Interrupting my thoughts, a door slammed in the street outside and I glanced up to see one of the neighbours getting on a bike and heading off to work. Checking my watch, I saw that it was already 4:30 a.m.; lost in my preoccupations, the previous couple of hours had sped by. I didn’t feel tired but closed my eyes to try and calm my thinking, and to my surprise I woke up several hours later with sunlight streaming through the window. I sat up and looked over at Musgrove’s flat. His ripped curtains were closed but his still sleeping form was just visible. My eyes felt heavy and gritty and I regretted not taking out my contact lenses the night before. I crawled out of the sleeping bag and gingerly stood up. My neck and shoulders were stiff from sleeping on the hard wooden floor and I did a few limbering-up exercise to get the knots out of my body. I went over to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap and watched as the water came out a rusty brown colour. After thirty seconds it ran clear and I splashed it on my face, the icy cold water instantly refreshing, and soothing to my stinging eyes.
I took a seat in the armchair next to the window and ate a scotch egg. Normally one of my favourites, it didn’t have quite the same appeal at six in the morning but I scoffed it down anyway. Then, with the eggy snack repeating on me, I carefully studied 29a through the binoculars. Musgrove was still asleep and his foot just sticking out from under the filthy blankets. With the high-powered lenses I could even make out his revolting toenails, curled over and encrusted with dirt that the master of a Chinese opium den would be proud of. Merely catching a glimpse of the despicable individual was sufficient motivation, if it were needed, to make my plan succeed.
Over the next hour I watched as the neighbourhood slowly came to life. A flat two doors down from Musgrove was the first to show as three young men wearing Muslim garb left home, presumably on the way to the mosque for early morning prayers. I didn’t have Musgrove down as an early riser – more the crack of mid-morning at best – but to my surprise he was awake by 8:30 a.m. He dressed quickly in the same dirty jeans and grey T-shirt from the previous day, and after the briefest of ablutions he was out of the flat by 8:40 a.m. I watched through the binoculars as he marched purposefully down the road, even with his limp. Again I considered shadowing him, keen to know his every movement, but felt it prudent, at least for the first few days, to avoid risking detection at all costs.
As I waited for Musgrove to return I ate another scotch egg, not really out of hunger but more as a means to kill time. I was already finding the business of surveillance a tedious affair and was grateful to see him arrive to break the monotony a little after 11:30 a.m. He was walking with the same urgency as I’d seen on his return the day before, presumably the focus of a junkie and the desperate need for a fix. I watched as he entered his flat and then, a few seconds later, him sitting at the small table to begin preparing his morning constitution.
Within five minutes Musgrove was lying face down on his bed. If the previous day was the norm he would be out of it for several hours and I took the opportunity to head back home to Alton before he was due to arrive to collect the money later in the afternoon. Though I doubted Musgrove was in any state to be watching, I pulled my baseball cap down low to cover my face and hurried down the driveway and into the street. A bus was just pulling into the stop as I reached the end of Stanley Road, and I jogged the last twenty metres before climbing aboard. Within twenty minutes I arrived in the town centre, and I made my way to the building society to collect the £4,700 for Musgrove, plus a further £300 for any contingencies. After the obligatory offer and my subsequent decline of a “financial health-check”, I headed for the bus station, and by 2:30 p.m. I was back home in Alton.
Feeling tired and dishevelled after my largely sleepless night in the filthy flat, I had a long hot shower and scrubbed my hands with a nail brush to remove the grime that had become engrained under my fingernails. After getting dressed I made beans on toast and a mug of tea and took them through to the living room. I switched on the TV news. It was probably the first time in months I’d had any interest in anything other than my own problems, but after just a few minutes my tiredness returned and I was asleep.
I awoke a couple of hours later to loud knocking on the front door. I knew immediately who it was and jumped up from the settee, not wanting to leave him on the doorstep in full view of the neighbours. Opening the door, I was greeted by Musgrove’s smug smile, clearly now recovered from his earlier fix. I willed myself to stay calm, knowing that the machete was in the rucksack just a few feet away me, though the urge to use it was almost overwhelming. “Hello, Julian, nice to see you.”
“Get inside, get inside,” I responded sharply.
Musgrove stepped through the doorway and started to walk from the hallway into the living room. But I wasn’t going to tolerate any further breach of my personal space and barked at him, “Just wait there. Wait there, I’ve got the money for you.” I reached into my rucksack, my hand brushing against the cold metal of the machete as I pulled out an envelope containing the £4,700. I extended it to him and he gripped it with his filthy hands. “Let me make it clear, this is the one and only time, do you understand me? This is the last time,” I said as I released the envelope.
He opened it and looked at the contents. For a second I thought he was going to count it, but instead he just smiled again, his rotten teeth on show. “Okay, okay, Julian. I trust you, I trust you.” I opened the front door, stepped out of the porch to check there was no one about, and then by the elbow forcefully steered him outside. “Steady on, Julian, what’s the hurry, not even a cup of tea?”
I didn’t respond, just slammed the door and locked it. Outside I could hear Musgrove laughing sarcastically before shouting through the letter box his final parting quip: “See you again soon, Ju. By the way, I’ll be in the Arundel tonight – my usual Thursday night ritual. You’re more than welcome to join me for a bevy. I’m in the chair.” I was seething as I moved through to the living room. I saw the photograph on the mantlepiece of Helen and the boys, and my hands trembled with rage and frustration as I picked up the silver frame. I was desperate for revenge. Musgrove had to die.
I made sandwiches and a flask of coffee and then, thirty minutes after Musgrove had left, I set off back to Rawlton. As I sat on the bus I suspected that already he’d be buying booze or some other intoxicant, and with almost five grand burning a hole in his pocket he would doubtless be extremely popular with his dealer. I arrived back at 17b at 8:05 p.m. as only the last remnants of the mid-September sunlight remained. Turning into the driveway, I briefly glanced towards Musgrove’s flat but his front room was in darkness. I let myself into 17b and headed up the stairs. I unpacked my sleeping bag, laid it out on the floor, and then poured a coffee from the flask before taking up my vantage point in the chair by the window.
Musgrove arrived home at 11:30 p.m., staggering down the driveway and then struggling to get his key in the lock. Eventually he negotiated the front door and within a few seconds the light came on in the bedsit. Through the gaps in the ragged curtains I fleetingly saw him move round the room, but within five minutes the lights went off and in the darkness I could just make out his form lying on his bed. After a few more minutes of watching, I lay down on my sleeping bag and within minutes I was dead to world.
I slept far more soundly than the previous night. I was awoken briefly by a car alarm at around 1:30 a.m. but within minutes I was asleep again, finally waking at 6:00 a.m. when my alarm went off. Sitting in the chair, I drank lukewarm coffee from the thermos, providing a welcome caffeine boost, and ate the rest of the sandwiches from the day before. After a few minutes a door slammed shut and I looked out to see the Muslim lads heading to the mosque. I silently debated whether I could ask God to bless my plan; I suspected not.