quite slowly. Fortunately there was enough traffic noise to cover my steps. When we turned off the main road, my presence was obvious. For this reason I thought it best not to delay matters. My skill in making these judgments affords me considerable satisfaction. It is like the skill of a great actor in making his audience hold their breath, or of a surgeon knowing precisely where to insert his knife and not shrinking from the necessary moment of pain. The side road was quite suitable for my task: the lighting was poor, nobody was in sight and hedges and shrubs overhung the pavement, obscuring the view from the main road. I glanced over my shoulder to reassure myself that all was well. Traffic was passing on the main road, but it was unlikely that a driver would glance down a side street and pay attention to what was happening there. A car might turn into the street at the last moment, but that was a risk which had to be taken.
The girl did not look round or speed up as I overtook her. She was too busy concentrating on her food. It is surprising that a girl should display so little curiosity about her fate, though I think she tried to scream when I put my hands around her neck. The movements in her throat were like those the French girl made. They were like the movements of a little bird. By then I was gripping too tightly for her to make any noise. Her chips scattered over the pavement. I hoped none had made greasy marks on my raincoat. What surprised me was that she struggled so little. She went limp so quickly that I felt a sense of anticlimax. As I dragged her into the shelter of a hedge, I marvelled at her lightness. She was like a toy. Never before had I been so aware of the difference between a child and a young woman.
I left her behind a low garden wall, partly concealed by weeds and bushes. When I looked around again, the street was still empty. Lights were on in some of the houses, but the curtains were pulled. She had made so little noise that nobody could have heard. The thought of the excitement the next morning made m smile. I might see something of it when I went to work.
Fortunately I could get home without having to go back to the main road, since I was in a street parallel to my own and with a road connecting them at the bottom. I saw only five people on the final stage of my journey home. I was careful to cross the road well before reaching them and to ensure that we were as far as possible from any street lamps when we passed. Three youths were walking together. They were too busy talking to notice me. From the noise they made, I think they had been to a pub. Another man was standing on the pavement, taking something from his car. I kept hanging back, waiting for him to go into his house again, but I could not wait for ever. What he was doing I do not know, but at least while he was so busy looking for something in his car, he paid no attention to me. Another man was walking his dog. Considering the mess that dogs make, I am not surprised that he waited until after dark to take the animal out. Even in daylight I keep well away from dogs because they are unpredictable.
I was home before nine, in spite of all the hanging about in the shadow of tenements and at bus stops. This meant that I was able to listen to Kaleidoscope on the radio at half past nine.
Excitement kept me awake until two in the morning. The past twenty-four hours had been a milestone. Not only had I found pleasure so soon after the last occasion, but she was my youngest victim and the one nearest to my home. The pity was that I did not know her name. When you think about somebody so much, you need a name. I did not feel that my action constituted a serious danger. Given that I took reasonable precautions, the risks were no greater than of getting run over. Faced with the way some tearaways drive, crossing the road is becoming increasingly hazardous. They are the people the police should be concerned about. I only wish there had been time to look at the girl more closely. I want to understand what makes girls beautiful.
*
Her name was Rachel. It is a pretty name. She lived in the road at the bottom of mine. I must have walked past her house many times. I passed it on my way home after leaving her. The picture of her in the paper did not do her justice. She was thirteen. The mother was reported to be distraught, but I consider that she was responsible for what happened. A girl of Rachel's age should not have been allowed to stay out so late.
The police were looking for a white man in his twenties wearing a light-coloured raincoat, the report ended. This came as a shock because I did not think anybody had noticed me. No identikit picture was given, so I concluded that somebody had seen me from a distance. Reassuringly the description was so vague that it could have applied to thousands of people. I did not think I had much to fear. I considered getting rid of my raincoat, but it was rather late in the winter to start wearing an overcoat.
A policeman came to the door on the evening following the death. I could hear him talking to the Chinese girl in the hall. As he would have seen the lights through my curtains, I could not pretend to be out. At least I had the opportunity to put my raincoat in the wardrobe rather than leaving it hanging on the back of the door.
Mine was the first door he knocked at after Mr Hopkins'. I invited him in, trying not to betray my nervousness. It was the first time that anybody had visited me. He was very tall. His cap was under his arm. In his other hand was a clipboard. It is strange how the smell of a stranger can be objectionable. I am sure he was very clean, but he smelt strongly of aftershave.
'Sorry to trouble you, sir,' he began, putting his cap on the table, 'but you've probably heard about the schoolgirl who was murdered in the next street.'
I wanted to correct him. What happened was not murder but an unfortunate consequence of his colleagues driving prostitutes from the streets around Kings Cross. Of course I had to remain silent.
'We're calling on everybody in the neighbourhood to see whether they heard or saw anything,' the policeman continued. He was tapping his pen against the clipboard as he watched me. Suddenly all my confidence evaporated. There were occasions at school like that when I had done nothing wrong, but when I was made to feel guilty. Once was at junior school when a girl accused me of pinching her. It was in the playground. Children gathered around me as the girl sobbed and told lies about me. The teacher came to see what the fuss was about and sided with the girl. I was told off because of that. On another occasion I was accused of treading on seedlings in the school garden. I do not know who did it, but it was certainly not me.
'I was here all the evening,' I assured the policeman. I was tempted to complain about the late night parties across the road while I had the opportunity, but I thought it best to say as little as possible.
'Were you here alone, sir?'
'I was studying for a vocational qualification,' I told him. 
This made him smile for some reason. 'Very commendable,' he said, so I explained in more detail the qualifications which are available in the world of insurance. Nervousness made me talk too much. I was aware of this at the time, but I could not stop myself.
'If we could just get back to yesterday,' the policeman cut in. 'So you were in all the evening?'
I agreed that I was.
'You didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary?' 
'I was concentrating on my work,' I told him. 
'What time did you go to bed?' 
'Half past nine.' 
'You're an early bird.' 
I was not sure what he meant by this. I watched him writing what I had told him. 
'Did you hear any of the other people in the house come in?' he persisted. 
If I had been thinking, I should have said that Steve Jenkins came in at nine o'clock. All I did say was that I heard nothing. 
'That's fine, sir. Can I have your name?' 
The alarming thought struck me that once he had my name, it would be included in police records. Facts about me could be indexed and cross-referenced. Unfortunately I could not refuse to answer his question without arousing his suspicions. I said that I did not.
He noted my name on the form and then announced, 'I'll leave you to get on with your studying.' He was looking around the room. 'One last question: have you got a raincoat?' 
This question alarmed me, but I could hardly deny that I owned one. 
'Could I have a look?' he persisted. 
I searched frantically for an answer as he watched me. 
'It's at the dry cleaners,' I said at last. 
'Can you tell me what colour it is?' 
'Black.' 
He noted this. 'I think that's all then, sir. Sorry to have troubled you. If we have any more questions, we'll pop back another evening. I expect you'll be here doing your vocational training.' He was smiling as though he had made a joke, though I do not think he said anything funny. 
Afterwards my room felt soiled. Aftershave hung in the air, forcing me to open the window to get rid of the smell. At least my foresight in concealing the raincoat had been vindicated, though in view of my statement I should have to purchase a black raincoat and dispose of my old one. Only later did it occur to me that he might ask the others in the house whether they knew anybody with a light-coloured raincoat. This thought stopped me from getting to sleep.

Chapter 9

The policeman's visit sent my life lurching in a fresh direction. I decided that I must always appear to be out if he carried out his threat to call again. Every evening since then I have avoided putting on my light. Instead I rely on what illumination comes from the street lamp. It is surprising how quickly your eyes adapt to this. Reading is out of the question, but preparing food presents little difficulty. I have to leave my coat on because I cannot risk switching on the fire. With my radio turned down very low there is no reason for anybody to suspect that I am home. The only risk is when I have to leave the room to use the toilet. 
If the discrepancy about the colour of my raincoat was noticed, suspicion would fall on me. I was like a man who is told he might have a fatal illness. The day after the policeman called, I withdrew fifty pounds from the bank at lunchtime and bought a black raincoat. Afterwards it occurred to me that this was a precipitate step. The coat was obviously new. If the police became suspicious, they would make enquiries at men's outfitters and discover when I bought it. I tried to make it look older by screwing it up and rubbing dust into the lining. It hurt me to do this to a new coat, but the action was necessary. A second-hand coat might have been better, but I could not bring myself to wear other people's clothes under any circumstances.
Having bought a new coat, I had to dispose of the old one. As long as it remained in my possession, it could incriminate me. I considered cutting it into pieces and disposing of them in litter bins as I had done with the paper left over from my newspaper cuttings, but cutting up a coat is not as easy as it sounds and the pieces might be noticed. After much heart-searching I wrapped it in an old supermarket bag, taking care to rub the bag and the buttons clean of fingerprints. Wearing gloves to tie the bag was difficult, but for safety's sake it was necessary. The next morning I put the bag in the dustbin under some rubbish. Fortunately the bins were being emptied that day. It is regrettable that a perfectly good coat had to be thrown away, but there was no alternative.
The newspaper cuttings themselves assumed a new significance. The scrapbook which had given me so much pleasure to assemble was now a damming piece of evidence. The sooner it was destroyed the better, whatever my regrets at losing the sole record of what I had achieved. Burning was the most certain way, but doing that in my room when the light was out meant the flames would be seen from outside. The last thing I wanted was the fire brigade being called! At least sitting in the dark gave me plenty of time to cut the book into strips using the craft knife bought for my work on Steve Jenkins' motorcycle. These strips I took to work in a plastic carrier bag and disposed of in various litter bins near the office. It took an entire lunch hour to get rid of all of them. 
As my liberty was under threat, dealing with Steve Jenkins assumed greater urgency. I should have liked more time to study the maintenance manual because the brakes on motorcycles are surprisingly complicated. I hoped Steve Jenkins' motorcycle did not have what is called a hydraulic system. I could make the fluid leak, but he would almost certainly notice. For all I know there is a warning light to indicate the loss of pressure. I could not find anything about that in the manual. Anyway I did not want to get oil on my clothes. Much easier for me to deal with was a mechanical system where the brakes are connected to the controls by rods and wires. I could imagine Steve Jenkins speeding down a hill towards the traffic lights and discovering he was unable to stop! That would mean no more pools of oil in the back yard and no more revving up in the morning. The house is more suitable for the clean, quiet sort of person who has an office job.
The next stage was to examine the brakes on Steve Jenkins' machine. As it stood in the back yard every evening, this should have been easy. The problem was that moving the tarpaulin might arouse the suspicion of anybody watching from a window. Unfortunately quite an number of windows overlook the yard.
Providing I was not seen while I was dealing with the brakes, I did not consider that my plans for Steve Jenkins would bring any further suspicion on me. If a motorcyclist has a brake failure, there is no reason why anybody could link it to the unfortunate death of a schoolgirl who lived nearby. Timing was crucial to my plan. The window of the Chinese girl's room looks out on the yard, so I had to wait until she was out or until her curtains were pulled. The same applied to Emma Price whose room is above hers. Derek Gaine's room is also upstairs at the back, but the yard cannot be seen from his window. Windows from the houses behind overlook it, so I decided that the hours of darkness provided the best opportunity. If the Chinese girl was in her room, her radio would drown any noise I made.
The day after the policeman called, the evening paper carried another long report on Rachel's death. This was scandalmongering because it contained no new information. Parents in Hornsey were terrified, the newspaper claimed. Police were urging them not to let their children go to school unescorted. To read the report, you would think the whole of Hornsey was gripped by fear. On my way home everything looked perfectly normal.
That evening I had sardine sandwiches because they are easy to prepare in the dark. Sardines are supposed to be very nutritious, though I do not have them very often. In summer the smell attracts flies. Several outbreaks of food poisoning have been caused by tinned fish, so I only buy a reputable brand. As I sat eating in the darkness, it was as though a film were being run for my personal entertainment. Mrs Leary was moving about overhead. I watched people coming home from work, some hurrying to get out of the cold, others weighed down by problems. Being students the couple over the road were already home. As the girl prepared a meal, the man was saying something to her, gesturing to reinforce his point. After so long together I do not know what they find to talk about.
The Chinese girl was on the front path, searching her bag for the key. A few moments later came the sound of the front door being opened. The hall light was switched on: the light showed under my door. I could visualise her looking at the letters in the few moments before the hall light switched itself off. The time allowed is inadequate. As I pointed out in my letter to the landlord, this is dangerous when people are going upstairs, though it is less of a problem for those of us who live on the ground floor. Sure enough the light went off before she had unlocked her door, so she had to switch it on again to let herself into her room. There came a click as she switched on her own light. Her door closed. I could hear everything she did: putting her books on the table, taking off her coat and pulling the curtains. How little real privacy there is here. The wardrobe door was opened. Clothes-hangers screeched on the rail. Then there was a silence as she changed her clothes. It was enjoyable to imagine her undressing. Thinking about Margaret did not give me that sort of excitement.
Mrs Leary came tripping downstairs in her high-heeled shoes. She went out, banging the door so hard that the window rattled. I watched her tripping down the road. Her scent reached me from the hall, which shows how much she uses. In her room the smell must be overpowering. Sometimes I suspect that rather than being a waitress or a barmaid, she is really a prostitute. Several times it has occurred to me to revisit Kings Cross just to see whether she is one of the women standing outside the hotels. To the best of my knowledge she has never brought a man home. If she did, I should make the strongest possible representations to the landlord. As it is, I have to put up with her coming home late at night and moving about in the room above me for what seems like hours.
Mr Hopkins had a bout of coughing which is something that happens with increasing frequency. One day that man is going to do himself some damage, though as he smokes all the time it is difficult to feel any sympathy for him. His home help really should alert the appropriate authorities to what is happening. Meanwhile everybody else in the house has to endure the disgusting noise.
The smell of cooking told me that the Chinese girl was preparing a meal. The smell of frying is always difficult to eradicate and is particularly unpleasant in the room where you sleep. I have considered mentioning it to her, but it is difficult to point out things like this to a foreigner. Because the light was off, I did not like to open a window: this would be an open invitation to burglars in an apparently empty ground floor room.
Next to come in was the girl who lives in the other downstairs room at the back. She is always friendly. Like the Chinese girl she is a student. In preference to the jeans which are so popular amongst her kind, she likes to wear shawls and long, old-fashioned dresses. Every time I see her, she is wearing a different one. So much for grants not being generous enough. Her wardrobe must be full.
'I'm your new neighbour,' she introduced herself when we first met in the hall. 'My name's Karen.' She pushed back her fluffy blonde hair as though it was covering her eyes. That is a habit of hers. Another thing she does is to lift her eyebrows when she speaks, which makes her eyes look big. Then she looks beautiful.
'`Are you one of the students?' she asked. 
I told her that I was not and she explained that she was reading English. When I said that I read a lot, she laughed. Because it was her, I did not mind. She was laughing with me, not at me, though I did not see the joke. I am sure she is clever to get into university, but spending four years reading books and getting a grant for it is an indulgence to my way of thinking. We should all like to do that instead of working. Of course this is not something I said to her. l feel happy when she speaks to me. She smiles as though she is really pleased to see me. It gives me the feeling that we are sharing a secret, but I am sure this is just her way. She must have a lot of friends because on the rare evenings when she stays at home, she always telephones somebody. Sometimes she spends half an hour talking. At weekends somebody always rings her. I looked forward to knocking on her door and telling her that she was wanted on the telephone, though now I am pretending to be out, I cannot do this. Her room has a pleasant smell. I should like to be invited in to get a better look. It resembles a room in a magazine: the mattress on the floor, rugs on the walls and the light coming from table lamps at floor level. Whether the landlord knows about all the rearrangement is another matter, though I have not told him. What surprises me is that she is so careless about cleaning the shower tray after using it.
The Chinese girl put on her radio, blotting out a lot of other sounds and depriving me of the incidental pleasure of following how other people conduct their lives. The music was excessively loud to my way of thinking. No wonder the present generation is supposed to be going deaf. 
For want of anything else to do, I turned my attention back to the couple in the house opposite. They were nearly ready to eat by this time. The man was opening a bottle of wine, though as they did not have friends visiting them, it seemed extravagant to open a whole bottle.
Next to return home was Steve Jenkins. The noise of his motorcycle could drown any radio. The wonder is that nobody complains, but I suppose people are used to background noise these days. At least when the engine was turned off, the peace which followed seemed all the more enjoyable. Steve Johnson was wearing his leather jacket as usual. It must stink because you cannot wash leather. Not that this bothers him. He wheeled his motorcycle along the side passage. I could imagine him manoeuvring it into the yard and putting the tarpaulin over the top, weighed it down with stones which he leaves lying about for the purpose. Somebody is going to trip over them one day. 
The side gate slammed as he came back. He was jingling his keys as he came to the front door. I heard the key turning in the lock. Of course he had to bang the door closed, making the window rattle. Steve Jenkins never does anything quietly. Light from the hall showed under my door again. When it went out, he was halfway upstairs. This was the moment for me to put on my gloves. I put my torch in the carrier bag with the tools. 
Closing doors quietly is difficult at the best of times. The problem was made worse by my fear that at any minute somebody else might come home or the telephone would ring. The best way is to insert the key in the lock, using it to control the latch so that there is no telltale click. This procedure worked well enough on my own door, though in my haste I could not prevent the latch on the front door from snapping shut. Fortunately the noise from the Chinese girl's radio meant that such a small sound would not be noticed. Once on the pavement I made sure nobody from the house was in sight. If there had been, I should have pretended that I was taking a carrier bag of rubbish to the dustbins. The side passage was unlit, which made me hesitate before plunging into the darkness. Beside me was the bay window of my room. It was strange to take the viewpoint of a stranger and to peer through the glass. Enough light from the street filtered inside to illuminate the table, but nothing else could be seen clearly. I looked across the road. In the lighted window the student couple were eating spaghetti as though they were on a stage set. The man was holding up his wine glass. Unseen I raised my own hand in acknowledgement.
In the side passage I did not put on the torch in spite of my dislike of the dark. There was no point in taking unnecessary risks. I also made sure that the side gate did not bang against the wall as I opened it. Steve Jenkins throws it open without caring. One day he is going to break the hinges. 
There was enough light for me to see the outline of the motorcycle under its blue plastic sheet. Windows in the houses opposite were illuminated. I took a moment to watch, but there was no sign of anybody paying attention to what I was doing. The nerve-wracking moment was lifting the blue plastic sheet while expecting at any moment the Chinese girl to pull her curtain aside or Steve Jenkins to open the side gate. My fear was powerful enough to make me consider postponing my plan, but having come so far I knew that if I did not act immediately, I might never pluck up the courage again. I also had to face the fact that if the police found evidence against me, there might not be another opportunity to take revenge on Steve Jenkins.
The brakes on the motorcycle were not hydraulic, but in the light of the torch they looked nothing like the diagrams in the manuals. I tried to remain calm as I worked out the function of each component. Covered cables connected the brakes to the controls. By prising up the protective sheath close to the front wheel, I exposed the cable. I had to hold the torch between my knees while doing this, which was difficult. With the wire cutter in the pliers I reduced the thickness of the cable to a thread. Once the sheath was pushed back, nothing of what I had done was visible. 
Dealing with the other brake was more difficult because the motorcycle was close to the wall. I had to lean against the wheel to complete my work. All the time I was afraid that the motorcycle would fall on me. My reason for not cutting the cables completely was that Steve Jenkins might test the brakes before setting off. This was unlikely knowing him, but the possibility could not be ruled out. If the accident was delayed for a few days, so be it. One thought made me smile: if the accident occurred when the police were questioning me, at least I should have a good alibi!
The job in hand so preoccupied me that I paid little attention to anything else. As I put the plastic sheet back, congratulating myself on how well the operation had gone, I chanced to look up. Emma Price was watching me from her window.
So far I have deliberately avoided mentioning Emma. She was living at the house when I came. She was a student, though more conscientious than some I could mention. What subject she studied I do not know, though whenever I saw her she was carrying a canvas bag crammed with files and books. A letter arrived for her at the beginning of each week. Whether it was from her parents or from a boyfriend, I did not know. The handwriting on the envelope was always the same. The postmark was Shrewsbury. She rarely used the telephone, which made me suspect that she had no boyfriend. When she did make a call, she spoke so softly that I could hardly catch the words. I never had to take a telephone message for her. In all respects she was a model tenant. On the few occasions when I encountered her in the hall or outside in the street, she smiled without saying anything. If I met another girl on a date, I should like her to resemble Emma. There was something dependable about her.
At first I did not know how to respond when I saw her looking down from her window. Then a shiver went through me at the realisation that she might have witnessed everything. I am sure it was a shiver of fear and nothing to do with being cold. All sorts of excuses flew through my brain: that I was repairing the motorcycle, that I was admiring it or thinking about buying it. None of them was plausible. Nor was I sure how well she knew Steve Jenkins. I do not know what goes on upstairs. If they were on good terms, he might well have mentioned my complaints.
The curtain fell, leaving me staring at Emma's window. I felt like a little boy again, not knowing how to deal with what was happening and wanting to run home and escape from everything which was outside my control by losing myself in a book. Of course I had to pull myself together. I put the tools and the torch in the bag and went back along the darkened side passage. Now the worst had happened, the need for secrecy was gone. On the pavement I did not notice whether anybody from the house was coming. As I unlocked the front door and the door to my room, I no longer cared if anybody heard. The radio was still playing in the Chinese girl's room as though everything was the same. I lowered myself on the edge of my bed with the weary movements of an old man. My hands were unsteady. I did not bother to take off the gloves. They were stained with grease. There was grease on my clothes. I did not understand how my world could be turned upside down in a few seconds. The irony was that in my concern not to be seen, I had overlooked Emma Price because she was so quiet. Now the image which kept recurring was of her framed at the window, staring at me.
I must have sat on my bed for five minutes, though the way thoughts whirled through my mind made it seem like hours. I tried to tell myself that what had happened was a delusion, but this was patently untrue. My impulse was to run away. Where I went was not important. I could cram as many clothes as possible into my suitcase and take a train to a large town such as Manchester or Glasgow, where nobody would know me. I went so far as to take my suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, but that was all. You cannot escape in this country with income tax and national insurance records held on everybody.
As my initial confusion subsided and I was able to see things more clearly, the realisation grew that Emma was the only risk to my plans. Apart from her appearance at the window, everything had gone well. Steve Jenkins was going to have an accident. The police had no real evidence against me. I did not want to jeopardise what had been achieved, nor the enjoyment of dealing with Margaret which lay ahead. Only one solution presented itself, however reluctant I was to admit it. I must confess, however, that once the decision was made, the coming task gave me a feeling of excitement.
The upper landing had a musty smell from not being cleaned and aired properly. When the light went out, the only illumination came from the long window at the back. I could see cracks of light under two of the doors. The thudding noise of music coming from Steve Jenkins' room made the floor vibrate.
Perhaps Emma was expecting me. At any rate she opened the door quickly at my knock. Her brown eyes looked huge, like those of a tiny child puzzled by something beyond her understanding. She had washed her hair. Now it hung limp and straggly. The smell of shampoo was like perfume filling the room. She had a homely, trusting face which seemed to say, 'I'm someone you can rely on.' It was gentle, like the face of a little girl who has not become corrupted. I remember how it could light up when she smiled to show small, even teeth. This time there was no smile. She backed away. I tried to read what was going on in her mind from her expression. I did not want her to be afraid. My nightmare was that at any moment she might scream, bringing Steve Jenkins from his room. This is always the problem: wanting to enjoy the occasion, but having to act quickly.
I put one hand over Emma's mouth, as I had done with the French girl. For a few seconds, she was too surprised to struggle. She lost her balance and fell back on her bed with me on top of her. That was when she began struggling.
It is difficult to prevent somebody from screaming. I have noted this several times. With one hand I held Emma's mouth closed. Whatever happened I could not let go, but it was difficult to proceed with only one hand free. I wanted to pinion her arms. I think she was trying to bite me, which I should not have expected of her. To prevent her from kicking I leant my weight against her so that she was pinned against the mattress. There was such fear in her eyes that I could hardly look at them. Her struggles became wilder till I was afraid that I might not have the strength to hold her. The writhing of her body beneath me gave me a new excitement. This became embarrassing, but I could not take my weight away without giving her the chance to wriggle free. Instead I pressed her head backwards, exposing her neck. 
If I had had the foresight to bring a knife, my task would have been easier. Nor did the softness of the bed help me, but dragging her on the floor might have caused too much noise. I leaned forward, pressing my forearm against her neck till I judged that she would not be able to scream. She was trying ineffectually to pull my arm away. I could feel the pressure of her breasts. That made me more excited. When I took my hand from her mouth and put it around her throat, her tongue came out. This primitive thing was so incongruous in her beautiful face that it distracted me. It waved about like a snake trying to escape from her mouth. It was so large. No longer was she a person I knew slightly and found attractive, but an animal wriggling beneath me and needing to be put out of its misery. I could see fillings in her teeth as her mouth opened wider and wider in the scream that never came. I do not know how people can become dentists and look in mouths all day. Their work is unpleasant, though I realise it is essential to have your teeth attended to regularly.
When she was still, it was as though she had taken all my energy with her. I was lying on her body. Her face was close enough for me to count her freckles. The smell of her hair was intoxicating. At that moment I understood why glue sniffers persist in their strange habit. My excitement was almost beyond control as I rubbed my body against her, nuzzling her breasts. She was so beautiful. A wave of energy broke over me, causing a problem which I shall not recount, though the experience was most unexpected and something I wanted to achieve again. How ironic that the ideal girlfriend was living so close without my realising.
The ringing of the telephone ended my reverie abruptly. My heart pounded till I could hear the banging in my head. I stood up. Not till then did I realise that the door was still wide open. Anybody on the landing could have seen what was happening. All my euphoria drained away. I shivered, knowing the fear I felt in the yard on looking up at Emma.
A door opened downstairs. The ringing stopped as the Chinese girl answered the telephone. Thank goodness she was home, or Steve Jenkins might have come out of his room, if he could hear the telephone above all that noise. I closed the door quietly. The Chinese girl was talking to one of her friends. It was surprising how clearly the words carried upstairs. I looked around the room as I waited for her to finish. It was a little smaller than mine. The square of carpet in the middle was worn, but I was pleased to see that the lino around the edges was highly polished. Emma was obviously somebody who liked to keep things clean. The electric fire was glowing in the corner facing the door. Judging by the warmth of the room, she must have switched it on as soon as she came in. It was interesting to see someone else's furniture. As in my room all the pieces came from different suites, but the chairs and dressing table were painted in a dark varnish. A tear the seat of one of the chairs was patched with adhesive tape. The orange pattern on the wallpaper was worn away around the light switch. The room was shabby like mine, but Emma's personality made it restful. A poster faced the door: a girl in Victorian dress reaching up to the hand of a man who was out of sight. Why Emma should want to keep an advertisement for an art  exhibition which finished two years ago, I do not know.
Even with the door closed I could hear the Chinese girl talking, her voice high-pitched and singsong. The thumping music came from Steve Jenkins' room. In Emma's position I should certainly have complained to the landlord. 
In the corner by the window were the sink and a tabletop electric cooker with two boiling rings and a small oven. I wish I had a cooker like that instead of two boiling rings. An oven is useful for heating things such as pies. On the table was a packet of soup and a saucepan. Evidently Emma was about to prepare a meal when I disturbed her. It was tomato soup.
Pushed to the back of the table were Emma's books. I went around the bed to look at them. They all had French titles. I never imagined that she was studying French. Though I am sure she worked hard, I do not know how people can get degrees just by memorising words in French.
Her handbag and make-up were on the dressing table. She had very little make-up compared with the array of bottles and containers I remembered from the prostitute's room at Notting Hill. The shampoo bottle was there. Shampoo trickled down the outside and collected on the polished wood. I am surprised that a girl like Emma who was so fastidious in other ways should have let this happen. Beside the shampoo bottle were a deodorant and a lotion for spots. I went back to her and examined her face closely. She could have been asleep. I did not see any spots.
I was calmer by this time. All I had to do was to wait until the Chinese girl finished her telephone call and went back to her room, though judging by past experience this could mean a long wait. I looked at Emma again, speculating whether she had a boyfriend, when it occurred to me that this was my opportunity to find out. The most likely place where she would keep letters was in the side drawers of the dressing table. It was a pity that my gloves were dirty, but I could not risk taking them off.
All her papers were indeed in one of the side drawers. Her bank statements were there. I should not have expected a girl like Emma to have an overdraft. Nor does it seem responsible of a bank to allow students to get into debt. The letters were still in their envelopes. I recognised the writing immediately. They were from her mother as I surmised. Looking at those intimate things made me feel closer to Emma. Apparently she had a brother who worked for a manufacturing company which was threatened with closure. Her father had heart trouble, but was holding his own. Her mother ended by saying that she was enclosing some money to help out. There was no money in the envelope. I checked the bank statements, but there were no corresponding credits. Emma's purse only contained coins. If her mother had sent cash, this was a silly thing to do. Money should never be sent through the post.
Apparently I was correct in thinking that she did not have a boyfriend. There was no sign of any letter or photograph. This pleased me. The idea of her being touched by somebody else was offensive. I looked through the other drawers to be certain, but they only contained clothes. One was filled with underclothes. It was good to know that she changed them frequently. I took off one glove and rested the back of my hand against the fabric. It was incredible to be given such an opportunity. When I put my nose close, I could smell the freshness which comes with frequent laundering. I imagined her putting them on.
The Chinese girl was laughing. I closed the drawer and went to the door to listen. Her conversation showed no sign of finishing. What the telephone call was costing I dread to think. My gaze went back to Emma. I recalled the occasions when I had seen her and the few words we had exchanged. I am convinced that we had a lot in common. With some pretext for talking to her all the terrible business with Margaret would have been unnecessary.
As I knelt beside Emma, it was with no intention other than to admire her. When I lifted her jumper, I half expected her to object, though of course this was impossible. To my surprise she was not wearing a blouse underneath. It is hardly hygienic to wear wool against the skin. I lay the back of my hand on her abdomen. That rekindled the excitement. Her skin was still warm. I loved its smoothness and the way it yielded and sprang back again. By probing gently it was possible to find where her ribs began. I let my hand travel as far as the edge of her bra. Then I explored lower down. Unfastening the button on her jeans was quite difficult with gloves on. When I pulled down the zip, I could see her skimpy underwear with its pattern of coloured dots. I eased that down. Some power I could hardly control was driving me. I lay on her. That brought back the wonderful sensations, only this time she did not resist. The moment will stay with me for ever. I do not think even Doreen's death could compare. My body became frenzied in its movement as I rubbed against her.
The pleasure ended suddenly. I still do not know what happened, but thank goodness Emma was dead. As I looked at her with her clothes in disarray, I felt disgusted with myself. It was as though a demon had possessed me. I remained staring at her till I realised that the Chinese girl's voice no longer came from downstairs. That aroused me from my dream.
The idea of setting fire to the room occurred to me. Although I had been careful not to leave any indication of my presence, fire destroys any trace of incriminating evidence. Nothing escapes fire. However I did not want to put my own room at risk. I am satisfied with my present accommodation and the rent is reasonable. Instead I left Emma's room as it was, pulling the door closed. The click of the lock could not be avoided except by leaving the door open and I wanted the discovery of the body delayed for as long as possible. Trying to close the door quietly was as nerve-wracking as anything that evening. I kept wondering what I should do if Steve Jenkins opened his door or if Derek Gaines came home at that moment. I could pretend to be using the bathroom, but suspicion would inevitably fall on me when the body was discovered. If anybody had appeared, I should have had to deal with him. The prospect did not give me any pleasure, but it was a necessity.
There was nobody in the hall. The Chinese girl's radio was still playing. With all the noise Steve Jenkins made, it had not been audible from upstairs. Nobody could have heard as I let myself into my room. 
My first tasks were to wash myself and to change my underwear. The grease on my pullover and trousers meant that they could not be worn until they were dry cleaned. I was worried that the stains might be permanent because grease is one of the hardest things to get out of clothes.
It occurred to me as I changed that I could have used Emma's key to close her door noiselessly. This is why planning is so important. Panic had made me ignore such an obvious course.
My original objective of arranging Steve Jenkins' accident had been pushed from my mind by everything which had happened. Back in my room, I was able to put things into perspective. It had been an exciting evening in spite of what at first seemed a disaster. My work on the motorcycle was done. I hoped that I should be at liberty long enough to be sure Steve Jenkins had his accident. Emma's body might not be found for several days. It was interesting to speculate on how she would be discovered and what might follow, but a more immediate matter was to put the tools and gloves where they would never be found. I thought carefully about this. After what happened with Rachel, I did not want to be seen around Hornsey at night. Police might be looking for somebody of my description. A better course was to take everything incriminating to work with me the next day and to throw them in the Thames after dark. That way they would be hidden permanently.
*
The next morning my apprehension was such that I had to force myself to eat breakfast. Even then all I could manage was one slice of bread. All the time I was listening for Steve Jenkins to go out. At five to eight he came bounding downstairs, making as much noise as usual. The front door banged. I watched him going to the side alley. The delay that followed was ominously long. I kept looking at my watch, knowing that I must soon go to work myself and wondering whether my handiwork had been discovered. Of course even if it had, I should have denied any involvement. There was no evidence against me.
When Steve Jenkins wheeled his bike out the alley. I gave a sigh of relief. He struggled to keep the machine upright as the front wheel bounced over the kerb. Machines like that are made for show. He could perfectly well ride a moped, except that it does not suit his image. The roar of the engine as it started was enough to frighten an old person. That sort of noise is totally unnecessary. Dealing with Steve Jenkins was a public service.

Chapter 10

My next task was to kill Margaret. This was something which I had put off for too long. Now there might be little time left, it could not be delayed. The prospect was daunting because killing needs meticulous planning. 
In the lunch hour I took my trousers and pullover to a dry cleaners. After this I bought a kitchen knife with a five-inch pointed blade. This would fit into my pocket easily. I went to an ironmonger off Tottenham Court Road for the knife because the purchase was best made well away from the office. The shop was quite busy, which meant that I was less likely to be remembered in spite of having to wait seven minutes to be served. On the way back I bought a pair of gloves from a shop near Tottenham Court Road Station. This made me six minutes late for work.
Mr Wiggins knew I was not dealing with as much work as usual during the afternoon because all policies are checked by him before despatch. Not that I was concerned. My attention was focused on the evening. Margaret worked in the City, so I had to assume that she went home on the Northern Line. Encountering her on the way home from the station was the ideal arrangement. I did not look forward to the prospect of being on the streets of south London late at night. One problem I could foresee was that they might be busy with other people going home. The other difficulty was that I should have to be at Colliers Wood Station before Margaret. If arrangements did not go as intended, the alternative was to wait till she went out for the evening. She had mentioned that Tuesday was Bible study day. At that time she did not have a beau, of course. Her routine might have changed. I could imagine her being with him. Anger grew in me at her deception till I banged my fist on the desk in frustration. That made people look up in surprise.
'What's got into you?' Peter Sullivan asked, but I did not bother to explain.
Leaving the office at the usual time would make it impossible to be sure of reaching Colliers Wood Station before Margaret, taking into account the job I had to do first. Accordingly at four o'clock I informed Mr Wiggins that I wished to go home because I was feeling sick. He seemed quite concerned and said he hoped I should be all right in the morning. This was the first time I had left work early. As I cleared my desk, took the carrier bag containing the tools and soiled gloves from the drawer and put on my coat, all my colleagues were watching. Of course I ignored them. Such petty, vindictive people do not deserve consideration.
It was a relief to be out of the office before the height of the rush hour. This was freedom. I was reminded of my recent evening walk through Covent Garden and along the Embankment. I enjoyed the experience all the more because it might not be available to me in the future. Near the Embankment Station I purchased a chocolate-covered wafer bar and a small carton of orange juice. In spite of missing my lunch I did not feel hungry, but with the possibility of a long wait ahead of me, I did not want to be unprepared. My hope was that the chocolate would not get sticky in the heat of the underground train.
Embankment Station was as unprepossessing as before with its army of tramps and beggars. They make me shiver whenever I think about them. Why do neither the station staff nor the police take no action against them - that is what I cannot understand. I hurried through the concourse to be free of them and their filth. Across the river the clean lines of the floodlit Festival Hall symbolised what London could be like if such people were cleared from the streets.
Unfortunately it was not yet dark, which made disposing of the tools and gloves difficult. I was tempted to leave them in a litter bin, but a tramp might find them. Instead I crossed the road to the river bank. There were so many people about that it was impossible to throw anything in the water without somebody seeing. In the back of my mind was the thought that I had to get to Colliers Wood before Margaret. What I did was to walk to Cleopatra's needle, where a platform partially concealed by statues of lions juts into the river, In spite of the presence of some Japanese tourists, I dropped the bag into the water. It sank immediately.
The rush hour on the underground is something I had not experienced for a while, so it came as a shock to be swept along a platform with hundreds of other people to face a train so crowded that people hurled themselves against those standing in the doorway to get aboard. In spite of my sense of urgency I let the first train go. Unfortunately the next train was just as full so I overcame my distaste of close physical contact and joined the other people forcing their way into the coach. In such conditions head lice can easily pass from person to person. There was one man near me whose hair was lank and greasy as though it had not been washed for months. I made a point of keeping as far from him as possible. My other fear in such conditions is that the doors will open while the train is travelling at high speed. This could be exceedingly dangerous when you are pressed against them by the sheer numbers of people. 
More people got on at Waterloo, which hardly seemed credible. How anybody sitting in the centre of the coach could have got off, I do not know. I began to worry whether there was enough oxygen for everybody. If somebody had been taken ill, I dread to think what would have happened.
That was a terrible journey. I think there was some hiatus in the service to make the trains so crowded. When people got off at Tooting Broadway, the coach was empty enough for me to get a seat. Colliers Wood was the next station. By then I was growing anxious at the prospect of encountering Margaret again. What if she had caught the same train? To encounter her at the station would be a nightmare come true. I needed to prepare for our meeting. Worse still was not being aware that she had seen me. If there were time, I should have continued to the next station and walked back.
At Colliers Wood Station the exit was some way from my coach. If Margaret had been in one of the rear coaches, she could not have failed to see me. This was another miscalculation on my part which could have been eliminated by thinking ahead. On the escalator I dared not look back in case she was behind me. Once through the ticket barrier I turned left, away from the direction in which she would go. Only when I was partially concealed outside the station exit did I turn to watch the other passengers. Margaret did not appear. To be sure that she had not left the station ahead of me, I waited till the flow of passengers coming up the escalator dwindled to a trickle. Then I went around the corner to look down Colliers Wood High Street. There was no sign of her.
Trains arrive every few minutes in the rush hour. The station is close enough to the surface for you to hear the rumble which heralds the appearance of another rush of passengers. This gave me plenty of time to get into position. Fortunately the sun was going down, which made the task of concealing myself easier. 
Margaret appeared at fourteen minutes past six, by which time the sun had sunk below the horizon. I saw her on the escalator. She was wearing the same coat as on our first meeting. All the hopes she raised came rushing back. The feeling was physical, like water engulfing me. Blackness rose before my eyes. I had to lean against the stonework to prevent myself from collapsing. My fear was that at the crucial moment I should go blind. This can happen quite suddenly.
The blackness gave way to swirls of colour. I had to feel my way around the corner. Looking along the high street lit by street lamps and shop windows, it was as though fireworks were exploding before my eyes. 
Margaret must have walked quite fast or the blindness had affected me for longer than I thought, because she was a long way ahead. I hastened after her, staying close to the shopfronts so that she did not notice me when she crossed the road. The rush hour traffic meant that she waited a long time at the kerb. This gave me an opportunity to catch up. Inside my coat I pulled the knife free of its wrappings. The swirling colours had dwindled into flashing lights and strange patterns.
Knowing so much about somebody who is unaware of your presence gives you a sense of power which is enjoyable. I wondered what was in Margaret's mind as she walked home so unsuspectingly. Was she looking forward to her dinner or thinking about an evening with her 'beau'? I tried to imagine the couple going out for the evening. It was difficult to think of a God-fearing girl having a boyfriend.
She hardly glanced at the church as she passed. Such indifference shocked me. Was Margaret a hypocrite after all? Perhaps she only went to church to please her parents. This was something I had not considered before: that she might have been secretly laughing when I accepted her invitation to the Sunday service. Perhaps as she and her friends crowded in her bedroom to listen to records, she told them about the strange young man who would do anything she asked. They could all savour the joke at my expense. Or perhaps she had lost her faith. Perhaps her 'beau' had changed her in a way that I never could.
Margaret's home was less than two minutes' walk from the church, so I do not know why her parents bothered to go by car unless they hoped to impress me. The terrace dated from before the war. It was plain, without even bay windows to adorn the houses. Some owners had taken the trouble to smarted their properties with double glazing and imitation stone finishes. Quite a few front gardens were concreted and used as hard-standings for cars. Margaret's house looked quite clean as far as I could tell in the dark, but nothing had been done to modernise it. From across the road I watched Margaret letting herself in. My sight was almost back to normal. She did not notice me. For a moment she was framed in the light from the hall before the door closed. I should have liked to see inside to get an idea of how she lived. In my imagination the furnishings were shabby and dating from a time before her parents married. I wondered whether the family said grace before eating. That is what religious people do.
My first opportunity to confront her was lost. All I could hope was that she went out alone later in the evening. Meanwhile I had to find somewhere to wait. A stroll to the waste ground at the end of the road revealed no obvious hiding places. A man was walking home, weighed down with a briefcase. I crossed the road and pretended to consult my street atlas until he had passed. Even then the road was not completely empty. People were still coming home from work and that might continue for some time. I retraced my steps, passing Margaret's house again. My plans for her could not be lightly abandoned. Wild ideas came into my head, like telephoning her to say that she was wanted at the church. Of course I did not seriously consider contemplate doing this. 
At the end of the terrace was an alley. Though not the ideal hiding place, I could see no other option. It was three feet wide. Judging by the height of the weeds it was no longer used, so at least I should not be disturbed. Some of the weeds caught around my feet and would have tripped me had I not clung to the fence. What mess I might be treading in I dared not imagine. My dark raincoat was an asset. Once I was further into the alley and hidden in the deep shadow between the houses, I transferred the knife to my raincoat pocket and settled down to wait. After so much trouble I hoped Margaret would not decide to stay at home. I had more dreams then: of climbing up a drainpipe to her bedroom window. Of course I should not really have done anything so foolhardy.
You feel the rhythm of a street when you live in the darkness. This came to me more strongly than the previous evening, when I watched from my window. Once more I saw the people coming home from work, some looking exhausted, some bringing work home and others retaining a bounce in their step, relieved that they could get on with their lives. A few young people were already setting out for the evening to enjoy themselves. A light came on in a bedroom window. A woman drew the curtains. Perhaps she wanted to change her clothes in preparation for going out. A little later the light was turned off.
Waiting was colder than I expected. The evenings can still be frosty in March. A girl no older than Margaret let herself into a house opposite, unaware that she was being watched. She probably knew Margaret. Perhaps they went to school together. How often have I seen girls coming home from school, giggling and telling each other secrets. When I pass them, their eyes follow me. They make no attempt to hide the fact.
A middle-aged man was walking slowly along my side of the road. He looked preoccupied. His steps were tentative. Here was somebody still immersed in his work. Perhaps this was how I used to look. I shrank further into the shadows. When he glanced in my direction, I thought he had seen the movement, but he passed without showing any further interest.
Soon afterwards a car stopped in front of Margaret's house. I thought her 'beau' had come to collect her. All my plans were thrown into turmoil. To my relief a woman in her thirties got out. She moved hastily: she was obviously late. For a moment I thought she might be a relative of Margaret, but she went into the adjoining house. I tried to imagine what Margaret was doing. By following the alley behind the gardens, I could have looked into the living room and seen her.
One man was walking his dog. This alarmed me because the dog was off the lead. I imagined it picking up my scent and bounding into the alley, barking. Fortunately at the last minute the owner put it on the lead because a car was coming. In my view dogs should always be kept on the lead in the street. Once a dog jumped up at me. I thought it was going to bite me.
The street grew quiet except for a few passing cars. My thoughts drifted back to what Margaret was doing. I imagined her having a bath, unaware of what was going to happen. The pity was that my vision of killing her by a canal had come to nothing. If only there had been a way of enticing her to north London. Sometimes I imagined her writing to tell me that she was sorry. That was proper behaviour for a religious person. She should have begged my forgiveness. Then things might have been different.
In the end my dreams come to nothing. That is not true for some people. They achieve their ambitions. I read about people with no qualifications who rise from nothing to control multinational companies. Whole insurance companies are bought and sold that way. The people working in them have more qualifications than the people who run them, which is unfair. Then there are pop stars. They have no talent yet they earn millions of pounds in their twenties. They get into trouble for taking drugs, but this does nothing to change their lifestyle. Those are the people the police should be pursuing.
When I see young couples in the street, I wonder whether my parents were ever like them. From my earliest memories my parents never changed in their behaviour towards each other. My father maintained the polite and reasonable tone which he used when making business calls from home. He was a patient man. That is important when your work involves dealing with the public. My mother was impatient, though she tried to hide this flaw in her character. As a child I did not understand that. I thought I had done something to make her angry when she would not speak to me and when she banged everything down as she went about her housework. She had no hobbies. She claimed that living in a dirty neighbourhood meant all her time was given up to cleaning. Her standards were exceptionally high. For example she washed tins in boiling water before they were opened. Many people do not bother with this, but it is a practice I have adopted. As a result I have never had food poisoning. As another example of my mother's insistence on hygiene, when my father came home he had to remove his shoes by the front door to prevent dirt from being tramped over the house. I did the same. This was sensible because you can never know what your shoes pick up on the pavement. 
After a day's housework my mother was too tired to think of doing anything except watch television. Eastenders was her favourite programme, but she found something to watch every evening. While she was watching in the front room, my father took his stamps into the living room. My mother did not have many friends, apart from some women from the office where she worked before her marriage. In her eyes the other women on the estate were common.
'I could have gone on to teacher training college,' she told me several times, 'except that I had to go out to work because we needed the money. Then I met your father. I had to give up everything I planned after that.'
My parents had no interests in common. What intrigued me and what I never discovered was how they met. In the front room was a photograph of my mother as a girl of nineteen. That secretive smile was something I never saw in real life. It was as though she became a different person. Perhaps marriage changed her. I should be interested to know. 
Several times my mother visited school because she was not satisfied with my progress. Her contention was that I should be taking more A-level examinations. She wanted me to have extra coaching, but the headmaster said that the school could not provide this.
'We'll have to arrange it ourselves,' she announced to my father.
'We can't afford things like that,' he said in his reasonable voice.
'We can when it's for Alan.'
'You don't want to push him too hard. That won't make him do better.'
'If the school won't take his future seriously. I've got to.'
'I'd leave it to the school.'
'If you won't help, I'll have to get a job to pay for it.'
'Don't be silly.'
'There's nothing silly about it.'
'Leave it to the school. They know what they're doing.'
My mother refused to take his advice. She arranged for me to have extra coaching in French every Saturday morning. At school we had to read passages aloud and then translate them. This meant that all mistakes were exposed to the rest of the class which was why I disliked the subject so much. The woman who gave me extra coaching was a Mrs Roberts. She was French, but married to an Englishman. Her home was on a boulevard ten minutes from the council estate. I had to pass the rough part of the council estate to get there. Even at sixteen I was afraid. The younger boys shouted after me. Sometimes they threw stones and nobody many any effort to stop them.
My mother would have liked to live on the boulevard. Several times she took me to view houses there, though they were not as grand as Mrs Roberts'. She left sales particulars by my father's plate when he came home for his dinner. He never looked at them or referred to them.
A curving gravel drive led to the double entrance doors of Mrs Roberts' house. It was like a house from a magazine. On my first visit I gazed in awe at the gardens. They reminded me of the park. The lawn was as even and flat as a bowling green. The edges were so neatly trimmed that they looked as though they were cut from green paper. No weeds showed in the flowerbeds. An old man trundled a barrow along a side path. At first I thought he must be Mr Roberts, but later I discovered that he was the gardener. 
Mrs Roberts was in her thirties. A few lines showed around her eyes and mouth, but she was still beautiful. She always dressed as though she was about to go out. From the moment she opened the door and said 'Bonjour, Alan,' we spoke only in French. When I did not reply, she would speak slowly and with exaggerated pronunciation. I felt I was being made to display my ignorance the same as at school.
'Mrs Roberts tells me you're not working as hard as you could on your French,' my mother said after a month.
I told her that I did not want to go to extra lessons any more.
'If you don't like a subject, that's all the more reason for working harder at it.'
'I don't want to go to France.'
'Everybody needs a second language these days, particularly in the professions.'
So I continued going to Mrs Roberts' house on Saturday mornings. I came to dread walking up the drive and pressing the brass bell push beside the double doors. It was always the door on the left which Mrs Roberts opened. Then the panic overcame me, pushing everything I had learned from my mind. When she had to repeat everything, she became impatient, smacking her hand on her leg to emphasise the rhythm of the words.
Lessons were always in the lounge. It was as large as a classroom at school. Five people could have sat on the settee. Overhead was a crystal chandelier. I never saw it illuminated. The pink carpet looked newly cleaned. A vase of flowers always stood by the window. They always looked so fresh. Sometimes I wondered whether Mrs Roberts put it there for me.
A month later Mrs Roberts told my mother that she was not willing to continue with the lessons. In her words I was uncooperative. My mother was angry, not with Mrs Roberts but with me. For most of the weekend she stayed in her room with a headache.
'Your mother's upset,' my father said when he was making her a cup of tea.
'I don't like French.'
'I don't know what we're going to do.' He stared out the window as though he was trying to work out a scheme for making everything better, but he did not suggest anything. Later my mother came downstairs. She was clutching her forehead. 
'I suppose I've for to cook a meal for you,' she said, 'even if I can't eat anything.'
'We can make something for ourselves,' my father said. 
'Then you'll be complaining I don't look after you.' 
We had a meal of potatoes, peas and meat pie. The potatoes were hard, but my father did not say anything. When I pulled a face as I cut into a potato, he frowned as a signal for me to be quiet. My mother sat in an armchair with her eyes closed, though I knew she was not asleep. The whole meal passed in silence. I left my potatoes. Afterwards my mother gave us tinned peaches with evaporated milk over them. She did not have any herself. While we were eating them, she started washing up. My father said he would do it, but she said she would rather do it herself. 
'Not that anybody's grateful for anything I do,' she added. 
For a week she hardly spoke except to reproach me. 
'All I've done for you and I might as well not have bothered. I thought I was doing my best for you, giving you an opportunity I never had, and instead I was throwing my money away.' 
When she spoke like that, I did not answer. I never knew what to say. But I was glad that my Saturdays were free again. I wanted to read the books I liked as a change from schoolwork. I kept all the books I enjoyed in my childhood, but now I was reading more adult books. I particularly enjoyed Marjorie Allingham. After my Saturday mornings with Mrs Roberts, I felt familiar with the world which Albert Campion inhabited. 
Later in the next term my mother arranged for me to have tuition in mathematics. 
'I hope I'm not wasting my money again,' she said. `I don't know why I should scrimp and save to give you a better education when you're not grateful.' 
Mr Jones was more friendly than Mrs Roberts. Going to see him was not an ordeal. To get to his flat I did not have to pass the rough part of the estate. The flat was simply furnished. My mother would have called it half empty, but I thought it had a restful atmosphere. I wish my room could look like that. The walls were a pale grey. There were plants and paintings everywhere. I did not care for the paintings. In place of a lampshade was a paper globe. It was suspended so low that you had to walk around it. I liked the way it softened the light. The wicker settee with its bright cushions creaked under my weight. Mr Jones was young and just beginning his teaching career. I liked his wife. She was beautiful. Before each lesson began, she brought us tea and biscuits on a tray. There was a different kind of biscuit each week. I especially liked the chocolate digestives. Since coming to London I have not been able to afford them except as an occasional treat. 
I was disappointed when my mother stopped my mathematics lessons after six weeks. She would not tell me the reason. On my last visit Mrs Jones said that she would miss me. It did not occur to me till later that my mother might have stopped the lessons because I enjoyed them. She begrudged me anything I enjoyed. Perhaps she wanted me to fail the examinations so that she could criticise me. 
My mock examination results in mathematics were good. This made my mother give a watery smile, though she did not congratulate me. 
'You ought to pay more attention to the things you don't like,' she said. 'It's easy to do well in your favourite subjects.' 
After my mother searched my bedroom, my dislike for her turned to hatred. This was a revelation. It taught me how powerful emotions can be and how they must be controlled. Without control you are like an animal. You are an object of ridicule. That was something watching Mr Fairburn taught me at school all those years ago. 
My mother took books from my room: that was what I did not forgive. She knew they were my favourite books. I wanted to understand, but I did not know how to ask her. Instead I waited for her to broach the matter, but she never referred directly to what she had done. 
'I think you ought to spend all your weekends studying,' she said at breakfast on the next Saturday. Although I did not disagree that revision was essential, I did not wish to be told how to organise my work. 
'I'm sure he's getting in all the revision he can,' my father said. 
'You never know what he's doing. You never show any interest.' 
'That's not quite fair.' 
My father could not bring himself to disagree more openly. Even going so far upset him. He pushed his plate away, his breakfast half finished. 
'You leave everything to me,' my mother complained.
'I don't want to pressure the boy.' 
'He's got his exams in a few weeks.' 
'All the more reason for not pressuring him.' 
'You'll go and get on with your work this morning, please, Alan.' My mother was becoming angry. That stopped my father from objecting any more. I think he was afraid of her. 
As a reminder of my lessons with Mr Jones I studied mathematics that morning. My particular interest was geometry. I liked the way statements could be proved by theorems. Theorems have certainty. 
'You should do your French this afternoon,' my mother said as we ate lunch. 
'He can't work all the time,' my father protested. 
'He can do some extra work till his exams.' 
I thought of going to the library to work. I had long since stopped going there with my father on Saturday afternoons, though I still went by myself every week. When I broached this to my mother, she said that I should stay at home. That was what I did. She brought me tea on two occasions during the afternoon, though I think that really she wanted to check that I was working. 
When my father was in the garden and my mother went shopping, I searched her bedroom for my books. As they were mine, I felt entitled to look for them. The room was little changed since my childhood. Even the smell was the same. I recognised the lace mats which protected the top of the dressing table. On them lay the brush set with the blue backing which caught the light as though it was embossed. On the bedside table was the lamp with the polished marble base and the floral-patterned fabric shade which collected dust in its folds. I remembered those things from my childhood. A search of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers and the dressing table proved fruitless. I wondered if my mother had given the books to a jumble sale. That was when I found my school reports in a chest of drawers. I could not look at them. 
In spite of all my extra work the examinations proved harder than expected. Clearly I had been misled about the requirements. The blame for this lay with my teachers who had prepared me and set the mock papers. Of course I told my parents nothing of these misgivings. Each day when I came home during the examination week, my mother wanted to see the day's papers. She read them carefully. She would make some remark such as: 'You shouldn't have had any trouble with these.' Afterwards my father would study the papers, but he never said anything. 
That was the end of my schooldays, apart for a few days when sixth form pupils went back. We did not do much. My mother expected me to go on to the sixth form college and resit my A-levels, but I knew there was no point. My contention was that she should take some of the blame for forcing me to study subjects which were unsuitable, Neither my father nor my teachers made any attempt to dissuade her. Considering that my future was at stake, their laxity was criminal. 
By this time my father was turning against me. When I went into the living room and he was there, he made some excuse and left. The reason for such behaviour is unclear. Perhaps he thought that I was taking my mother's side against him, but this is untrue. She hardly spoke to me after the examination results came, except to complain that I was lazy and that I could have done better if I wanted to. 
'You go your own way,' she said. 'You don't listen to me. Everything I've done for you and you throw it back in my face.' 
*
Everybody was sympathetic after the tragedy. Neighbours I had never spoken to before offered to help. I assured them that I should be quite all right. The investigators said that the paint my father stored under the stairs allowed the fire to take hold quickly. As both my parents took sleeping tablets, they were overcome by smoke in their sleep. For such a conscientious man, I am surprised that my father underinsured the house contents. I am afraid this is not unusual, though it is less of a problem now that policies are index linked. 
* 
Standing in the alley for so long made my legs go numb. I had to stamp my feet to get feeling back into them. The cold made me shiver, though I was well wrapped up and the temperature was normal for March. The weather forecast was clear on this point. The time was half past seven. I had been waiting for over an hour. I considered eating my wafer bar, but I was afraid that as soon as I took off the wrappings, Margaret would appear. I did not want to have to put it back in my pocket and get fluff on it. 
A rustling sound from an adjoining garden alarmed me. I did not know what it was until two eyes glinted in the darkness. The cat stared at me as though resenting my intrusion. We watched each other for at least half a minute before the eyes disappeared as suddenly as they had come. That pleased me. I was the equal of any cat, stalking my prey in the dark. Like a cat I could afford to play with my victim. Once I watched a cat in a neighbour's garden playing with a mouse, letting it almost escape before darting out a paw to pull it back. When the cat tired of the game it bit into the mouse's neck and then carried the body into the bushes in its mouth. I have always abhorred mice. When I take a room I look around the skirting boards for mouse holes. 
I jogged up and down to keep warm. Five minutes later a dog started barking in a garden close by. It went on and on. How an owner can put up with such a noise is incomprehensible, leaving aside the matter of consideration for neighbours. No wonder tempers become frayed. 
The noise almost made me miss the banging of Margaret's front door. As I peeped around the corner of the house beside me, I saw her going to the front gate. This was the signal for me to edge forward, crouching so I was concealed between the fences. This proved more difficult than I anticipated. As Margaret came near the end of the alley, I had only covered half the length of the front garden. I bend as low as possible and kept my head down. Her steps did not falter. When she had passed, there was no point in hiding any longer. I hastened after her. 
The barking of the dog was fortuitous. This and the noise of a passing car meant that she did not hear me until I was close. Then it was as though she sensed my presence. She turned. I could not be sure whether she was afraid or just surprised. We stopped walking. The car turned out of sight at the junction. Even the dog no longer barked. The quietness was extraordinary. 
'I thought I'd say hello as I was in the area,' I said. 
'What are you doing here?' Her tone was not welcoming as i expected. 
'Visiting a friend,' I told her. 
'I didn't know you had any friends around here.' 
'There wasn't much chance to tell you.' 
'True.' She looked ill at ease. 'Do you mind if we walk? I'm a bit late.' 
We walked side by side as we did on that first day. I was on the outside. 
'Bible study?' I asked. 
'You've got a good memory.' 
'You have to in my job. I didn't know whether you'd changed your routine.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Because of your beau.' 
'Why should that make me change?' She glanced at me suspiciously, though I should have thought my reasoning was obvious. We were beside the last alleyway before the junction. It was wide enough for a car and ran behind the houses on the adjoining road. The high fence along the back gardens made it an ideal place. 
'I think I'm going to be sick,' I said, crossing in front of her and going into the alley. Margaret hesitated before she followed. She had only to move a few steps to be out of the light from the street lamps. Unfortunately she did not come close like Fiona. This was difficult for me. Unless she was close, I could not hold her. When I leaned forward pretending to retch, she still hung back. 
'Can you lend me a tissue?' I asked. This was an inspiration on my part, because her attention was distracted as she fumbled in her bag. It gave me an excuse to move closer. Thank goodness she was small and easily overpowered. As I put one hand over her mouth and pulled her against me, her bag fell. A bottle of perfume must have broken, because the smell was overpowering. She began struggling immediately. This betrayed a lack of trust surprising in somebody who professed to be religious. From past experience I had counted on a few seconds of surprise when I could ensure she was held securely. To add to my difficulties, the pockets in my new raincoat were not in the same place as in the old one which meant that I could not find the knife immediately. While I fumbled with the flap on the pocket, I had to hold her with one hand which was difficult while she struggled so much. A searing pain went through my left leg as she kicked my shin. I do not know what shoes she was wearing, but the edge of her heel was sharp enough to break the skin, as I discovered later. This caused a loss of concentration on my part. Though it was only momentary, Margaret took the opportunity to pull free. I was able to stop her from escaping, but her scream was so loud that my ears started to buzz. Her reaction was disconcerting since none of the other girls had done this. Exposure to loud noises is dangerous, which is why I always avoid pneumatic drills and why I should never contemplate going to discotheques. This gave me an added impetus to stop her. 
I put in the knife just below her ribs, but this was an act of haste and without the pleasure I had looked forward to. Already a light had come on in a house across the road. There was only time to twist the knife and let her body fall. Then I ran through the alley without even making sure that she was dead. This was the moment when only my fleetness of foot could save me from being discovered. My experience of running through St James's Park after the fiasco with Janet should have taught me the importance of staying fit, but I had not overcome my dislike of strenuous activity. 
A footbridge took me over a railway. By this time my chest was heaving and my legs felt like jelly. I glanced back, but to my surprise nobody was following. Ahead was a modern building like an office block, ablaze with light. This turned out to be a hospital. I followed the path in front of it, expecting a policeman to block my way at any moment. A siren sounded nearby, but I think it came from an ambulance rather than from a police car. By this time my fatigue was such that running was impossible. 
Through a turning on the right was a busy road which I judged to be Colliers Wood High Street. Instinct told me that going this way would be dangerous. It was best to stay away from busy streets. Accordingly I plunged amongst the shabby houses beyond the hospital, knowing only the direction in which I was going. I walked as fast as I could, making sure that I crossed the road if anybody approached. Once I slipped into an alley when I heard a car coming behind me, but it was not a police car. Ahead were the yellow lights of another main road. This was not a shopping street. Terraces of shops were amongst houses, small factories and offices. There are plenty of roads like this on the fringes of London. During the day they are busy with traffic, though few people walk there. This one was well lit, but the traffic had gone. 
The sight of a bus stop raised my spirits, but left me with a dilemma. Should I wait for a bus, find the nearest tube station or continue on my way through the back streets? That was my choice. I had to make my decision in the knowledge that already the police might be hunting for me. How I cursed Margaret for screaming. As I stood on the corner trying to decide, I knew that each second's delay was increasing the risk of discovery. 
I waited in an alleyway till a bus came. It did not matter where it was going. My only wish was to get away from Colliers Wood. The thing about travelling on London buses is that they always pass a station. The bus which came eleven minutes later was going to London Bridge Station. As this is somewhere I know, circumstances could not have worked out better. 
The journey took a long while, snaking through council estates and past shopping centres. It gave me time to consider events more calmly. Unless Margaret's neighbours came out to see who had screamed, it might be several hours before her parents were aware that anything was wrong and still longer before her body was found. I examined my leg. Apart from the skin being broken, it was swollen and angry-looking. I hoped it would not get infected. That is always a risk when you cannot wash wounds straight away. 
I recognised London Bridge Station from my previous visits. Rather than boarding a bus to north London from the station forecourt, I walked to Southwark Bridge as a precaution and caught a bus from there. Before it came there was time to throw the gloves into the river. This was a pity considering they had only been worn once, but one had a trace of blood on it. Unfortunately I had no means of weighing them to ensure that they sank. 
At Archway I waited for another bus to take me home. On other occasions I might have walked, but I was tired and there was the risk of being recognised after what happened with Rachel. That final walk from the bus stop was a trial. I expected vigilantes to be looking for me. I felt physically sick. In spite of my troubles I had the presence of mind to look in the back yard before going in the house. Steve Jenkins' bike was not there, which raised my spirits. 
As soon as I got in and pulled the curtains, I washed my injured leg with hot water and disinfectant. The smell is reassuring. Once things are washed in antiseptic, you know the germ-killing power is working and that they are really clean. 
One of my mistakes is going to bring me down. I know that in my heart. I try to think of every eventuality, but there is always something which does not occur to me until afterwards. The other times I have been lucky, but what mistakes did I make in dealing with Margaret which tomorrow will have me groaning at my stupidity? Now the waiting begins. I think the police will come. Margaret's parents will give them my address. Her parents never liked me. Newspaper reports about police interrogations frighten me: the beatings and the forced confessions. All I hope is that such things do not happen to me if I am taken to the station for questioning. I cannot stand violence. The thought of it frightens me. 
The talk at the office is easy to imagine: 'Have you heard about Alan the pervert, Alan the killer?' Mr Wiggins will miss my efficiency. I can foresee problems which I should take in my stride causing chaos if people like Peter Sullivan try to deal with them. There is no evidence for the police to find here except for this account. As I have stated, I feel there needs to be a full and accurate record of events. It will be kept taped under the draining board of my sink unit. I shall consider what to do about it overnight. Perhaps it should be destroyed like the scrapbook, in spite of all the efforts I put into it. 
I sponged the mud off my trousers where Margaret kicked my leg. No other marks are left on my clothing. A worrying aspect is what Janet might tell the police. I should never have let her go. How could I have allowed panic to control me? It is a needless emotion which should not affect my reasoning. Having made such a mistake, I should have tracked her down and dealt with her as I did with Margaret. Here is the irony: in destroying everything incriminating, I have no record of her address! What a situation to create for myself. Perhaps if the police do not come tonight, I shall have the chance to trace her. I know her name, where she works and the area where she lives. To hunt her to death like an animal would be a challenge. I should enjoy that. And it is no more than she deserves. 
Emma has not been found yet. I do not like the thought of her body lying upstairs. It is unhygienic. Perhaps it will be possible to get into her room if time is allowed to me... But that is to deceive myself, like thinking I shall deal with Janet. I am sure the police will come. Meanwhile I shall lie here and dream. I never get beyond that stage. My acts of revenge are dreams. The girls I see everywhere: in the street, in buses, in the office. How dependent on them have I become for my pleasure, yet I despise myself for this reliance. Once I thought myself self-sufficient. Then I gave in to my emotions. Now my cravings have led me into a morass from which there is no escape. There is no dignity in base desire. I tell myself I must stop myself being ruled by such impulses. There can be no more killings. I shall go back to the life I had before, finding satisfaction in listening to the radio, in furthering my career prospects and in walking by myself at weekends. I have tried to make everything clear.