Bad Life

Dave Watson started Instagram six months ago. He has 217 followers. Over those six months he’s been active enough to post some 500 photos. Judging by the pictures, his habits are ordinary: he commutes by bicycle, walks his dog every evening, is hooked on the TV series “Game of Thrones,” and makes sure to see a play twice a month. His job takes him abroad frequently, especially to Italy. Lately he’s been into Japanese cuisine, dining out at sushi restaurants three or four times a week. He doesn’t have a partner, but he volunteers at a shelter for abandoned dogs every weekend.
I scrolled through his photos in boredom, then looked up as the doorman opened the door. A neatly dressed man appeared with a dog—Dave Watson himself.
Finding his home was easy. Every time he posted a photo, he tagged the location, and occasional street signs in his walk shots made it trivial to pinpoint his address. I found his office on Facebook, trailed him for days, and memorized the faces of a few coworkers.
I watched Watson and his golden retriever disappear down the street. Once I was certain he wouldn’t come back, I moved. The doorman let me in, recognizing me as the frequent visitor claiming to be the upstairs tenant’s boyfriend. I was, in fact, on that tenant’s errand—out to buy cigarettes.
In the elevator I hit both third and fourth floors. On the third floor, his nameplate hung on the door: Dave Watson. I left the empty elevator to go up and stood before his door. I’d already secured a key—slipped from his pocket just last night during a walk. He’s not the type to change locks overnight, so getting into his apartment was a cinch.
Rather than flick on the lights, I used my phone’s flashlight. The layout mirrored the fourth floor’s: living room, kitchen, a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom. As expected, there were no signs anyone else lived here. It was undoubtedly Watson’s solo pad. I switched on the bathroom light to confirm from the entryway that the bathroom was indeed lit.
Returning inside, I sized up the bathroom. A shower towel—too flimsy, would tear. A thick bath towel—too bulky. I lifted the shower hose, but that seemed unhelpful. Then I noticed the shower robe hanging behind the door. The belt was the perfect length, slender yet sturdy. Just right.
Watson usually takes a walk lasting half an hour to an hour, so I had plenty of time. I ran a bath and lit a cigarette. I felt a strange mix of excitement and unnerving calm. Eight years of work could collapse instantly—or, perhaps, finally bear fruit.
After all this time, I thought I no longer cared whether I succeeded or failed. Getting a lead was enough; if I came up empty, that was enough too. If I failed to uncover anything yet again… well, I didn’t know. Nearly ten years had passed. Maybe it was time to let it all go.
The tub filled with warm water. I stubbed out my cigarette and waited in silence. Watson returned just as the bathwater cooled to lukewarm.
He paused as he inserted his key—because the door wasn’t locked. A strange sensation must have crept over him; he’d surely locked up when he left. But Watson isn’t cautious enough to call security over something minor. He stepped in, closed the door behind him while properly checking it was locked, and leashed his dog outside to clean its dirty paws.
As he came in to rinse the dog’s feet, he sensed something odd. Looking up, he saw a shaft of light where darkness should have reigned—coming from the bathroom. Had he forgotten to turn off the light? Puzzled, he shuffled over in slippers. Inside the bathroom, he realized the bathtub was filled with water—he had no memory of drawing a bath. Before he could turn away from the unnerving sight, the robe belt slipped around his neck.

Splash.
Before he could even scream, I grabbed the back of his head and shoved him into the tub. He thrashed, sending water spraying everywhere, but a man in his thirties whose only exercise is biking to work doesn’t escape a firm grip. I pulled him out before his body went limp.
“Gak! Ugh, gah, huh, gag! Wh–who…!”
Before he could finish, I plunged his head back into the water. Watson flailed and gasped, weaker than before. Drawing him out again, I prepared to dunk him a third time when he choked out:
“Please! H–help me! I’m sorry! Ple–please, spare me!”
The damp robe belt tightened around his throat, choking him. I forced him upright; he closed his eyes to avoid looking at me. Pathetic. I didn’t force his eyes open—he was soaked and had tears and snot streaming down his filthy face. I stared at him coldly.
When I held still, he spoke desperately.
“I don’t have money, but in the dressing room… there’s a watch…”
“I don’t care about your watch or money. Instead, I have questions. Answer properly, and I’ll let you go without harm.”
“Wh–what…”
“But if you misanswer, I’ll tear the guts from the first of your four little friends waiting outside your door. Got it?”
He trembled in fear but realized I’d talk. With eyes still shut, he jittered his head in frantic agreement.
“To jog your memory: about seventeen years ago. It was a long time, but you’ll remember. You were at some club—no other name, just , the perverts’ orgy group. Sound familiar?”
Watson’s convulsing body froze. He stared at me in horror, eyes wide, face pale—every time I invoked the club, that reaction was predictable. Watching the fear, regret, despair, and confusion flicker across his face, I said evenly:
“Judging by your expression, you remember. Hard to forget a place like that, right?”
He stammered and mumbled, “H–how could I…” I fought the urge to rush him; I’d been here many times before over the years. I waited calmly until his panic subsided and he went quiet. Actually, roughing him up would have made him talk faster, but there was no need to waste energy.
A heavy silence settled—so heavy even his dog beyond the door was quiet. I pierced him with my gaze, then softly asked:
“So. You know, or you don’t?”
After a pause, he slowly nodded.
“Answer out loud.”
Holding the phone to his trembling lips with the voice recorder rolling, Watson, eyes terrified at the screen, whispered:
“I… I know.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
I stroked his wet hair. He froze, unable to breathe.
Just knowing the club existed wasn’t enough. A few others I’d found also knew of it, but they were just passersby who’d heard rumors or snuck in once—not core members. Whether Watson was one of the fringe crowd ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) or more, I’d find out next.
“Let’s start. First: your name.”
I stared into his eyes. Watson glared at the phone in dread. I asked again; he just trembled and began to cry. I set the phone on the sink. As he clutched at his pants, I slapped his cheek and yanked the robe belt tighter. He screamed and thrashed. I hauled him headfirst into the tub. Water splashed onto me. I pulled him out and dunked him repeatedly—about five times—until he lay still on the tiled floor. He writhed and begged like an insect. I kicked his face, ordered him upright, and he knelt, bleeding from his nose but obedient.
Smoking calmly, I crouched before him. He kept his head bowed, too afraid to meet my eyes—thankfully hiding the tremor in my hand holding the cigarette.
This was the first time I’d pushed someone who’d been coming to the club for six months. And the timing aligned: 1996 was when he was nineteen. I inhaled smoke deeply to steady my heart. Kneeling before him, I repeated the question I’d asked countless times over eight years.
“Do you know Christopher?”
He flinched but whispered, “Chr–Christopher?”
I nodded.