Face Value

'Um, thank you,' he mouthed.

I had to cut through the apprehensive stage, but he was already receptive: the tip of his tongue had rested on his upper lip. I had charming my prey down to a refined art, and after buying Champagne, laughing at his dumb conversation and 'accidentally' letting him see the wad of fifties in my wallet, he ditched the two chubby faghags he was with and came home with me.

He was cute, but they were all cute, and they all blur into each other now.

As strange as it might seem, the time afterwards is always more difficult to remember than the prelude. For some reason the thrill of the chase is crystal clear, but then the payoff gets blurry. There were very few people around on the street the next day, an absence that made me nervous. I decided to resist the temptation to look out the window in case anyone happened to notice that I was checking up. It was paranoid, but I had to keep a low profile. My life depended on it.

It took a while for the police to come. There were no sirens, just the blue lights, but as soon as they turned up, people started to materialise in the street and nobody seemed to want to leave. After fifteen minutes, it was as though the whole of Barking was there, all trying to see what was going on. I started to worry that if I didn't show my face at that point, it might look even more suspicious.

I was on good terms with Dan, the retired bus driver who lived downstairs with his wife, Valerie. I decided to drop in. After a Pakistani couple who supposedly had an annoying, noisy toddler had moved out of the flat and I moved in, the two of them welcomed me with open arms. I noticed that Dan was already in the corridor of the building looking through the main doors across the street towards the church, and I assumed that Valerie would be outside, in her element, mingling and snooping. The predictability of the situation offered me no relief. His face didn't display any interest when I came down, but when I asked what was going on, he suddenly came to life, and he was ready to give a full run-down.

'Have you had the TV on yet?' he asked.

'Is it already...' I started, and stopped before I could put my foot in it any further.

A strange feeling to have no trust in your own self-control. I felt stupid, and in my pocket I pinched my leg as hard as I could as a form of punishment.

'All over the news. Another one.'

I didn't say anything.

'Another one in exactly the same place. Drugs, they're saying. Can't be drugs. Well, it doesn't make any sense, does it?'

'The thing last month?'

'The same place!' he explained with more animation. 'Two young fellas wind up dead in the exact same place. And in the same state the first one was... Suspicious.'

He continued staring over at the scene.

'Mind you, this kind of thing probably happens all over London now, so who knows? It's not like it used to be. People didn't do that to each other, not normal people...'

I had no interest in listening to him droning on about falling moral standards, I was just there to look innocent, so I tried to exaggerate the puzzled look I was already making. I think I did a good job, because he didn't seem to show any interest in me at all. What could have been a lecture devolved into mumbles.

'Unrecognisable, this place now.'

Many couples are together for so long that their intonation becomes identical, and his wounded, grumbly tone made me remember how I'd heard about the first one being found.

I was at the gym on the rowing machine. Aaron, my personal trainer, was kneeling beside me egging me on. Aaron was a perfect trainer, someone who genuinely cared about his clients reaching their goals. People who take their careers seriously usually make me uncomfortable - they have a level of faith I could never share.

It was the last ten minutes or so of my workout. The BBC news channel was on one of the big screen TVs with both the sound and the subtitles on, and I had that sudden uncanny realisation that I recognised the exact place they were showing on the screen. It was my street. They'd found the body, and it was now a media item. It shouldn't really have been a surprise. Perversely, seeing everything on a TV screen made it real. Among the other boring stories about business and world politics, the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen shared something spicy: Breaking - young man found dead in Barking Town Centre.

Then the hammy face of the haggard old bitch filled up the screen. It was Valerie.

'I was walking Magali, she's my dog, you see… I take her out every morning for her early walks, otherwise she's too full of beans and she's just mad for the rest of the day.'

I continued to row away and rolled my eyes. Panic hadn't set in, and I was more pissed off that of all the people they could have interviewed, they chose her. The reporter was obviously annoyed that she was rambling on and must have indicated so from behind the camera because Valerie suddenly got to the point.

'He was slumped. Gruesome. Magali was barking. Couldn't have been more than, well, twenty years old. It makes you sick. A young bloke like that, such a waste,' she added.

I mentally went through all the precautions I'd taken to stop myself appearing panicked in this inevitable situation.

'Are you okay?' Aaron asked, looking down at my legs.

'Yeah, just… I live near there,' I explained, nodding at the screen.

'Oh, okay. Give it a bit more speed, don’t flag,' he added, immediately losing interest.

As I stood in the corridor next to Dan, it was now really starting to scare me, and I pinched as hard as I could. By choosing the same location, I had fucked up so very badly. It wasn't the exact same place, but it was close enough to be linked. I would need to come up with a contingency plan. I couldn't face being questioned or interrogated, I'm not built for that kind of thing despite my physical strength. Telling outright lies and sticking to a story was worst case scenario.

That was what, I had to admit, I had left myself open to. I absolutely did not want to get caught and blamed for what was removing two unimportant people from this world prematurely, but I wasn't naive enough to think that anybody else would see it that way.

As my workout ended, Valerie took a long pause.

'And the worst thing…' she began.

'Great work!' Aaron said.

'His eyes were missing.'

As she said this, she gazed directly at the camera to make the maximum impact, and I turned to Aaron, feigning a horrified expression on my sweat-covered face.

'Come on, fuck me like you hate me! Yeah, that's it!'

I do hate you, I thought, shortly followed by the realisation that I was getting very little out of this.

'Yes, daddy!' he squealed.

Daddy? I was ten years older than him, if that. I started to become irritated by all this silly talking.

'That's it, that's it, that's it!' I grunted as I forced myself to climax.

He hummed a stupid K-pop song with a satisfied smile. Job done. I reached for some tissues from the floor and cleaned myself up. He picked up his phone.

'Already?' I asked.

'Already what?' he replied.

'You're always on that thing. Can't you just… be in the moment? At least get dressed first.'

He smirked at me and shrugged again. I sighed and sat down on the floor. Expecting prostitutes, any prostitutes, even the ones charging the absolute highest rates, to engage in meaningful conversation was pointless. It was like thinking you would win the lottery. They all touted themselves as 'well educated' and other crap on their profiles, but it was just as fictitious as their names or ages.

'If you didn't have your phone for a day, what would you do?' I asked, trying to conceal the menace in my tone.

'Dunno,' he replied without thinking. 'I need it for my business.'

'And you never take a day off?'

'Money never sleeps!' he squealed.

I shook, repulsed as much with myself as with his trashy, campy tone. I had completely lost any attraction I'd once had. Any sense of admiration for his looks or youth had evaporated now, and I just wanted him to be gone.

'You can go,' I said.

He looked up from the screen at me. He looked taken aback by my sudden abruptness.

'I mean, I don't want to keep you,' I added.

'No problem. Shall we do the same again next Monday?' he asked.

'I'll let you know.'

After I had let him out and taken a shower, I sat down naked at the desk and put my head in my hands. I felt dread knowing that I had several hours to fill before I would most likely give in to the boredom and head into town. The fridge was almost empty, and I needed to go shopping, but the idea of walking to the supermarket made me panic. It felt like giving into the dull routine would consume me in some way, and I started to long for something, whatever it might be, that would shake me out of that sense of reliving the same mindless day over and over.

The effort involved in getting dressed to go and buy food seemed like a mountain I had to climb, and I could only face staying in the chair and doing nothing, trying to feel nothing.

I was dissatisfied, and it had nothing to do with the money I had just wasted, or the never-ending mediocre, empty sex. It was much deeper than all that. I looked at my life as if from the perspective of my younger self. It was all lacking, whichever aspect I chose to focus on. I hated myself, and I hated everyone else even more. Existing felt like a burden.

My phone buzzed. A WhatsApp message.

'I had a great time, looking forward to next week. Adam xx'

I stared at the screen and started crying at this obvious lie. I thought about how he must have viewed me: greying, wrinkling and easy money. It was him, Adam, whose real name turned out to be Dave, who suggested I try Viagra. It worked, which is to say it functioned as it was supposed to, but it didn't give me any enthusiasm in putting it to use. I resented needing it. I resented escorts.

I had told myself I was only paying because I wanted to avoid the effort of meeting people and, God forbid, another 'relationship', but the truth was I longed to find a young guy who I could actually connect with beyond the physical. People my own age are repulsive in so many ways. Nobody wants an ageing chef. They only really care about money and status, but, it occurred to me, so did the young now.

I threw the phone at the bed as hard as possible, and it hit the stinking sheets which I needed to change with a muted thud. I screamed into my hands.

Isn't this exactly what my whole life had been building up to? This level of rage and what followed it couldn't help but define a person's life. I snorted, sickened by the idea that I might fit into a group I'd vaguely known about in passing before, but had always instinctively held in the lowest regard. The Dahmers, the Gacys and the Dennis Nilsens of the world - they all seemed to me like a pathetic group of losers.

Besides, I told myself, it wasn't killing I got off on. I just didn't care. My indifference to my victims was the same as stepping on an unfortunate snail in the street. You might feel bad for a moment, but you forget about it in no time. In fact, I almost resented them for giving me hoops to jump through to get away with it. Very few people, I thought, would be aware just how frustrating it is to deal with a corpse. The meticulous removal of any trace of your involvement with it, the performance of keeping yourself looking innocent to the people around you as if nothing had happened. So it was a burden, but not one of conscience.

I resisted the temptation to start googling gay serial killers - it would be like handing myself in to the police with a signed confession.

As much as I 'fell into' this behaviour, had it not been the logical conclusion of my frustration up to then? I thought about the look of disdain mixed with pity on Adam's face, and my stomach tensed up. Fuck him for not realising how cliché he was. I still felt angry after he was dead. Killing him had solved nothing, of course, although there was a temporary relief that it hadn't gone wrong. He absolutely did not expect violence from someone like me. The fool.

'Hey. I'm sorry about last time,' I said as he came through the door, and gave me a peck on the cheek.

'Aw, you're okay,' he said as he removed his jacket.

It looked cheap.

'New?' I asked.

'First time wearing it out,' he replied.

'It suits you.'

'Thanks. Do you have company?' he asked, suddenly looking suspicious.

'No.'

'I can smell smoke,' he said.

'Oh that. I was cooking some toast and forgot I'd left the toaster on number 5,' I explained.

He was probably thinking it sounded typical for an old fuck like me.

'How old are you really?' I asked.

His mask slipped and he looked confused, then offended.

'Well I put 21 on the site, but I'm really 26. I hope that's okay.'

'It's fine, I just thought I'd ask. I feel like we're getting to know each other a bit better now.'

He didn't reply, but his body language suggested he sensed something was different this time. I handed him the cash, and he perked up again.

'That's very kind, thank you,' he murmured.

That's all you care about, but you won't be spending it, I thought.

'Can I get you anything to drink?' I asked.

'Just some tap water, please,' he replied.

Big mistake.

'I'll just open the window, it's still smoky in here,' I explained, and went over to the kitchen window as he started to take off his clothes.

He was very tall and thin. I half closed the curtains and put on a lamp. He smiled at me.

'I'll just get your water,' I said.

In the kitchen, my rage started to surface and I was breathing in and out deeply.

'Did you take your…' he started.

'Yeah,' I replied, and handed him the glass.

He downed half of it. I started to touch his shoulders.

'Hmmm,' he said, pretending to enjoy it.

He closed his eyes and didn't open them again.

They belong to me now, I thought.

Going through his phone was eye-opening. The messages were full of emojis, slang and abbreviations unlike the ones he sent me. It was like reading another language. When messaging with his friends, who I guessed were mostly other escorts, he always seemed to refer to clients in a dismissive way, somewhat jokingly yet devoid of any real wit.

When he actually messaged clients, it was full sentences with Xs at the end, and they were full of sincerity. He seemed to refer to me as 'the chef' because of my job, and even moaned about how 'difficult' I was. That didn't stop him turning up and taking the money, though. I once catfished an ex. The information I got from that staggered me. When I probed, I found out all kinds of things that he had never told me - how he really felt about me. I was angry, but it gave me quite a thrill to have the upper hand.

Luckily he wasn't sharing his location with anyone, and I quickly dismantled the phone. I got him dressed in his own clothes, and soon realised how heavy he was. It was going to be a case of dragging the body somewhere late at night.

I looked at his dead face up close. He looked peaceful and completely relaxed. The drugs, of course. His beauty made me simmer with hatred. I went into the kitchen and took out my Takamura.

I had no desire to do anything sexual with the body. I have standards. I was so glad he was dead. I guess I wasn't just some client any more, I was the final client.

It's busy and humid in the street. There's a frenzy in the air. People are packed into the market. The sterility of the new Waitrose I pass contrasts with the filth of the road, and I glance around at the endless crap on sale as I trudge up to the train station. It hits me: I can't go into work today.

I decide to phone in sick and spend the day drinking wine and admiring my wonderful collection of souvenirs, the perfect eyeballs: my consolation prize in this shit existence.