Happy Now

by Charlie Higson

Genres: Humor & Satire; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

I do not believe that a man can be truly happy unless he fully understands what he is and can act accordingly ... how can it be wrong to be happy?'
These lines are taken from Will's diary, a seemingly innocuous exercise book which details his house-breaking activities. Will carefully selects houses - forty-seven so far - ensuring their owners will be in. As they cook their supper or watch television, Will (wearing surgical gloves and leaving no trace behind) enters not only their houses, but their secret lives. A secret museum, housed in his loft, is 'held together by sex'. All his trophies are carefully catalogued and he keeps a very precise diary of his activities and his thoughts.
All his life Tom Kendall had lived as quietly and normally as possible ... but he gave people the creeps ... 'kids didn't like him, or the cat'. When Tom discovers Will's diary he decides to adopt the same quest for happiness. Tom has problems of his own - a difficult temper, problems with his girlfriend, Maddie, and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. Perhaps Will's diary holds the key?

Release date: September 17, 2015

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Tom Kendall was woken by the sounds of a cat killing the family of blackbirds which had nested in the creeper outside his bedroom window. The same thing had happened last year. He recognized the furtive rustling of the otherwise silent cat, then the sudden scurry as it attacked. Last time he’d gone out to try and stop it, but he’d been too late; they were all dead before he got there. This time he just lay still and hoped the panicked cheeping of the birds would soon be over.

He looked at his watch; it was half past eight, early for a Saturday. He’d wanted a lie-in, but he knew there was no point in trying to get back to sleep now, no matter how tired he felt. And he did feel tired. But then whatever time he woke he always felt this way.

He never dreamed. In fact it felt like there was no time at all between going to sleep and waking. It was like flicking a switch. One moment he’d be in bed and it would be dark, and the next moment he’d be in bed and it would be light, with nothing in between. He always woke disoriented, as if a piece of time had been stolen from him. And always tired. His body felt heavy and sluggish, worse than when he’d gone to bed. He’d been to see Dr Anthony about it, and he’d said it was perhaps a symptom of depression. But Tom told him that it’d been like this for as long as he could remember, and surely he hadn’t been depressed all his life. So they both supposed he’d just have to live with it.

He got out of bed and straightened the duvet. Why leave making the bed till later? If you had a routine, everything became simpler; you saved so much time and energy.

The next thing to do was shower. The hot water falling on his neck helped to clear his head and he could start to get his thoughts together; plan out the day ahead. He hadn’t meant to get to work until mid-day, but now he was up he might as well go in earlier. He didn’t really need to go in at all, if the truth be told – once the presses were up and running there was little he could do – but it was a habit he’d got into. In the past he’d often spent all weekend there. He’d had a small bedroom and bathroom built behind his office; he found it relaxing lying in the narrow single bed listening to the rhythmic pounding and churning of the big machines. He was no longer closely involved on a physical level, but he liked to be there. And when it came down to it, he didn’t actually have anything else to do.

After his shower he dressed in a lightweight casual suit and plain shirt and tie and had breakfast in his kitchen. He had his own muesli mix, which he remade every month, a cup of coffee, half a grapefruit and two slices of toast. Then he rinsed the plates, the cutlery, his mug and glass and put them all in the washing-up machine. Finally he checked that everything was in its place, then wiped the surfaces to get rid of a few crumbs. It was good to come into the kitchen and find it exactly the same every time. His whole flat was like that. Clean and efficient. He was very happy here, though sometimes he’d panic and feel that things weren’t right, that his home lacked the personal touch. Then he’d go into Greenwich and try to find a painting or an ornament of some kind, but whatever he bought looked wrong, and after a few days’ agony he’d remove it. Then peace would return. Why shouldn’t he like it like this? He was responsible to no one. He could live exactly how he liked.

Satisfied that all was in order, he went through to his study and sat down at his pride and joy, a Yamaha home organ. He switched it on and doodled for a while. He’d bought the organ several years ago, and since then miniaturization and computerization had taken over. Nowadays a tiny keyboard with two buttons on it could reproduce the sounds of an entire orchestra. But Tom wasn’t interested. His Yamaha was big and solid, with rows of proper stops, foot pedals, two banked keyboards (for right and left hand), and a built-in speaker. He could entertain himself for hours on it, and he found it the ideal way to clear his mind before a busy day. He sometimes composed his own songs, silly little love songs mostly, and had considered making a recording of some of them and sending them to a publisher, but he knew he never would. They were for his own private amusement.

This morning he felt like playing something from a book, so he opened the stool and sorted through his pile of music until he came to 101 Folk Songs from around the World. He set it up on the stand and flipped the pages. ‘La Cucaracha’ caught his eye. Yes, that was a jolly tune. Three-four it said, so he set the internal rhythm to a jaunty waltz time. The synthetic drums popped and hissed. He switched on the autoplay for his left hand, then pulled out some brass stops for the right hand, with lots of trumpets. A couple of slight adjustments and he was ready. The chords were easy to follow, there were only two or three, and he soon had the hang of it. Second time through he felt confident enough to sing along, even though there were some unfamiliar Mexican words to contend with.

He sat there singing away for about ten minutes, round and round, filling in with the odd keyboard solo. These times of the day were his happiest, singing to himself with not a thought in the world.

Suitably refreshed, he turned off the power, returned the music to the stool, had one last look round to check that everything was in its place, then left the flat and locked up.

It was a bright but overcast day, the sky an even, pale grey. As he came down the wide stone steps to where his car was parked on the gravel forecourt, he looked beneath the creeper and saw a small baby bird lying still among the stones. He went to inspect it. It was naked and pink; a few leathery feather-tips had started to grow and it had huge purple-lidded eyes. It looked like a little monster, one of those rubber toys children were so fond of. He carefully picked it up by a soft transparent foot and took it over to the dustbins. When he got there he heard something fluttering and saw that there was another bird hiding between the bins and the low dividing wall. It was the mother, brown and drab-looking. It hopped and scuffled away from him but couldn’t fly. One of its wings was broken.

‘Come here,’ he said gently, leaning down to try and grab it. ‘I won’t hurt you. Come on.’

It leapt away from him, colliding with the wall. He made a lunge for it and took hold of its good wing. Then he carefully cradled it between his hands. It was unexpectedly light and its heart was beating wildly, a hundred times faster than a human heart. The broken wing was bleeding; it looked beyond repair. One of its eyes was missing as well, and the left claw was twisted at a funny angle.

‘What have you got there?’

Tom looked up to see Fiona, the girl from the flat upstairs, coming out of the front door with her bicycle.

‘Blackbird. The cat got it.’

‘Poor thing.’

He didn’t really know Fiona. They sometimes met in the hallway, or out here, and exchanged pleasantries, but he was happy that she mostly kept herself to herself.

‘What are you going to do with it?’ she asked, wheeling her bike over to him.

‘It’s beyond help, unfortunately. The kindest thing would be to destroy it.’

‘Oh.’ Fiona grimaced. ‘Do you have to take it to the vet for that sort of thing?’

‘No. It’s all right. I know how to do it. I can do it without causing any pain.’

Fiona frowned. ‘Eeugh. I don’t think I want to watch.’ She got on her bike. ‘See you, then.’ She smiled and cycled off up the road.

Tom looked at the bird. It had gone into shock and was sitting very still in his hands, as if hypnotized. He took hold of its neck just behind the head and gave a quick firm snap. He barely felt it. He opened the bin, undid the top of the black bin bag inside and dropped the two birds into it. Then he refastened the bag and replaced the bin lid.

He had to go back in to wash his hands now, which he did meticulously in a rehearsed pattern. Then he wiped the sink, straightened the towel and once again left the flat.

The drive from Blackheath to the printworks in New Cross took about ten minutes on a Saturday, and as he drove westwards the surroundings grew more and more shabby and seedy. It was surprising how quickly elegant Greenwich and the Heath gave way to run-down Deptford and New Cross. The streets were dirtier, the buildings neglected, the people noticeably poorer-looking.

Whenever Tom told someone about his circumstances, they invariably said how nice it must be to live on the Heath and how miserable to work in somewhere like New Cross. But it made no difference to him, he hardly noticed. As a matter of fact, the first time it had been said to him he’d been amazed. He’d never really thought about it. He’d bought the flat because it was large and light and handy for work. He’d never really considered that living in this area might be desirable. If there’d been a similar flat nearer to work, he’d have taken that. Once he was shut away inside he forgot what was outside, he forgot the rest of the world. Sleeping in the little room at work, sleeping in the flat, it was all the same to him.

He was always pleased to see the familiar old-fashioned sign for ‘Kendallprint’ stuck high up on the concrete factory building. It had a feeling of permanence. For nearly twenty years he’d been coming here, while countless other businesses in the area had appeared and disappeared. At the moment there was a retail-fashion warehouse on one side and a laminating workshop on the other. But Kendallprint was always the same.

Except today.

As Tom pulled off the road into the car park, he noticed an unfamiliar car parked there. Frowning, he got out to investigate.

A flabby-looking man with a T-shirt and long, lank hair was getting out of the strange car with an equally flabby-looking wife and two fat children.

‘Are you here for the printworks?’ Tom said, smiling, but even as he said it he could see that they weren’t. ‘Actually, I’m sorry,’ he said going over to them. ‘This is a private car park …’ He indicated the building. ‘For the printworks.’

The flabby man stared at him blankly, as if he’d been speaking Chinese.

‘Yes … It’s not a public car park, I’m afraid.’

‘We’re parked now,’ said the man, locking his door.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to move.’

‘What difference does it make?’ the man said.

Tom took a deep breath and spoke slowly. ‘The fact is,’ he said, ‘this is private property.’

‘So what? What difference does it make? We’ll only be half an hour.’ The man looked to his wife and gave her an expression that said, ‘Who is this wanker?’ The woman shook her head and unfolded a baby carriage for one of her fat children.

‘No, please. I don’t want to make a scene …’

‘Then don’t.’ The man stared at him, daring him to push it further.

Tom felt his hands sweating. He knew he should just walk away, but it annoyed him too much. He knew he’d start to get angry if he took this any further, but it was an important matter. People had to understand that they couldn’t just come in here, willy-nilly, and use the company car park. It wasn’t on.

The fat family began to move towards him. But he was blocking their way out of the car park.

‘You really will have to move your car, you know,’ he said, his voice sounding small and strained.

‘Oh, come on, mate,’ the man said wearily. ‘We’re going shopping. We’ll be half an hour at the most. The car park’s empty. We’re not in anyone’s way …’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Then what is the point?’

‘The point is, this is a private car park.’

The man snorted. ‘But there’s nobody using it.’

‘Will you just listen to me for one moment, you stupid …’ Tom stopped himself. This wasn’t the way to go about it. He mustn’t lose his temper. He blushed. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

The whole family was looking at him now, as if he were some disgusting insect.

Tom put a hand to his temple. He could sense the beginning of a headache. The day had not started well. He couldn’t think of anything more to say. All he could do was stand there impotently, humming ‘La Cucaracha’ under his breath and repeating to himself over and over, ‘Don’t get angry … don’t lose your temper … don’t make a fool of yourself.’

The man took a step forward and Tom put up a hand. ‘Please …’ he said, but the effort of producing this one word robbed him of the power to finish the sentence. The man looked at him, grinned and shook his head again. ‘Why don’t you just piss off out of the way, mate?’ he said. ‘Okay?’

Tom wanted to reach out and snap his neck like he’d snapped the bird’s. But he knew he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do anything. He’d stand there like some tongue-tied schoolboy humming that stupid tune and staring at the man’s stupid belt buckle.

‘Oi!’ someone shouted. Tom looked round to see Gerry, one of his press operators, coming out of the factory building. ‘Is that your motor?’

The fat man gave him a long-suffering look. ‘What if it is?’ he said.

‘You can’t leave it there, mate. You’ll get towed away. Cost you seventy quid to get it back.’

The man tutted and turned back. ‘Come on, Linda,’ he said. ‘We’d better shift it.’ The whole family groaned, and they returned to the car moaning and arguing with each other.

‘All right, Tom?’ Gerry said smiling. ‘You’re in early today, didn’t expect you till later.’

They watched as the family packed themselves into the car.

‘Not much else to do,’ Tom said, relaxing. ‘Thought I’d come in and breathe down your necks.’

Gerry laughed.

‘No problems?’ Tom asked.

‘Nah. All up and running. I’m just popping out for some fags. Want anything?’

‘No. Thanks.’

Gerry wandered off and Tom stood there letting himself calm down fully. He thought about the big drums inside, turning out copy after copy of the same image. Why couldn’t everything be like this? Simple and organized. Then he’d be okay. Work he could cope with. Machines, employees, business. He was good at all that.

It was just when …

As he watched the ghastly family drive off his headache gave another little kick and he pressed his temple again.

It shouldn’t be like this. Why couldn’t he have dealt with the situation calmly and simply like Gerry? Instead of getting all steamed up. He hated the modern jargon, but he had to be able to take control of his own emotions. Thirty-five years old and the simplest things could reduce him to a pointless rage.

He shook his head and smiled. The whole thing was daft really.

He looked up at the flat grey sky, then turned and, humming the Mexican song, he went inside to the din, to the huge windowless room where there was no difference between night and day, and instantly his worries were forgotten.

Will Summers had a hard-on. Standing there, looking over the road at the house, he felt hot and sticky in his clothes, uncomfortable and restricted. He had an impatient rush to get on and do it, but it was exquisite, holding back, anticipating. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the heat wash over him; he felt his heart speed up, the blood thumping faster. His hands, clenched into two tight fists in his pockets, were slimy inside the thin rubber surgical gloves. For an instant he let go and fell into the darkness, then he took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind and concentrate on what lay ahead.

Her television flickered through the net curtains in the front window. It wasn’t yet dark enough to pull the proper curtains, nor was it bright enough for the nets to act as efficient screens. He’d seen her come into the room a couple of minutes ago with a tray of food and seat herself on the sofa. Now that he was sure she was settled, it was time.

He crossed the road and entered the alley that ran between the small terraced houses. He walked purposefully, not too quick and not too slow.

As he came out of the alley, he turned to the right and pushed open her back gate. It was five steps to the back door. He’d been in many houses like this; they were all the same, he knew what he was doing. The back door was unlocked. Good. He didn’t wait, but pushed it open. It didn’t jam or squeal, and it made no sound as he closed it behind him.

He was in a small hallway between the kitchen and a bathroom extension that had been built on at the rear. He listened for any signs of movement. All he could hear was the faint muffled drone of the television. There were three or four coats hanging up; he pushed his face into them. He could smell damp, and old leather, and the woman. He pressed a hand to his crotch and gripped his hard penis.

The door into the kitchen was already open and he went through. He could hear the television properly now, the news.

He looked around the kitchen. Most of the terraces in this part of town had their kitchens further back, where her hall was, but she’d obviously had the place converted, so that the back room was now a kitchen-cum-dining-room. There were two pans in the sink, and the smell of her cooking hung in the air. Heat still rose from the electric cooker. He looked at the pans; one had a few pasta shells stuck to the edge, the other was smeared with a whitish sauce. He ran his finger round the rim and tasted it. It was some kind of fish – with the faint aftertaste of rubber from his glove.

Between the kitchen and the front room would be the stairs. He went to the door and listened. All he could hear was the television. Slowly he pressed down on the handle. There was a slight click as the door jumped open and a quick draught rustled a pile of old newspapers on the floor. He held his breath and waited. The newsreader droned on. He waited, the door on the other side of the stairs stayed shut. He let his breath out.

The stairs were always the trickiest part. There was always at least one step that creaked. He kept to the edges, gently lowering each foot, feeling for the slightest give, listening for any clicks or groans. Halfway up he found the first loose one. As he put the pressure on there was a creak. He pulled away and waited, thirty seconds, a minute, nothing. He tried the next step up; it felt solid enough. He risked it and pulled himself up.

It looked at first like a long climb to the top, but it turned out to be easy going. Then on the second to last step he got careless. He felt sure the woman must have heard the ratchet sound as the board pulled against the nails. He stayed frozen on the stairs for what seemed like an hour but was probably only a couple of minutes.

He thought he was in the clear, and was ready to go on, when he heard the door at the bottom of the stairs open. He didn’t move. At the edge of his vision he saw the woman come out of the sitting-room and cross into the kitchen. She didn’t look up.

Quickly he climbed the last two steps and scrambled into the room above the sitting-room. He stayed by the door, looking down the stairs. In a few moments the woman returned and closed the door behind her.

Will was soaked. He was panting quickly like an animal, his chest tight. He felt nauseous. But he was safe. She obviously hadn’t heard anything. He could carry on. He hadn’t dared look around yet, and he hoped that the room he was in wasn’t her bedroom; he didn’t want to be directly above her when he was doing it. That was the trouble with these small houses. Although you didn’t have to move about too much, although everything was self-contained and closer together than in the larger places, you were always near to the owners. That was the trouble, but it was also what made them such a favourite of Will’s. Knowing how close he was all the time to them.

There was still enough light from outside for him to see, and to his relief the room was full of books. True, there was a single bed along one wall, but it was covered with a heavily embroidered cloth and there were cushions along the back to make it into a sort of sofa. A spare bed. Not her bed. In the centre of the room was a low table with sewing equipment on it, and everything confirmed in his mind the opinion that she was a teacher or maybe a lecturer at the university.

This room didn’t really interest him, though.

He crossed the stairs into the bedroom. He crept in, feeling the boards ahead of him. It was perfect. It was hers. Although the furniture was nondescript, possibly rented with the rest of the house, she had made it her own. And she had somehow made it very feminine. He was never sure how this was done, but you could always tell.

The room was slightly untidy, in the casual way of someone who lives alone. There were papers in the middle of the carpet, with an empty coffee cup and a pen, as if she’d been sitting on the floor, and there were clothes out on a chair. He ran his hand over them, feeling the different textures. On top of a chest of drawers, with a mirror propped up at the back, lay a jumble of make-up and perfume. He opened a couple of bottles and sniffed them. Then he selected a dark red lipstick and dropped it into one of his trouser pockets.

Stuck in the mirror frame were two photographs. One showed her and another young woman in a bar somewhere hot; they had tans and holiday clothes and smiles. The other picture was of three boys in cricket gear, who were also smiling. He took the holiday snap out of the frame.

There was a little table beside the new pine double bed, and on it was an old copy of Elle, an Armistead Maupin paperback, a pair of glasses and a half-full glass of water. He finished the water for her, then took out his notebook and placed it on the table with the photograph.

He stared at the bed which looked crisp and fresh. The duvet was covered with tiny blue checks.

He licked his lips and began to undress.

First he slipped off the shoes, no socks, then the tracksuit trousers, no underpants. Then his jacket, then his T-shirt. He left the gloves on. It took him less than thirty seconds.

He stretched out on the bed and felt the duvet cover cool against his hot damp skin. He closed his eyes and was again engulfed by an almost uncontrollable excitement. He gave into it for a few moments, then carefully pulled himself out of it. She was down there, oblivious to his presence. Down there, all alone, watching the television. And he was here on her bed, naked.

He picked up the notebook and the photograph.

He turned to the first blank page and began to write, first the date, and then the address. Then her.

As far as I can tell she is somewhere in her twenties, or possibly her early thirties. She has curly brown hair, which reaches just down to her shoulders. She has yellowish skin which is slightly greasy. She has a pretty face, although her nose is possibly a little sharp. She has small breasts, and has one of those bodies which looks attractive and normal in the top half, but which has wide hips and fat legs. She dresses normally, but mostly seems to go for blacks and greys.

I don’t know her name, but I will call her Miss Fish, because she was eating fish while I was doing it to her.

She is watching television now, while . . .