Gina Final

Different POV

From the view of a victim: Paul Owen. He thinks Bateman is a man called Marcus Halberstram.

Marcus Halberstram wants to go for dinner. He asked me at Cecilias Christmas party, and I was too busy eyeing his hardbody (and the hostess) to do anything more than nod. Still, I find him horribly boring, but he does have a certain amount of standing at the company; I should go, though I don't really want to. Hopefully he brings Cecilia, who's a little hardbody and makes up for in looks what Marcus lacks in personality.

I get to the restaurant on 34th street, and it's like walking into a fucking pirate ship. I hate themed restaurants, just as much as I hate themed parties. I get to the table and Marcus is already there, arguing with the unattractive waiter. His face is impassive, but he's talking with such force that the waiter is getting sprayed with spittle.

"No, I don't want fucking Captain Morgan. Am I wearing an eye patch? Do I have a wooden leg? Just get me a scotch, neat."

The waiter glances at me as I approach the table, and Halberstram turns, his face transforming into a practised smile. "Paul! What can I get you to drink?" Without waiting for a reply, he turns to the waiter, "Make that two scotches and two beers... Whatever you’ve got, as long as it’s good." He's dismissed with a wave of the hand and Marcus turns back to me.

"So! Paul. Thanks for coming. Find this place ok? I know it's not to our usual...'caliber', but my dear Cecelia insisted the Chowder was to die for."

The drinks arrive and I take a large pull of my scotch. This place is a fucking shithole. I wonder if maybe Marcus is either cheap or skint, but he stares at me and I realise I haven't answered him. 

"No, it's great Marcus. I've never been here before and going to Spago every night can get a little tedious don't you think?" I ask this because I know for a fact Halberstram has been trying to get a table there for months. As expected, his left eye twitches almost imperceptively as he nods. 

"Oh absolutely Paul. Always nice to do something a little out of the comfort zone. Another drink Paul?" Though I could swear he’s been drinking as fast as me, his glass is still mostly full. Ah well. Fuck it. Getting drunk will probably make this more bearable and besides, Felicty is heading to Club 26 later and I’d rather shoot myself in the face than go to that sweat heap sober.

When we go to order, it turns out the ‘to die for’ chowder is no longer available. Marcus begins abusing the waiter, though I’m secretly thrilled because I hate chowder and because of the state Halberstram is in. Now this restaurant he chose has absolutely nothing going for it. I order another drink and lean back in my chair. 

It’s later, and I’m really drunk. We’re in what I presume is Halberstrams apartment, and I’m surprised to see that it’s chic, minimalist, perfect, like a page from an Ikea catalogue. I’m sitting on a white dining chair in the middle of his living room, and around my feet are sheets of the New Yorker. I don’t know where Marcus is, I can hear his voice talking over the music blaring from the stereo, but I can’t quite work out what he’s saying.

“Hey... Hey Marcus!” I yell at him, “Why the newspaper? Do...Do you have a little Chow or something?”

He appears out of a door way to the right of me, wearing a plastic cape, like one of those you wear at Disneyland on the log flume. Not that I’d ever wear one though. He’s ranting about whatever shit music he’s put on and it’s so boring that I feel my head start to droop towards my chest.

Suddenly he yells, “Hey Paul!” I look up to see him swinging an axe above his shoulder and my eyes follow the blade as it curves down in an arc towards me. When it hits, I don’t feel the pain, I feel the force of it, which knocks me off my chair and onto the newspaper below. I can’t breathe, my trachea possibly severed and my jugular obviously so judging by the sheer amount of blood covering my clothes and spilling over the newspaper and onto the white floorboards. Marcus is raising the axe again, “You stupid bastard! You stupid fucking bastard!” This time the axe hits my torso, and then the blows come fast and he’s yelling the whole time, “Stupid fucking bastard!” and the blade hits my legs, my chest, one blow almost completely severs my left hand. I close my eyes and they don’t open again.