Psychopaths Ltd.
By
Ben Cheetham

I first met Jimmy Cullen at a party. He was off his head on whatever he’d gotten his hands on. He told me straight out that I shouldn’t believe a word he said. When I asked why not he grinned and said that he was a compulsive liar.

“I’ve seen more psychologists and psychiatrists than you’ve seen weekends,” he boasted. “The guy I’m seeing at the moment wants to put me in a book. He says I’m one of a kind.”

Uncertain how to respond to this, I said lamely, “Good party, isn’t it.”

Jimmy pulled a face as though he’d smelt something nasty. “I’ve seen more action in a graveyard.” Eyes twinkling, he leant in close. “Have you ever blown up a hamster?”

“Have you?”

“Sure. It’s easy. All you need is a microwave and a live hamster.”

I clicked my fingers. “Shit, I’m all out of hamsters.”

“No problem,” Jimmy motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen, “here’s one I prepared earlier.”

I laughed when I saw the hamster pressing its pink nose against the inside of the microwave door. “Where did that come from?”

“There’s a bunch of them in a hutch in the back garden. I reckon about five minutes on full power should do it.”

I looked at Jimmy doubtfully, trying to work out whether or not he was serious. No trace of a smile showed on his face as he said, “Go on then.”

I decided to call his bluff. “Five minutes, you say.” I twisted the dial. My finger hovered over the start button.

“What you waiting for? Do it quick before someone comes.”

I knew from the way Jimmy said it that he wasn’t joking. My adrenaline started pumping as for the first time I seriously considered cooking the hamster. I won’t deny that I was curious to see what would happen. Even so, I had a horrible feeling in my stomach as I pressed the button. A light came on inside the microwave and the hamster started to turn round and round. I half-expected Jimmy to snatch open the oven door but instead he took out a video-phone and focused it on the hamster. After a few seconds the poor creature started squeaking and scratching at the walls. Its agitation increased as steam rose from its fur.

“Here it comes,” Jimmy said excitedly. I watched through narrowed eyes, ready to turn away quickly like a kid at a scary movie.

A sudden scream made me jump. “What are you doing to Henry?” cried a young girl, rushing between me and Jimmy and wrenching open the microwave door. Finding that the hamster was too hot to handle, she squealed and dropped it. “Henry, come back!” she wailed as it scuttled away.

Jimmy tugged at my arm. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”

We ran out of the house and hopped over some railings into a graveyard at the end of the street. “Man, that’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen,” laughed Jimmy as he watched some grainy footage of the hamster being cooked. “I could sell this for a fortune.”

“Do you think the hamster’ll die?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Who cares?” Squinting at the phone, he went on, “Look, you can see its brains bubbling out of its ears. Jesus, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“But you said you’d blown up loads of hamsters.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah you did.” I suddenly felt like I’d been tricked.

“Maybe I did. So what?”

“You lying fucker!”

“C’mon Ryan, don’t be like that,” Jimmy called as I stormed off, “I told you not to believe a word I said.” ***

The second time I encountered Jimmy Cullen I was delivering flyers for my dad’s landscaping business in a neighbourhood where most of the houses are hidden away behind high brick walls. I was cycling along with one eye on the rain-clouds gathering overhead when I saw a Doberman Pinscher running toward me. I put on a burst of speed but the dog quickly caught me up. It went for my arm but only succeeded in ripping my coat. I jumped off my bike, trying to keep the frame between me and the dog. As it sprang at me again I threw my bike on its head and sprinted away while it disentangled itself from the frame.

A glance over my shoulder showed me that the dog was in hot pursuit. I desperately scanned my surroundings for a means of escape. It was then that I saw Jimmy Cullen standing by a wrought-iron gate.

“Over here, Ryan,” he shouted. I put my head down and pumped my arms as hard as I could, expecting to feel the dog’s teeth sinking into my flesh at any moment. I flung myself through the open gate and Jimmy slammed it shut. He sprang back as the dog pushed its muzzle between the bars barking fiercely.

“You alright?” he asked.

“I think so,” I gasped. I took Jimmy’s hand and he pulled me to my feet. “Look what it’s done to my coat. I only bought this last week.”

“Screw your coat. You’re lucky the bitch didn’t tear your arm off.”

The dog had stopped barking. It rolled its eyes at me, tongue lolling and head nodding as though it was laughing. I snatched up a stone and flung it with all my strength, scoring a direct hit on the end of the animal’s muzzle. I whooped triumphantly as it yelped and backed away.

“Nice shot,” Jimmy said.

“Thanks for helping me out.”

“No problem.” Jimmy looked at me thoughtfully. “Do you want to come into the house?”

“What about my bike?”

Jimmy glanced at the dog loitering with intent just out of range of my throwing arm. “I wouldn’t go back out there for a while if I were you.”

I followed him up the driveway. I don’t know what his parents do, but they must earn a stack of money because the house looked like something off the cover of a glossy magazine.

“That sodding dog shouldn’t even be alive,” Jimmy said bitterly. He pulled up a trouser leg, revealing a blue-white scar. “It did that a couple of years ago. I was on crutches for months.”

“How come it didn’t get put down?”

“Because it belongs to my father.” It was obvious from Jimmy’s voice that there was no love lost between him and his dad.

It struck me that perhaps Jimmy’s appearance hadn’t been simply a lucky coincidence. “How did it get loose?” I asked suspiciously.

Jimmy shrugged. “It’s always escaping.”

I glanced about nervously. “It can’t get in here, can it?”

Jimmy shook his head. “So do you want to help me?”

“Help you what?”

“Kill the dog, of course.”

I knew enough about Jimmy by now to treat this remark seriously. “Why would I want to help you kill your own dog?”

“For starters, because it would’ve done you some serious damage if it’d got its teeth into you. It’s only a matter of time before it mauls some poor kid. We’d be doing everyone a favour by getting rid of it.”

“Say I decide to help you, how would we kill it?” I asked noncommittally. I won’t deny that I was attracted to the idea of getting revenge on the dog, but my instincts warned me to be on my guard.

Jimmy grinned. “Come and have a look at this.”

He led me to a room cluttered with figurines, vases, chairs, chests of drawers and countless other items that were obviously valuable antiques. Mixed in among these were objects that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a junk shop.

“Where did all this stuff come from?” I asked.

“A couple of years back my mother decided she wanted to be an antiques dealer, so she bought all this stuff from auctions.”

“How come she hasn’t sold it?”

“She got bored of it.” Jimmy took a knife with a black blade and a wooden handle out of a box. “This is a jungle survival knife from World War Two. Here, feel its weight.”

I took the knife and thumbed its blade. “I wonder if it’s seen any action.”

“Do you like it? You can have it if you want.”

I looked at Jimmy doubtfully. “Why?”

“Why not? It’s only gathering dust lying around here.” Jimmy rooted through the box. “There’s a sheath to go with it somewhere.” He straightened, proffering a leather sheath to me.

“Hang on,” I said, hesitating as I reached for it. “You don’t expect me to use this knife on the dog, do you?”

Jimmy laughed. “You’ve got to be joking, you wouldn’t last ten seconds against her with that.” He opened another box and took out something that looked like a medieval torture device.

“What is it?”

“A mantrap. Gamekeepers used to use these to catch poachers.” Jimmy placed the device on the carpet and pulled apart its spring-loaded steel teeth. “Watch this.” He took a thick wooden walking-stick from a rack and, placing its tip on the pressure-pad at the device’s centre, pushed down. The teeth snapped shut, breaking the stick in two.

“Imagine what it’ll do to the dog’s neck.” Jimmy rubbed his hands together gleefully at the prospect.

“I’m not sure about this.” My hesitation had nothing to do with concern for the dog’s welfare, I just couldn’t bring myself to trust Jimmy.

“But you said you’d help me out,” Jimmy said sulkily. “I helped you, didn’t I?”

“I know, but...”

“Fine, just put the knife back and get out of the house.”

I looked at the knife, wondering how much I could get for it at the local market. I figured it had to be worth at least the price of a new coat. “Alright, I’ll help you.”

Jimmy’s grin returned. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Ryan.”

“When do you want to do it?”

“There’s no time like the present.”

“What about your parents?”

“My father works away during the week and my mother’s in bed with one of her migraines.”

We carried the mantrap to a spot in the garden where a hedge of firs screened us from the house. Jimmy produced a lump of blue cheese. “She loves this stuff,” he explained, carefully placing it on the pressure pad. He pointed to a treehouse. “We’ll watch from there.”

We’d been in the treehouse about twenty minutes when the dog appeared. Trembling like an overexcited child, Jimmy held his phone in readiness to film what was about to happen. The instant the dog put its nose to the cheese the steel jaws snapped together, biting into its flanks. The dog jumped about five feet into the air, letting out a high pitched yelp. It staggered around briefly before collapsing.

We descended to the lawn and approached the dog cautiously. It was obvious at once that it was fatally wounded. Its muzzle was flecked with froth and its breathing was laboured. Blood oozed out from around the steel teeth buried in its flesh. It rolled its eyes at us as if begging to be put out of its misery.

“Finish it,” Jimmy said.

“You do it.”

Jimmy shook his head. “I can’t.”

I unsheathed the knife and stabbed the dog several times. When I was sure it was dead, I wiped the knife clean on the grass. “What now?”

“We bury it.”

We carried the dog to a wood at the bottom of the garden. Jimmy fetched a couple of spades and we dug a hole and dumped the dog in it. It started to rain as we shoveled earth into the hole.

“You’d better finish delivering your flyers,” said Jimmy.

“What are you going to say to your parents if they ask about the dog?”

“Nothing. Like I said, it’s always escaping.”

Pulling up my hood, I hurried back to my bike. The knife dug into my hip as I cycled away from Jimmy Cullen’s house. ***

One week later I had my third and final encounter with Jimmy Cullen. He rang me at home and said that he wanted to meet up. When I asked why he said that he had something important to tell me. He suggested we meet in the graveyard where we’d ended up on the night of the party.

Before leaving the house I put the jungle survival knife - which I hadn’t been able to bring myself to part with - in my pocket. Half an hour later I sat with my back against a gravestone, squinting up at Jimmy’s arrogantly self-assured face.

“I’ve got some bad news,” he said. “My father got hold of my phone and saw the video of you killing the dog.”

I jumped to my feet. “How did that happen?”

“He went through my stuff when I was out.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t trust me.”

“What’s he gonna do?”

“He’s threatening to go to the police unless I tell him who you are.”

I looked at Jimmy uncertainly. “You’re not going to tell him are you?”

Jimmy sighed. “I don’t want to, but...”

“But what?”

“What choice do I have? If he goes to the police, I’ll be in it up to my neck.”

“You fucker!” I clenched my fists.

Jimmy held up his hands, palms toward me. “Take it easy, I’ve got a plan. All we need to do is steal the phone back.”

“How are we gonna do that?”

“Easy.” Jimmy handed me a scrap of paper with a series of numbers jotted on it.

“What’s this?”

“The combination to my father’s safe. That’s where my phone is.”

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“Because you’ll need it when you break into the house tonight.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“There’s been a spate of burglaries in our area recently, so no one will suspect-”

“Are you deaf?” I stabbed my finger at Jimmy. “I said no way.”

“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here. My father’s an extremely vindictive man.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your father’s landscaping business hasn’t been doing too well lately.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he recently took out a large loan from my father’s company.”

“You’re lying!”

Jimmy shook his head. “Not this time.”

My fingers twitched at the handle of the survival knife. Jimmy must have seen the violent intent in my eyes, because he took a step backwards. “I’m sorry, Ryan,” he said unconvincingly, “I didn’t want it to come to this.”

I imagined sinking the knife into Jimmy’s belly as, with a trace of smugness in his voice, he went on, “I’ll leave a window open at the back of the house. The alarm won’t be on.”

“What about your parents?”

“There’s no need to worry about them. My mother’s usually so smashed by bedtime that she needs carrying upstairs and my father’s so stressed at the moment that he can’t get to sleep without a pill. You’ll have to make it look like a proper burglary. My father always keeps a few thousand pounds in the house, just in case of emergency. And then there’s the silver...”

“If I do this, how do I know you won’t give my name to your dad anyway?”

Jimmy smiled slyly. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

We talked for a while about the location of the safe and some valuables Jimmy wanted me to steal. We agreed to meet in the same place the following night and divide the loot. Jimmy reckoned a seventy-thirty split in his favour was fair.

“Where’ll you be when I break in?” I asked.

“In bed, of course.” Jimmy turned to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I made no reply.

Back at home I selected two pieces of wood from a pile of off-cuts in my dad’s workshop. I packed these along with a pair of gloves, a torch and several other items into a rucksack. At midnight I made my way to Jimmy’s house, taking care not to be seen by anybody. The window was off the latch, just as Jimmy had said it would be. I squirmed through it and stood still for a moment, listening. The house was silent. I switched on my torch and padded upstairs.

Jimmy had told me which bedrooms he and his parents slept in so there was no chance of me stumbling into them by mistake. I stopped outside these rooms and, quietly as I could, wedged the bits of wood tightly under the doors - I’d noticed on my previous visit that all the doors opened outward. Then I went into a room at the end of the hallway and pushed aside some clothes in a closet to reveal a safe. Inside the safe were some papers, a lot of cash and the mobile phone. I pocketed the phone and cash and crept back downstairs to the room where Jimmy’s mum stored her antiques.

I took a canister out of my rucksack and sluiced petrol over the boxes and furniture. Then I held a lighter to the bottom corner of a curtain. The flames took hold with astonishing speed.

Before leaving, almost as an afterthought, I took the survival knife out of my pocket and tossed it into the fire.

On the way home I stopped by the graveyard and hid the cash in the base of a tomb. I flinched when Jimmy’s phone started to vibrate. The word ‘home’ flashed up on its screen. I dropped the phone, stamped on it and kicked the bits of shattered plastic into a bush. A spot of rain touched my face as I left the graveyard. I glanced at the sky, hoping that the rain would hold off for an hour at least.

^{Return toHome Page
Literary Fiction, Noir, Pulp Fiction, Short Stories}