He looked at me, and frowned. ‘You’re a bitch, you know that?’ he said, over-enunciating like all drunks do.
‘I do know that, yes,’ I said, as I turned to go. ‘But that’s what you really want, Lee. Isn’t it?’
I left the bar and called a taxi. He’d call me. Now I just had to make the final preparations.
*
Prep work for killing someone is an odd thing. I wish there was an online group where you could share tips and offer up advice to newbies, telling you which gloves are the most practical and weigh in on whether a shove down the stairs is an effective way to take a life. Mumsnet, but for murders. Actually, I assume there is something like this on the Dark Web somewhere, but I’m not going to seek it out. It’s a lonely business, and it involves a lot of waiting around and a fair bit of trial and error.
For Lee, I had two things to do. The first part I’d ticked off already – a visit to the Mile End establishment where he’d be shuffling off this mortal coil. Having seen the place, I almost think his family would be more ashamed that he died in Mile End than that he died of auto-asphyxiation. The venue was off the main stretch of road, below a bridge, the door almost hidden in the arches. There was no glamorous girl with a clipboard here, just two slightly grim-faced men behind a screen, who demanded twenty quid, took my phone and pointed to a staircase which led down below ground. But my God, it was perfect. The place was dark, with sticky floors and no windows. Bodies packed together, loud thumping music almost deafening the moans which came at me from all angles. There was no polite drinking area where you could gingerly inch yourself into the depravity, this place was teeming with people in various states of undress. And they were going for it with really joyous abandon. And it was sort of glorious actually. People of all shapes and sizes writhing around, as though it were a huge Bacchanal orgy and not taking place in a former railway warehouse. I picked my way through the throng, bracing for a stray hand or embrace, but was pleasantly surprised at how well enforced the rules of consent were. I wasn’t interested but it’s always nice to be asked before the fact.
As with the other clubs I’d been to, there were doorways off the main room, and I’d checked out every single one to size up suitability. Most of them were small and airless, with rudimentary furnishings and different themes. One room was lined with black rubber. One had a huge swing in the middle which was having its weight limit tested by four energetic bodies. But these rooms were gentle and that was no use to me. On and on I went. Further away from the main area, the people thinned out. And then I found the right place. A door painted glossy black took me into a room which looked like an old storage cupboard. There were big silver hooks attached to the brick wall, with ropes attached to each of them. Looking directly at it, I could see more clearly that they were arranged in the shape of a person, with one further hook dangling promisingly from the ceiling. A metal chair was propped up against one wall. I sat down and looked at the room for some time. Since cameras were not allowed in the club, I had to memorise the set-up for later. The chair was integral to the plan, and I could only hope that nobody removed it. Having to go and look around for another one would surely ruin the mood for Lee somewhat.
Someone pushed the door a fraction, and I spoke sternly. ‘This is a private session.’ The door closed. People were so wonderfully polite at this free for all. Such a typically British respect for the rules. It wouldn’t matter too much if we were disturbed since it would look very much like a typical kink session, but I hoped we’d be lucky.
The second thing I had to do was practise. Practice makes perfect after all.
From careful perusal of an old tome called 25 Knots You Need to Know – discovered by happy coincidence when browsing a second-hand bookshop one day – I learnt that the more knots you tie in a rope, the more you weaken it. So you need one strong knot. God help me, I found this fascinating. I decided that the most suitable knot for me was the scaffold knot. I don’t think I need to elaborate on where the tie got its name. This looked like a fairly complicated noose, and my explanation of it will surely be insufficient, but from memory, it went something like this: you form a loop with the rope, wrapping one end through the loop several times before bringing it back to meet its twin. It involved three loops, loosely woven and then pulled tight when finished. I had to practise this many times to get it perfect, because it had to be constructed after it was attached to the hook. I spent an entire Sunday working to get this right, and it took hours of frustration before I finally did it correctly in one go. Even then it had taken me over three minutes of concentration. I wouldn’t have three minutes on the day, it would look far too sinister, even for a man who was a willing participant. Within another hour, I’d got the time down to forty-five seconds, which I felt was acceptable.