The Icing Man: Chapter 1 Extracts

Here I stand, a man approaching his fifty-second year some twelve months into semi-retirement. An illustrious career spanning two decades to my credit, the last five years of which spent as a respected and stalwart corporate mover/shaker. By all accounts, although not always liked, I’m acknowledged as a mature, distinguished and honest individual; and it would therefore seem only natural that lack of any moral turpitude could be appended to my list of enviable qualities. Alas not so, for I, Dr Jeremiah Orville Clock, have come to realise an abhorrent truth. My character is not just flawed, but corrupt, perverse and riddled with lasciviousness. Too pompous? – probably. Too strong? – not necessarily. Should I be repentant, contrite? – definitely not. In my defence, I’m justifiably able to cite my current status as a gainfully self-employed servant of society. As a part-time forensic adviser-cum-volunteer magistrate and an active member of the Neighbourhood Watch scheme, my eminent credentials surely outweigh my ignominy, I would note. Admirable maybe, and by most definitions certainly the attributes of a model pillar of society, yet at this precise moment my base character is again on open display for all to observe and ridicule. Ashamed as I am, I just can’t help myself. Isn’t that great? So, clinging furtively to a half-filled trolley of groceries, I dodge suspiciously between the baked beans and spaghetti shelves of my local supermarket. I can see the roaming pack of store detectives salivating at the prospect of a new victim. Little do they know that the only pickings they’ll claw from me this crisp and bright autumn afternoon will be the taste of bitter disappointment. ‘And the reason for my unseemly behaviour?’ I hear the chorus chanting. Well that, as they say, is a complicated story. To be honest though, my primary motivation is nothing more sinister than a little voyeurism. In common with the majority of my fellow men, the fascination of watching others, from a secluded vantage point, conduct their lives is irresistible. Sexual, domestic; dramatic, monotonous; whatever the activity, it doesn’t really matter. The thrill, the undiluted excitement of invading someone’s privacy shrouded by a veil of secrecy, is guaranteed to fire up the old adrenal glands every time.

It’s now less than five minutes since the last campaign and already I sense that Ms Murkett has identified the next contestant. Correct, Julian’s on the move! Basket in hand, he sidles up to what appears to be a young mother no more than nineteen years old. The girl has two children in tow – one toddling beside her; the other a baby propped up in a trolley. She’s a pretty girl – tall, dyed-blonde unkempt shoulder-length hair and trim figure teetering on the voluptuous side in certain areas. Her make-up is decidedly overdone and less than skilfully applied. Julian seems to be passing her by then suddenly bends down to retrieve something the toddler’s dropped. The harassed girl is grateful. Julian smiles, picks up the child and points to an item on a nearby shelf. The vivid image of a 1960s encyclopaedia salesman with his foot well and truly in the door flashes across my mind. This is indeed an unsung art form. But wait! All is not well. The girl’s becoming agitated. She’s hastily retrieving the toddler from Julian’s arms. A crisis is developing… but my friend shows no sign of concern. His smile broadens; he picks a jar or bottle from the shelf and shows it to the flustered woman. Words tumble from his mouth and in a moment the girl’s face relaxes. She blushes. A further brief exchange and the woman accepts Julian’s card. They smile; nod to each other and, following a US-style military salute, the master takes his leave. Another triumph. Truly amazing. At this juncture if I were watching with a female partner, I’d be tempted to say something clichéd like, ‘Was that good for you too?’ As things stand, however, several fellow shoppers are eyeing me with a mixture of concern and suspicion. Definitely time to move on to the cereals and crisps section.

Well it was now quite late and I still hadn’t eaten or prepared for my Work Experience visitor. Given the hour, I decided to settle for a microwaved marvel, leftover apple pie and another couple of drinks. By the time I’d consumed my bachelor’s feast the temperature of the room had become distinctly chilly. Fortunately the fire was laid from the previous evening so it took only a small aliquot of my fading energy to crank it up. As the logs finally caught light, I sat staring into the flames. A series of whisky-promoted images pirouetted through my mind and, cloaked in a haze of crackling heat, I drifted…

No! A particularly unpleasant spectre unceremoniously rose up, kicking away my malaise and dragging me back to a state of full alert. ‘Bugger!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s all I need, nightmares.’ Just gone eleven, I discovered, and I still hadn’t made the necessary preparations for the next day.

Reluctantly I sloped off to my icing room like an old hedgehog heading for its hibernation bed. I flicked on the light switch, yawned, then nearly screamed.

Greeting my eyes was a scene of pure carnage. My delicate and painstaking masterpieces were battered, flattened, squashed – utterly destroyed. Pieces of cake and icing were strewn everywhere. The walls had been daubed with colouring agents then pelted with bags of icing sugar. Individual mouldings carved from royal icing, having been drenched with water, were reduced to a sticky mass. Nothing seemed to have been left intact.

So now I knew the reason behind the visit. But in God’s name why? Who on earth could be motivated to unleash such a monstrous degree of fury on a handful of cakes? Was it an attack on me: some kind of threat or a warning? Surely not. As I struggled to take in the full extent of this mindless act of destruction, the most horrific of consequences hit me like a hammer. Fortunately, the majority of work was for events some time in the future. With a determined effort I probably had enough time to order new cakes and repeat the work. One project, however – a particularly spectacular three-tier wedding cake – had a deadline of less than two weeks. The bride and groom held a fascination for all matters related to the royal armoury. Needless to say, the order was for a cake adorned with a selection of some of the more elaborate coats of arms belonging to local militia units and aristocracy. Even if I could work thirty hours a day, it would be impossible to recreate the same level of detail in less than three weeks. I held my head in my hands and cried out. But at that moment I had a premonition – somewhere I was about to discover one final insult to add to the injury already sustained. I wasn’t to be disappointed. On the back of the door my raging nemesis had painted the word ‘WaNKER’ using cochineal. In comparison to the rest of the handiwork, not particularly exceptional – that is until I followed the trail of red leading from the letter R. The line crossed to the adjacent wall then descended to the floor, where it ran along until it reached the table on which most of the ruined cakes rested. At this point the red streak ascended one of the table legs, traversed the surface of the table and ended in a large circle drawn on the base layer of the mutilated wedding cake. In the centre of the circle, I’d been left a little gift – a small amount of opaque viscous liquid of human origin, I suspected, spread out on a piece of cling film.

‘Very nice,’ I exhaled. ‘Very nice indeed.’ The only question remaining was whether the term ‘wanker’ referred to my visitor or to me. Now I had no choice. The police would have to be brought in. In terms of cost, the damage wasn’t that great, but the nature of the attack posed a number of serious questions about the perpetrator’s state of mind. I could easily have been a random target and, if so, others may be at risk. Unlike my previous episode of hesitancy, I made straight for the phone.

I’d barely begun dialling when an almighty thumping sound echoed from the front door.

‘This can’t be happening,’ I seethed. ‘Who the bloody hell can that be at this time of night?’ I replaced the receiver and approached the door. Once again my tardiness in the DIY stakes returned to haunt me. For months I’d been meaning to install a security inspection glass but had always managed to justify a postponement. Mark up another screw-up notch for Clock the Flop. The pounding, which by now I’d decided was probably someone kicking the door, continued with ever-increasing urgency. Charged with curiosity, too tired to care and totally brassed off, I threw caution to the wind and flung open the door. I was fully prepared for an abuse hurling session if it turned out to be kids messing about – a real possibility with Guy Fawkes Night just around the corner. But it wasn’t kids or anything remotely related to ‘messing about’. Teetering on the porch, trembling, his face covered in blood, stood Julian, his partner Kathy cradled in his arms. His eyes were glazed and wild, an effect markedly accentuating his glide. I opened my mouth to speak, but Julian beat me to the mark.

‘D-Doc. Thank God!’ he stuttered, completely devoid of his affected Western accent. ‘You’ve got to help my Kathy. The bastards’ve killed her. Please, please bring her back. You can do something, I know.’

Any verbal response I might have made would clearly have been redundant. My distraught neighbour needed help not words, so I simply jammed open the door and ushered him into the living room. At first he resisted my encouragement to lay Kathy on the four-seater couch near the window. It was clear that if his lady had passed away, irrespective of whether she was destined for heaven or hell, Julian was determined to go with her. Finally he gave in to my entreatments and allowed me to examine the stricken woman.

Superficially, the signs weren’t good. Kathy appeared totally lifeless, exhibiting no evidence of a heartbeat or breathing. Her head, ghostly pale face and upper torso were soaked in blood, but the source wasn’t obvious. Although not medically qualified, my various careers had afforded me an extensive knowledge of medicine. As a result, rightly or wrongly, I was usually able to make a comment about most conditions, but trauma on this scale was way out of my league. Nevertheless, I set about ministering to the poor creature as best I could, although already convinced she was beyond help. Julian stood motionless at her side like an ancient guardian of a regal tomb. His conviction that Kathy must be revived was so strong that if the angel of death had yet to come for her, he’d be prepared to fight him off for eternity if necessary.

As I conducted a second, more detailed inspection of my patient I discovered several remarkable if not incredible findings that at first had escaped my notice. The nature of these observations was such that I felt it unfair to delay sharing my conclusions.

‘Well, Julian,’ I said finally, patting him on the back, ‘good news. Not only is this young lady not dead but, unless I’m seriously mistaken, she’s not your Kathy either.’