Urdu

Staring at Jonny through his kitchen window is a worrying sight.

He is wearing only his pants.

He is watching the cricket.

He is chortling at the intense physical pain another human being is experiencing after being struck in the testicles with a very hard ball.

He is tuned to the Urdu channel.

I am acutely disturbed by the pants. The pants are, in themselves, disturbing. But, sporting as they are one Jonny Billericay, they are doubly so.

I am disturbed that he seems to be enjoying cricket. Surely only half-crazed lunatics actually enjoy cricket.

The fact he is taking pleasure in the torture of a fellow human should not come as a surprise. Yet disturbed I remain.

But most of all, I am disturbed by the apparent ease with which he is understanding the commentary. I had previously thought that Jonny had been radicalised after a Western upbringing. Now I may have to reassess this view - perhaps he was born and raised in the developing world, and has since contracted some kind of weird skin pigmentation disease, like Michael Jackson.

Quid Pro Quo

From the chatter that we have to wade through on a daily basis, I get wind of a possible attack. Maybe I'm feeling paranoid today, but my gut tells me that Jonny B is going to be involved.

I think back to anti-terrorism 101, the heart of which seemed to be:

1) Don't shoot anyone unless you are really, really sure they are almost definately a terrorist.
2) If you have to shoot someone, try and do it in a third-world country, as you can get away with practically anything there.
3) Don't let the target get near a large crowd.

So I make a pre-emptive strike, and get the agency to arrange a little "accident" for Jonny's car.

A little while later, I'm coming back from the shops when I'm rear-ended by a white van. Coincidence? Or retribution?

Middle Ages

An air of depression hangs over our houses.

My 40th birthday has come and gone. Being forty is no fun at all. It's bad enough in the months leading up to being forty. It occupies your thoughts, clouds your judgements, pops into your head as you're trying to be charming to sales assistants. But the time after being 40 is the worst. You realise that life hasn't come to an end, that you have more of the same old shit to deal with, that with every day that goes by you're just another step closer to 50. Half a century.

Jonny has kept a low profile for a spell. The LTLP has been ordering him around - she at least has bounced back well from her near-death experience. Some months have passed since the bodged attempt on her life. Jonny has been unwell. Whether he has been simply feigning sickness, or whether he has actually been ill, I do not know.

Tonight I found him in his bathroom covered in his own puke. He was half-crazed on mesc or crack or whatever it is the cool kids are taking these days. Was this an attempt on his own life? Again, I neither know nor care. I stood over him, one part of me in disgust at what has become of him. But there was another part, a not insignificant part, that just wanted to lay down next to him, close my eyes, and swallow the bottle of pills that were on the sink.

I am at a low.

I strip Jonny naked and hose him down in the shower. Then I pull him into the bedroom and lift him onto the bed. I think he might just get through this one.

Me?

I'm not so sure.

Jonny and the Foreigner

Len the Fish, Jonny B and I sit in the village pub. It's early, seven o'clock or so, and I'm beginning to suspect we may be here for the duration. Jonny is in one of his moods, and Len isn't helping by using filthy language and talking about sex with farmyard animals. Why do I put up with these fools?

“Excuse me yes, I am looking for ze pigfarm?”

It is obvious from the accent that this man is not foreign. His accent is a poor imitation of what an English person thinks a foreigner sounds like. I detect a subtle undertone of West Country in his voice. Bristol, maybe.

“I am looking for ze pigfarm? Apparently it is near here?”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Jonny stiffen in his seat. Clearly this is some kind of codeword. Perhaps the sleeper cell has just been awakened. The faux-foreigner circulates around the pub, reaches Jonny B and states,

"Ze meeting with the unnamed pig-man may be under the full moon tonight, eh comrade!"

I am shocked by the audacity of this man. I plant a small tracking device in his jacket pocket. Later, I track him down to a farm just outside of the village. I creep up on him and drag him into a deserted barn. Under heavy questioning the guy will not crack. I break near every bone in his body and he still keeps up the ridiculous accent.

He begs for his life until he can beg no more.

Hitman

Despite the electrocution, the ladder-abuse, the stair collapse, and the LPs, I didn't really think Jonny had it in him. I didn't think he was capable of murder.

In the end, maybe he wasn't. He bottled it and got the professionals in. This man is such a low-life that ants look down on him. I am disgusted.

I pull in a few favours and discover that the police have Lenina Crowne in custody. My respect for Jonny increases somewhat, at least he's spared no expense getting the top assassin in Europe to front the job. A little old lady on the outside, a cold-hearted butcher on the inside. This woman is responsible for more deaths in Europe than any other paid contractor - Wimpey Homes included.

Yet the LTLP has been lucky. A badly broken leg is the worst of the physical injuries. Mentally though, I'm not so sure. She looks like a broken woman. Who wouldn't be, living with that monster.

Laddered

For the third time in a month, the LTLP arrives at my door with horrible wounds.

This time he has gone at her with a ladder.

Three days ago, he brutalised her with an old box of LPs. If you're going to get viciously assualted, you'd probably rather it wasn't with old Pretenders albums. That time there was no lasting damage, this time she has a large welt on her forehead, like someone has implanted a golf ball halfway into her skull.

Again it falls to me to calm her down. She talks about going to the police, of leaving this place and Jonny Billericay behind. I tell her she has to stay, to give him a chance, he's not all that bad. I fear she's the last connection Jonny has to the real world, and without her his fragile sanity will snap.

Like a cornflake. Snap.

She says that she knows I'm right. He's not that bad, she says. Just more and more psychotic. We kiss, a long kiss, a good kiss, and part once more.

High voltage

It is late, past midnight, and I pace the house, alone with my thoughts. There is a tap at the back door. The LTLP is in tears. We haven't spoken for a few days, deciding to keep our distance after our joint fall from grace. I comfort her sobs as best I can and usher her into the kitchen. After several moments, she stops crying just long enough to tell me what has happened.

"He has tried...to...electrocute me," she says. "The sink...live...20,000 volts."

It is then she shows me her palms. They are red-raw.

I dress her wounds as gently as I can.