The Pure

he carried it everywhere now – and aimed it at the bathroom door. He imagined killing the girl, walking calmly into her room and shooting her the way he’d been taught, six times in the body followed by a single shot to the temple. He knew exactly what he would do then, how he would set up the murder scene, remove fingerprints, make a swift and anonymous escape, avoid witnesses, evade detection and capture. It would be easy – an easy thing to do. It would be simple.
    ‘Uzi.’
    ‘You again.’
    ‘This is dangerous, Uzi. You’re losing your grip.’
    ‘Maybe I am. But a voice in my head isn’t helping.’
    ‘You’re better than this.’
    ‘Than what?’
    ‘Stay focused. Remember who you are.’
    Uzi opened up the Glock and emptied all the bullets into his hand. Then he placed them in the pocket of his jacket – he was still wearing his jacket – and concealed his gun again. Weird, he thought. Weird what things can do to a man.
    He left the bathroom and saw Gal sitting on the end of her bed, her back to him, hunched over her computer. Facebook. Her neck – something about her neck. So tender. He suddenly felt as if a hole was opening in the centre of his chest, and he was filled with an overwhelming feeling of affection for the girl, love streaming out of him. She was only a little older than Noam, he guessed; Noam his son, Noam who he knew he would no longer be able to recognise. He walked quietly up behind her and stretched out his hand. It hovered just above her shoulder for a second, two seconds, three, four, and then dropped back down to his side. He sat down heavily on the bed, and she yelped with alarm.
    ‘Shit, you scared me, Daniel.’
    ‘What am I doing here?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘What the fuck am I doing here? What am I doing?’
    ‘Take it easy.’ She finished what she was doing, slid over next to him and put her arm across his shoulders. ‘Like I said, you’re hurting. I’ve seen it before. You’re carrying a burden. Plus you’re stoned.’ She took his calloused hands in both of hers and began to kiss them, slowly, each finger, each joint, one by one. He stared at her, this girl, this child, kissing his hand. He stared at her and did not know what to feel.
    His phone went off. He pulled his hand away and answered it. Gal drew back and lit a cigarette.
    ‘Hello?’ he said, moving out of earshot.
    ‘Tommy?’
    ‘Squeal? Is that you?’
    ‘Tommy, listen to me.’
    ‘Speak up, I can hardly hear you.’
    ‘There are people in your apartment. I can hear them.’
    ‘What? Which people?’
    The line went dead.

 
17
    Uzi stopped the taxi two blocks from his building and stepped into the clammy chill of the autumn darkness. It was a normal night, like any other. The buses groaning through the streets, the graffiti on the bus stops, the people, drunk, veering across pavements. He approached his apartment on foot, sticking to the shadows. From the outside, nothing looked out of the ordinary. No lights were on, there was no sign of disturbance. He phoned Squeal again, and still there was no answer. He cracked his knuckles and put an unlit cigarette between his lips. All his senses were alert.
    The only way to approach his flat was up the main stairs and through the front door. That was why he had chosen it. It was easy to escape from the window, being only on the second floor, but difficult to break into from the outside. He walked up to the entrance of his building and slipped in as a neighbour went out. The foyer had a motion-sensitive light which cast a faltering neon glow over the stairwell. He found the fusebox under the stairs; when the lights went out, he disabled them so that his arrival would go unnoticed. Then, in the dark, he loaded his Glock and stowed it in his jacket pocket. As quietly as he could, he ascended, chewing his unlit cigarette.
    Uzi’s mind felt clear and alert, and his breathing was barely audible. A white-hot rage was brewing in him, streamlining his focus, giving him strength. On the first floor he could smell home cooking, and hear the clatter of pans, the alternating rhythm of voices. He was about to go up to the floor above when there was a noise from below. The click of a door. The wind? He took his Glock out of his pocket and listened. For a few seconds, nothing. Then the sound of somebody creeping up the stairs towards him.
    Uzi took up a position in a doorway and transferred his gun to his left hand, aiming it into the blackness above the stairs.