Interview with TKnC co-editor Col Bury

Just a quickie for those of you who may be interested in finding out a little more regarding my crime writing and how I got involved with TKnC. American writer, Sara Tribble, interviewed me on her blog: I AM WRITE.
Go via my blog:

http://colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/2009/08/interview-with-crime-writer-col-bury.html

Or straight there:

http://saratribble.blogspot.com/2009/08/interview-monday-col-bury.html

Regards,
Col

ALICE By Rebecca Swan (Part 1)

This tale is a two parter, so please keep reading into the next blog...

This is Rebecca's first here at TK'n'C so please join us in welcoming her.

ALICE

I have a chronic hatred of the summer months, because they remind me of the time I found my sister's lifeless body on her kitchen floor. I revel in seeing the clouds, feeling the rain on my skin, but as soon as the sun shines, I just want to block it all out. I shield my face from it, I draw the curtains closed. I stay indoors until it sinks away, and wait until it’s dark before I go out, like a vampire.

When somebody dies, and their body has not yet been removed to an adequate place, a sense of heaviness lingers in the air. In the time before the corpse finds its way to the mortuary, or the chapel of the rest, the body can lie undiscovered for days, weeks, years or perhaps even indefinitely, and there is something so degrading about it. The candle has been extinguished quite suddenly, and it feels as if that person’s life - regardless of what length it was - has been pointless. You are put on earth without choosing to be, you slog away in some dead end job, or cream off the state, and then you’re dead. You are given a life to live but you’re rarely the one who benefits. What’s the point in everything when you know it will all end one day? It’s the one thing we all have in common - and it’s the only certainty in life. It’s almost too depressing to contemplate. Yet this is what I had to contemplate when I was just thirteen years old - the torrent of thoughts that overwhelmed me after I found my sister dead when she was just seventeen.

I was walking home from school on a still, balmy summer day, when some strange impulse made me take a detour via my sister’s flat. I was carrying a satchel, slung over my right shoulder, and inside it I remember clearly a Tupperware box containing the crusts from my cheese sandwiches, my homework, a half finished packet of strawberry bon-bons melting in the heat. I remember so well because later that day, it was covered in blood stains and had to be thrown away. I was wearing a friendship bracelet given to me that day by my best friend Lucy.

I alternated between walking and skipping, keeping within the squares on the pavement, whilst proudly fingering my new bracelet and its rainbow of colours. I would never see my best friend again.

My sister lived in a horrible, poky flat in a block that was notorious for housing all sorts of undesirables. You could smell the drugs being smoked, and even as a relatively innocent thirteen year old, I had developed the ability to distinguish between the smell of crack and that of cannabis. I didn’t know what a virgin was and I didn’t know any swear words but I was able to differentiate a Class A from a Class C. The whole irony is that I had to walk down a smart, tree-lined avenue to get to my sister’s address, and for a few blissful minutes you could convince yourself that she lived in one of those glorious houses and, I once fantasised, worked as a nanny for an incredibly wealthy family. But then I turned the corner and there was the eyesore in all it’s brown pebble-dashed glory. I preferred to stare up at the trees still lining the road then look at that horrific place. And to imagine my sister there, like an angel misplaced in hell, was so hard to bear.

My sister had been thrown out of home for getting pregnant when she was just about to turn sixteen. Our parents were - still are - devout Catholics, and she had brought unspeakable shame on the family. So, to show the strength of their commitment to their faith, they disowned her, and she was renegaded to life in this grubby little flat. The stress of being shunned by our parents caused her to lose the baby. But the damage was done, the family were disgraced, baby or no baby, so when she begged to come home our parents maintained that she was no longer part of our family. It absolutely killed me to see them turn her away. I hated them for it.

I reached the entrance door to her block of flats, and was gripped by the usual fear. I did not like the people that loitered around there. An old lady hobbled out of the door and I ducked inside. All I could think at that moment was how much I wanted a glass of orange squash because it was such a hot day, and I was parched. As usual, the hallways and stairwells smelt odious. Graffiti adorned the walls. If there was a hell on earth, this was it. Grimy windows looked out onto equally depressing prospects - more high-rises. Even at that age I questioned what type of person could live there, and reasoned that my sister definitely didn’t belong there.

The door to my sister’s flat was ajar. I thought nothing of this, and pushed it open, whilst calling her name. I noticed faint red footprints on the carpet in the entrance hall. I peered into the living room, where my sister could usually be found, but it was empty. The television flickered silently in the corner. The smell of cannabis pervaded the air, but that was nothing new. Whenever I asked her about it she said her friends smoked it, but she would never touch the stuff. In later years I realised this probably wasn’t true, but I think she hoped I might report back to our parents that she had been good so they would take her in again one day, and allow her to resume what was left of her childhood.

I wandered around feeling slightly confused, then drew back the beaded curtain to the kitchen. I remember trying to cry out but no sound would emanate from my mouth. There was my sister, lying face down in a pool of blood. Flies hovered lazily over her body. I found myself struggling to breathe. In my childish naiveté I thought that she might still be alive, just very badly hurt. Of course, I know now you cannot survive after losing that much blood.

Still gasping for breath, I sidestepped around the blood, and with trembling hands, dialled 999 and told the operator that I had found my sister lying on the floor with her eyes closed and a knife protruding from her back. I stood stunned while they told me the police and an ambulance were on their way. I deliberately kept my back to her body, as it was too devastating to look - to see her lying so still when we’d only spoken to each other on the phone a few nights before. I just refused to believe it. I grabbed my plait and played with it nervously. Then something in me snapped, and I acknowledged that this was my beloved sister, and I owed it to her to show her some respect. I skirted around the blood, then burst into tears and fell to my knees. I pushed her sticky, blood soaked hair away from her face. Her eyes were open and I experienced a flicker of hope that she might still be alive. But they stared vacantly into the distance. I could feel the blood soaking into my knee high socks, but now I did not care.

I imagined then that most children my age would perhaps have run screaming into the corridor, banging on doors, calling for help. But at that moment, after my initial excitement that she was still alive, I realised that she was beyond first aid. And I also did not feel that the people who resided in those flats would be the type to care. I knew even then that they might even use the situation to go into my sister’s bedroom and steal her savings. So I stayed there quietly until I was reassured by the haunting sound of sirens indicating that the emergency services were on their way to us. To me, to her.

TBC

ALICE By Rebecca Swan (PART 2)

ALICE (continued)

I picked up her hand and held it tightly in my own, watching her blood trickle through my fingers onto the lino - the revolting brown lino she’d always hated. I used to hug my sister and feel her squeeze me in return, but now the tenderness was one-sided, it could not be reciprocated. It was too late. The tears streamed down my face and mingled with the blood on the floor. The blood saturating my socks now started to dampen my skin. The drip-drip of the kitchen tap penetrated the silence. The more I cried the more I struggled to breathe. It was the only time I found that crying did not make me feel any better.

I wasn’t very experienced in the ways of the world but even then it dawned on my young mind that someone had killed my sister. I knew this wasn’t suicide, and it wasn’t some nasty accident. I knew the red footprints on the carpet probably belonged to my sister’s killer. I bent over further, and placed an arm across my sister’s back, sobbing as I eyed the brown wooden handle of the knife. I wanted to turn her over. I wanted to know how long she had been lying there. It cut my heart in two to know that she had died in this way. Why couldn’t she have grown old and died in her sleep? Why had she been made to suffer? I oscillated between devastation and anger. Through my tears I only managed to say, “Why did this happen to you?”

I angrily waved away the flies who tried to land on her body, which was so bloody that I kept losing my grip. I emitted a desperate sigh as her body slid out of my arms back down to the floor. Then, as I attempted to stand, my foot slipped in her blood and I fell to my knees, both hands palms down in the blood. I was in a state of panic - that type of confused panic where you just do not know what to do. I felt like it was another of my bad dreams and if I pinched myself I might wake up.

I heard the sound of someone screaming from the hallway, and cried out in fright. A woman stood by the threshold to the kitchen, swathed in the bead curtain, a look of utter horror painted across her face. Her skin was ashen. She beckoned me towards her.
“Come here, kid. Come here.”
She waved frantically for me to go and stand with her, causing the bangles on her wrist to jingle against each other.
“What happened?” she asked slowly.
I shook my head, and blinked away my tears. I turned back to my sister.
“I n-need to call the p-police,” she stammered, but she stayed rooted to the spot, eyeing the phone on the other side of the kitchen.
Then she seemed to acknowledge the sirens, which were getting closer and closer.
“Oh, y-you phoned them already,” she said, looking as if she were about to be sick.

She was carrying a green carrier bag, which she dropped to the floor. I thought she was strange. And I was angry that she didn’t come over and help me turn my sister over so her face wasn’t in the blood.
“I live next door,” she said. “I was just bringing her some shopping…” her voice broke and she turned away, placing her hand to her mouth.
I knew she was crying.
“The police will be here soon. I think you should come next door to my flat and I’ll get you cleaned up, give you some milk and cookies. How’s about it?”
She extended her hand again, and tried to smile. All I could think was, did she really think I could even think of milk and cookies at that moment…was that really going to make everything better? I took an immediate dislike to her. I wanted her to leave my sister and I in peace until the emergency services arrived. I wanted to pluck the knife from my sister’s back, and clean all the blood off her body.

“Please, please come over here. She’s gone now, kid,” she pleaded.
I shook my head. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and walked across the floor, cringing as she grabbed one of my bloody hands. I hoped my hand would slip out of hers easily, but she held me firmly. I looked up at her, and saw an almost demonic look in her eyes.
“Come to my flat. Now.”
“I don’t want to!” I cried. “Now leave me alone.”
Her clothes smelt of stale smoke and her skin was covered in spots and blemishes.
“Get off me!” I shouted, as she tried to twist my arm backwards.
This could only be a nightmare.
“Come with me or I’ll fucking kill you. You’ll end up just like your sister you fucking little bitch. Now do as I say.”

The sirens stopped and I knew the police and the ambulance were there. I only had to struggle with this woman for a little longer before they found me, and could take her away.
“Hel..” I started to shout, but she cupped her hand over my mouth.
“Don’t even fucking think about it, bitch. I didn’t think I’d have to fuck up two from the same fucking family in the same fucking day!”
She yanked me backwards, while I kicked and wriggled with all my might. I went to bite her on her arm but she punched my head before I could do it.
“Fucking do that, and you’ll be dead before the fucking pigs get up the stairs!” She spat all over me as she said this.

She dragged me out of the flat. I thrashed around with every ounce of strength I had left, trying to drag my feet along the floor so the police could follow the trail. They’d find my discarded satchel beside my sister, they’d acknowledge that a young girl had made the call, and they’d immediately start looking for me.

I was dragged into a flat two doors away from my sister’s. It smelt putrid inside. It didn’t look like anyone had cleaned there in ten years. She kept her hand over my mouth until she had slammed the front door behind her. I tried to scream again, but she crammed a filthy cloth in my mouth.

“If you make any more noise, I’ll set fire to that cloth, I swear!” she said angrily.
She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, then darted into the kitchen, and picked up a butcher’s knife. It glinted in the sunlight, but I saw that it was already covered in blood. Was this another knife she’d used on my poor sister? She looked at me and smiled, revealing her crooked, discoloured teeth. I could hear commotion in the hallway outside, and I knew the police had discovered my sister.

The nameless woman sauntered slowly towards me, turning the knife over in her hands. My stomach lurched. She smiled and sniggered to herself. Then I heard someone pounding on her front door, and the police identified themselves. The knife dropped to her side and she rolled her eyes. Then she ignored the knocking and began to walk towards me, slowly raising the knife higher in the air.

“Two in one day,” she said quietly. “Now that would guarantee me a life sentence.”
I pulled the dirty rag from my mouth and screamed. She threw herself at me, but I rolled across the floor, just as the door was kicked in. Policemen flooded the flat. I rolled onto my stomach so I was face down, just as my sister had been, buried my face into the filthy carpet, and cried tears of sadness and rage.

* * *

I never returned to my school, and I never saw my best friend ever again. My parents promptly packed my belongings and sent me to live with my grandmother fifty miles away, so I was never exposed to the media frenzy that followed my sister’s murder. I lost the bracelet Lucy gave me and in later years I realised my grandmother had probably disposed of it on my mother’s instruction - either because it served as a permanent reminder of that horrific day, or because it was deemed necessary to discard any reminder of old life, prior to her death - an exorcism, if you like.

When the local press discovered that my parents had rejected my sister from the family home, they lambasted them. A witch hunt ensued, with my grieving parents the target. A darkness fell over my parent’s faces during that time and that haunted look has never left their faces. I knew it was guilt because they had forced my sister into such a salubrious world and with horrifying consequences. I also knew they felt wholly responsible - as if they might as well have been the person in the dock answering to her murder. All except their fervently Catholic friends disowned them.

Years down the line, when my mother suffered with arthritis, I started to clean her house once a week to help her out. I was of course an adult by then, married with three children of my own. I was tidying my mother’s dressing table when I found a dog-eared, yellow piece of newspaper caught at the back of one of the drawers. Now, I had never been told the reason behind my sister’s murder. At times, I had been curious to know, but I knew I would not be able to cope with that knowledge, and so for many years remained in blissful ignorance. My head had been well and truly in the sand. Yet now, accidentally, I had found the answer.

A school photograph of my sister smiled back at me from the paper. I felt woeful that she had been denied the opportunity to grow into an adult as I had. Through tearful eyes I read that she had effectively died because of her neighbour’s Heroin addiction. The harridan who had pulled me away from her body and stuffed a filthy rag into my mouth had knocked at my sister’s door, begging for money to feed her habit. When my sister told her the truth - that she had no money to spare - the woman had shoved her into the kitchen and stabbed her thirty times. My stomach lurched but I read on.

The article said her killer, who was called Kathy (I had never known her name) told Police she had no regrets about what she had done and that she’d do it again. She’d been sentenced to life imprisonment. I tore the article to pieces in disgust and thought longingly of the brief thirteen years of memories I had to remind me of my sister. And for the first time since her death, I said her name. I whispered, “Alice.”

A BETTER PLACE - by Mike Wilkerson

A BETTER PLACE

Riding shotgun and time’s not on my side. Streetlights, neon signs- blips as we pass them by - 65 in a 45. Jimmy’s driving and he’s as cool as the other side of the pillow. Jimmy’s always cool and tonight, he’s doing me a grand favor. This time, it’s not about business - this is strictly a personal run, for me: little brother did bad things, to the wrong people. Now, he’s in deep.

Can we help him? Maybe.

Will blood be spilled?

Jimmy says, count on it.

***

Four blocks off Coquina Key. In two minutes time, you move from waterfront property to the other side of life. The side you never hear about, because they try to hide that it even exists. It’s our destination.

There, on the corner: a Florida style ranch with a craaaazy safety orange paint job. Christmas lights in the windows; plastic, glowing Jack-o-lantern on the porch - funny: it’s mid-August. We pull up, two blocks off, hump it to the front door. Me and Jimmy stand there, look at each other. Jimmy nods. Jimmy goes six foot four and two forty five. Jimmy puts a foot to the door and turns the entryway into shitloads of kindling. He’s done this before.

I go in first. Six people inside; four men, two women - flat ass stunned. Boxes of opened kitty litter, mask that funky, meth lab smell. I locate little brother first- he’s bent over a chair, sans clothes; sans integrity.

Sans heartbeat.

Only, I don’t know it.

He’s bleeding- everywhere. He’s missing a strip of hair, right down the middle - reverse mohawk: grotesque, modern art in the middle of the room. Surveying takes me five seconds, tops. Lounging dead heads are starting to stir - too late. Jimmy, is already going to work, he’s put two to the ground: bleeding, gagging - larynx’s crushed. The place is a frenzy.

Women, can be the most dangerous animal. One carries a knife, runs it deep into my lower back, kidney area. I turn towards her and put a shotgun butt against her head. I see her pinned pupils roll upwards. I see her body go limp, hit the floor. I didn’t want to do it- reactions, betrayed me.

I stumble to little brother. A body flies across the room, hits the other wall, twelve foot across - Jimmy’s third victim. I scout for the fourth man, the second woman - they’ve split, they’ve seen enough to know the odds.

Jimmy says: “Get your brother untied and get the fuck out of here!” then starts running a search of the house.

Something’s not right. I’m feeling tired and a blast furnace goes off in my head. I fumble with the knots in the ropes. Little brother’s not moving and my hands feel swollen.

“What the fuck’s wrong?” I say to myself. Nobody hears me. My lips, never move.

Jimmy’s back. A knife, cuts through little brothers ropes. Double time: he grabs both of us and we’re back out the door and in the car. All things considered, the job went smooth: no shots fired, noise to a minimum- just the way we wanted it.

Not quite.

Not even close.

***

Full circle - riding shotgun and time’s no longer an issue. Streetlights, neon signs - blips as we pass them by - 65 in a 45. Jimmy’s driving and he’s still as cool as the other side of the pillow. Jimmy’s always cool and tonight, he’s done me a grand favor. This time, it wasn’t about business- it was strictly a personal run, for me: little brother did bad things, to the wrong people.

Now, his debts are paid.

Epitaph that will never be written: a blood smeared corpse in the back seat of a car. A life extinguished. Some will say too young. Others, will say he was lucky to make it this far. Latter trumps former.

Did we help him? No.

Was there blood.

My God, the blood.

Jimmy looks over to me. I know his look, know he’s right. He can only take us so far and we’re reaching the limit.

Bayfront Emergency Center: Jimmy’s still doing 50. People are zigging, people are zagging, people are fucking screaming. Jimmy’s out of the car, disguise improv: hat down low, sunglasses on; dragging me and little brother, out into the sticky night air. I’m hanging on, but won’t last long; internal bleeding= invisible killer.

I give Jimmy his out: “Beat it, amigo,”

Jimmy’s still playing it cool - it’s who he is. “Will do,” he says. “I’ll see about the two that got away and I’ll see you around.” And, he’s on his way.

Jumbled figures, in baby blue scrubs, descend on the two of us: prodding, grabbing, asking questions. I watch Jimmy drive away, knowing he’ll be fine: tags, car, will go untraced. He’s done this before.

“I’ll see you around”- I want to believe his words. I want to believe, that my brother will wake up tomorrow. Hope resigns, but I hold on to it. Even as I slip away, I want to believe that there’s a better place for us, somewhere…

BIO:
Mike Wilkerson is currently hard at work on a crime novel, based where he resides in St. Petersburg, FL. His short fiction appears on A Twist Of Noir and Thrillers, Killers N Chillers.

MISSING by Karen Mossman

TK'n'C welcomes Karen with her tale following a group of associates after one of them goes...

MISSING!


Nick was about to put the key in his door when the policeman approached him.

Charlie was called to the foreman’s office and asked to accompany them to the station.

Marie, his girlfriend, was working on reception when they came for her. It was embarrassing having to explain why she needed someone to cover for her.

Russ tried to dodge the police, which didn’t go down well. Wasn’t he the one who told Michelle he would kill her?

“I never did,” said Russ frowning.

Her friends said she had been depressed lately. Was it true?

“She was a little down, yes.” Nick told them remembering.

What was her relationship with Russ like?”

“Stormy,” said Charlie remembering how he’d found her crying.

What was she like the last time you saw her? They asked Nick. “Quiet, tense like. I asked her what was wrong and she told me to mind my own business. I heard her crying in the night. She was gone when I got up.”

They asked Russ the same question. He scowled. “Sulky,”

Charlie shrugged. “She wanted money to feed her habit.”

They hadn’t known she was a user.

“What?” Nick was indignant. “Rubbish!”

Marie chewed her nails. “I thought she was, but she swore she never touched the stuff. Russ had the habit. They had a one-sided relationship, y’know”

Nick pulled a face, “She was besotted with the guy. He was bad news. She knew it, deep down, like. But try telling Michelle anything....”

Charlie lit a cigarette. “I think she was scared of him. I think he had some kind of hold on her.”

One of them wasn’t telling the truth. What about home life, parents?

Nick shrugged. “She and dad were always arguing.”

About?

“Boyfriends, I suppose. She always picked the dregs, y’know? Wrong sorts for a girl like her, that’s what dad used to say, anyway.”

Like who?

“Ones with problems, trouble makers, ones who had been in trouble with you lot, know what I mean?”

They asked Marie what she thought about Michelle.

“I didn’t like her much, but what could I do? Nick was Charlie’s mate. His sister and Charlie, well, it’s over now. Least Charlie said it so.”

And was it?

Staring at the table she followed the white cup rings with her eyes, gauging how much she'd tell them. “I think she was coming onto Charlie.”

Charlie’s gaze didn’t meet their eyes. “No.”

They left his word to hang in the air, compelling him to say more. Instead he reached for a cigarette and lit it slowly. Playing for time, they’d seen it before. They waited.

“No,” he said again.

He was lying.

They were playing it softly, but in interrogation room 3, the air was blue. Russ wasn’t having that. “Me and Shell, we were like that” He crossed his fingers.

Softly, softly was getting nowhere. It was time to go in for the kill.

Marie looked horrified. “I didn’t kill her, I didn’t.” She was tired, nerves spent. “I was sick of her coming on to Charlie. He’s mine now, mine, not hers, not any more.” They accused her again. “I didn’t kill her, we argued that’s all.”

Charlie put out his cigarette and reached for another. “Course she liked me, we’ve been friends a long time. She didn’t want to let go. Wanted to get back together, but I’ve got Marie now, don’t I?”

Nick looked at them, “Rubbish! We didn’t row about Charlie. She wasn’t after him. Who told you that? I asked what’s wrong, she told me to mind me own business.” He shrugged. “I went out. Left her to it. When I came back I heard her cryin’, but I didn’t go in, I mean, it ain’t the first, like. She gets mixed up in things.”

They were interrupted then. A formal identification was needed. As next of kin, Nick would have to do it. Afterwards he sat with his head in his hands. It was a shock. He had never seen a dead body before.

They explained it was time to come clean. Marie burst into tears. “I hit her, we fought, but she left, she left afterwards, honest she did, honest.”

Russ went ape, he threw back the chair and kicked at the table. It took five police officers to restrain him. As they locked the door of his cell, one said to the other, “I think he’s upset.”

“Aye, or guilty.”

Charlie clenched his jaw and balled his fists, but apart from that he showed no emotion. It was an odd reaction for someone who was once in love with her. Or was perhaps still in love with her?

Nick was relieved when they let him go. Who’s ever body it was, it didn’t belong to his sister. So where was she? Where was Michelle?

“I dunno,” said Charlie. “Why would I know? She didn’t come to me. I’m not her keeper. Why would I know?”

If Marie was relieved, she showed no sign. “Ask Russ, my guess is she told him about her feelings for Charlie. Or he found out or, maybe she got her comeuppance another way.”

Russ fixed his gaze somewhere above their heads. “You put me through that, and it weren’t even her. Bastards.”

They told him what they thought.

“No,” he yelled. “There was no relationship with Charlie. All right, so I shouldn’t have accused her. I was jealous, see. Come on, man, why would I kill her? She was the one who got me off the stuff. I’m clean now.” He banged his fist down on the table. “It’s him, Charlie, I know it’s him. He’s the one who couldn’t let go. Couldn’t accept she loves me now.” He put his head in his hands and groaned.

It looked like they would have to let them all go, until there was a body that is, or new evidence. Maybe Michelle wanted to disappear. Millions of people go missing every year. Russ was perhaps one more lame dog she had helped. And Charlie, well he had Marie now. Perhaps she did want him back, or maybe it was the other way round. Marie was jealous, and Nick, well Nick had probably seen it all before.

PIE IN THE SKY by Vallon Jackson

This is the latest in the PIE series following the feckless Wile E. Coyote antics of our nameless narrator and his quest to end the days of his philandering nemesis, Robert the Red...
(To read previous episodes, put PIE in the search blog bar above)

Pie in the sky

I wish that Robert had just kept things to himself, but he’s always the braggart and couldn’t help sharing the sordid details about his latest conquest.

I just happened to know that Miriam was married, happily or otherwise, to a guy at my squash club called Jim Bunk, and I happened to like Jim.

I thought about tipping Jim about his wife’s illicit rendezvous with Robert, but in the end I let it go. Robert’s dalliances had already made a killer out of one man and I didn’t want to send poor Jim down the same dark path that I’d trodden these past few months.

When I discovered that my red-headed work mate had been dipping my wife behind my back, I’d made it my mission to send the bastard screaming into his deserved place in hell. It was just a pity that I was pretty useless when it came to murder; that or way too good for my own good. My tally up until now?
My wife. check.
A train load of commuters. Check.
A hairdresser and her lunchtime appointment. Check.
The master of ceremonies at a corporate gig. Check.

It took me that long to realise that I was just being too grandiose for my own good. I had to keep things simple. My next attempt on Robert the Red was while we were out on a team building exercise. Split from the rest of our workmates, high on a cliff-side, I’d seen my opportunity. A quick shove and that would have been that. Robert would have been even redder than usual.
The problem was that my inherent bad luck had kicked in, I’d stepped on a slimy stone and it was me who went over the cliff-side. Only Robert’s quick thinking had saved me. He grabbed my ankle and held me dangling there over the chasm while I almost wet my pants. Blissfully unaware of how I’d ended in that precarious position he reeled me back to safety.

Against my better judgement – and eating humble pie - I felt I owed the prick my life. And by that very virtue, I now owed him his.

Except when he came into the office telling me all about his night on a pool table with Miriam Bunk, well, my old hatred returned ten-fold. It was all I could do not to attack him there and then, but I didn’t think that the staple-gun I was holding would be enough to finish him with; the cheap bit of office tat had a habit of sticking after every third click.

Robert had noticed my red face, but he’d misread it.

You think I did a bad thing? He asked.

I nodded. She’s a married woman, Robert, I said.

Yeah, but by all accounts, the only thing Jim Bunk serves up these days is a half-arsed volley at the squash club. I was doing both of them a favour. I keep telling you, he’d said, you have to dip your fingers in as many pies as you can, to stop them growing stale.

Was that why my wife had turned to Robert? Wasn’t I showing her the attention she needed? Maybe that was because I was working so hard to keep her in the nice things that she needed. Exactly how Jim did for his ungrateful wife.

I walked away from Robert before he could read the murder that had returned to my eyes.
I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.
I was too busy plotting.

Next day, at the office, I announced my idea for a charity event. Knowing that Robert would leap at the chance to impress the ladies with his idea of derring-do, he signed up immediately to take part in the parachute jump.

For my idea to work, I needed to up the numbers, and I sent round a memo to drum up as much interest as possible. We ended up with twenty people in total, plus a couple others who unfortunately missed the deadline.

That meant two planes, because to keep any suspicion falling on me, we had to go up separately.
Of course, there’s always a buddy system in operation and I paired up with Robert, checking his harness and chute was properly secure.

I was on the first plane. Robert waved me off and up we went, ten of us in the back of a plane.
I was papping in my jumpsuit, but I had to go through with the jump. How couldn’t I do it when it was all my idea? I did notice that mine wasn’t the only white face among the first group, or of those left on the ground that would follow us up. The only ones looking brave were those who’d been late in answering my memo and didn’t get a chance to take part. Even my friend Jim had turned out to wave us off.

Coming down was joyful, and I almost forgot what was about to happen.

But then I saw the second plane take off and soar into the milky blue sky and a grim smile pasted itself across my face.

I alighted at the designated landing zone, then with my nine elated work-mates and the others who’d come to support us, we all stood around watching as a string of black dots were flicked out of the bowels of the second plane. We were all oohing and aahing, as you do. Watching as the black dots blossomed chutes and began the slow drift to earth.

Then the murmurs began, then a swell of panic as everyone became aware that one of the black dots was having trouble, its chute tangled in a funnel of cloth that did nothing to slow its hurtling decent. I hid my smile behind my hand, as I rolled my eyes in feigned horror with the rest of them.

The black dot grew limbs, and they were flailing wildly at the air as if trying to grab at the fabric of heaven.

It plummeted like a rock and hit the ground a hundred yards out. I swear I heard the crunch of bones all the way across the airfield.

People screamed and began running towards the puff of dust that marked Robert the Red’s less than salubrious downfall. I didn’t know why they were hurrying, because there would be nothing anyone could do for him. But I was in more of a hurry to get there and I overtook the lot of them. I pulled out my penknife and started cutting away at the cloth and lines that shrouded the steaming mess beneath (in truth covering up the fact that I’d already snicked through a couple of the guide-wires while doing the final check of his chute) as though I was trying to offer emergency help.

People finally arrived around me, and I felt hands tugging me away from the splattered wreck of humanity. It’s no good, someone cried, he’s dead.

Robert, oh my God, Robert, I moaned to add some validity to my fake grief.

Then, at my shoulder, my nemesis said; Jesus, I’m glad I pulled out at the last minute, otherwise that might have been me.

I turned around and squinted up at Robert.

How? I asked him.

Well, after we spoke about it, I felt a little bad about doing Jim Bunk’s missus. I knew it was his lifelong ambition to go sky-diving, so I let him take my place. I feel sorry for the poor bastard, but I’m glad that I found another pie to dabble today.

He nodded over at the jump instructor’s girlfriend who appeared at the door of the office looking flushed and a little rumpled.

BIO:
Vallon Jackson is the pseudonym of a published thriller author who likes to have a little fun with his imagination when he isn't writing his latest book.

THE APPRENTICE - by Lily Childs

Lily chills yet again...

THE APPRENTICE

Carlotta jabbed the ragged wound with an insensitive finger.

"You’ve screwed it up."

"Forgive me. It’s…"

"I know, I know." Carlotta studied her young disciple, taking in his distress. "It happens. But you need to be more careful."

Ricardo sighed and hung his head in shame; he was desperate to please her. Biting at his lips, a crust of black blood fell into his mouth from where it had congealed. He licked it, blending the flakes and his saliva into a sticky fluid.

The coppery taste on Ricardo’s tongue made his heart race, and his groin ache.

Carlotta caught the earthy stink of his desire. She laughed. "You’ve got so much to learn. Come here."

Ricardo gave in to his mistress ungracefully. The bed rocked; the body beside them flopped back and forth, flabby and pink. Still alive.

***

The pair lay sweating and spent. Carlotta touched the boy’s face; her fingers played with his lips. Kissing his swollen mouth gently, she ran her tongue over his broken fang.

"Don’t worry. It’ll grow back."

Carlotta turned to examine their victim. She lifted the girl’s long hair away from her plump neck, exposing the throat.

She smiled."Come Ricardo...Let’s feed."


BIO:
Lily Childs is a budding writer in the mystery, chiller and horror genre, and is thrilled to have her short stories published on Thrillers Killers 'N' Chillers.
She is currently writing her first novel.
Lily lives on the Sussex Coast with her artist husband and beautiful 5-year old daughter.

STRANDWOLF - by Susan Eames

Another debutant: Susan...

STRANDWOLF

Gela trudged seawards, weaving her way through a moonscape of boulders laced with lichen. Camera bags dragged her arms.

The unpredictable Atlantic lay subdued under fog; a glittering fog that frequently shrouded the ocean along this stretch of the Skeleton Coast .

A rotting Cape fur seal was splayed in grisly abandon. Nostrils quivering, Gela skirted the seal and crunched across a thousand shells to the shoreline. Bleached, salt-stung whale bones lay scattered and forlorn.

Glutinous brown kelp thrived in the shallows. The kelp bunched so thickly, the sludge-green waves struggled to lap the shore. Gela set up her tripod and began shooting in the watery-grey light.

The torpid slip-slop of the waves deepened subtly; fog was almost tickling her toes.

A strandwolf loped along the beach, scenting the seal. Gela turned towards the carcass thinking to photograph the hyena scavenging on the carrion.

She heard its excited yip and bent to adjust her lens. The fog rolled in. Damn! Damp tendrils caressed and chilled. Gela ’s equipment was too precious to risk in the moisture laden air. It was time to go.

She picked her way around the boulders and tangles of salty shrubs, straining to see her way in the pearly light.

A familiar stench assaulted her like a slap. She heard a shuffling sound. The dead seal coalesced out of the fog. Christ, she had walked a circle!

The strandwolf yipped. Gela halted. Shadows flickered in the muffled light. She spun about. The strandwolf yipped again but the fog distorted the sound so effectively she couldn’t tell its location. She forced herself to relax. The bad light was making her paranoid. Lone hyenas weren’t dangerous; they only attacked live prey that was either hurt or vulnerable.

The strandwolf giggled softly as the glittering fog blinded her.


BIO:
Susan Eames is primarily a freelance travel writer. She has written travel and dive features for publications in Spain , Fiji , New Zealand , Australia and Papua New Guinea. With only one short story published by Writing Magazine in 2005, she has never considered herself to be a fiction writer. However she has recently discovered a passion for flash fiction.

MY GREATEST HITS - by William Blick

TKnC welcomes Bill...

MY GREATEST HITS

Green grass and high tides forever. The lines of the highway drift in and out of my view as the rain is driving down. What’s that racket in the back? I wish she’d shut up and quit making all that racket. I’m listening to The Outlaws, who featured not one, not two, but THREE guitarists. And I’m going good. Almost to the state line. Texas. Nothing for miles out on this highway. Not a smokey in sight. And I’m mesmerized.

Things would have worked out differently if she would’ve just listened to what I said. If she did what she was told, we wouldn’t be in what I would like to call a “situation”. There’s an occasional rest stop and a diner and a motel. I’ve gotta keep moving. If I show you a place where stories all come true, would you let me in to see what’s really you. Goddamn genius! There she goes again.

I didn’t kill her. I found her that way, I swear. In fact, she’s not even dead. She’s just a little “impaired. Alright, I didn’t find her that way. I bashed her in the head with the ashtray made of marble stone. It had to hurt. She started to bleed profusely. I didn’t want to hurt her. Now I don’t know what to do. Finish the job? I have to get rid of her? Somewhere? Where? It will come to me.

Then there was her boss. The guy she was a little too friendly with and I knew their relationship was more than just professional. Did I catch them? No. I just know things. Like second sight. Like Telekinesis. I know when someone is trying to put one over on me. I know when they want to make me look like jerk. And if it’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s looking like a jerk. No one’s gonna make me look like a jerk. So I got rid of him. He was easy. But I won’t tell you about that.

And now it’s Midnight Rambler. Oh don’t do that. Oh don’t do that. You heard about the ? honey it’s not one of those. The music loud. I like it loud. Suddenly, lights flickering from behind me in the distance.

“Is there a problem officer?” I ask.

“License and registration,” the young officer says authoritatively.

But it’s too late because she starts banging in the trunk. I put two between the copper’s eyes. There we are the two of us...I'm sorry three of us… out on the that Texas highway. Oops. Now what do I do?

I open the trunk, but you see I’m prepared. She screams, but they are muffled by the gag. I throw the copper in on top of her. She’s squirming. Oh shit. What do I do? How do I take care this? I don’t want to finish the job. I mean it was true love with me and her. Right from the beginning. And love transcends all.

Tuesday’s gone, now. I continue my trek through the night. The abandoned roads of Texas. Then my stomach starts to the growl. I’m leaving my woman left alone. The guitar solo. Wah, wah! Train roll on. Damn who ever made this tape was a genius. It’s one of those “mixed tapes”. It basically contains all of my greatest hits. I sure love music. Music loves you when no one else does. Music never let’s you down when women do. Music would never cheat on you.

I stop at Kenny’s Burger Stop. She’s not banging so much now. I guess that dead weight on top of her. Slowed her down. The rains are coming down now. I bite into the burger. There is just me and an old drunk at the end and Marge, the waitress, who’s popping her gum and listening to Perry Como. How does she listen to that shit? And in the back’s Ed who’s flipping the burger. I light up a smoke. I stare out the window to the road. Into the blackness of night. I know I’m gonna pay for my sins. I may even fry. We all get what’s coming to us.

Back on the road again. The tape is playing still. One Way Out. Allman Brothers. She hasn’t banged around in while. Maybe she finished the job and keeled over. I see a hippy hitchhiker in the distance. What’s he doing out in this rain? Can’t let a man suffer. If he acts up, I will carve him up with this here blade in between my legs. It’s as simple as that. I need some company to keep me awake.

I pull over. Roll down the window.

“Hop in,” I says.

“Thanks.”

One way out babe. Lord I just can’t go out that door.

“Alright,” the young man says as I light a smoke.

“You dig the Allmans?” I say.

“I used to be a roadie,” he says.

God saw fit to put this man in my path. Goddamn. A roadie. Carrying Duane’s guitars. Travelling all over the states. Every back alley. Roadside. Diner. Bar. Gin joint. Juke Joint. Dance Hall. Pool Hall. Then she starts again in the back. I try to turn up the radio. But the kid notices.

“There’s a noise in your trunk,” says the kid.

“Really I don’t hear it,” I say.

He turns down the radio and you can hear an audible scream. Goddamn it! She must’ve gotten the muzzle off. So I pull to the side of the road. I stare at the kid. He’s looking at me all bug-eyed. She’s screaming in the back. “Help me!” He tries to open the door. I lock the door. Child locks. I just smile at him. I’ve got to finish the job. Roadie or no Roadie. Then silence from the trunk.

“Don’t beg me for your life. I’m going to kill you. It’s as simple as that. I know you were a roadie for one of the greatest rock bands alive, but I’m going to kill you anyhow,” I explain. Always good to explain to them.

Up ahead in the distance. I see a shimmering light. I can’t take any chances. I’m not going to kill you here. The kid’s scared. I can tell. If it’s one thing I can tell it’s fear. I smell fear. So I drive down the highway a ways. Then there’s those flickering lights. I hope they don’t recognize me from that copper back in Texarkana. That was a ways back.

“Kid, you say one word and I kill you, the cop, that bitch in the trunk. I ain’t afraid to die. Are you?” I explain further and then, “Is there a problem officer,” I say as I roll down the window.

“How you folks doin tonight? License and registration,” he says in his cop speak.

“Just fine. What can I help you with?” I say all calm and cool.

“You got a tail light out,” he says.

“Oh, yeah. Been meaning to get that fixed.” I swear if that bitch starts up I’m gonna get nasty.

“Where you boys headed?”

“California.”

“That’s a ways.”

“Is that all, officer?”

Then he lets me have it and says, “You wouldn’t have been in Texarakana early last night?”

“No sir,” I say.

"No sir,” the kid says.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you step out of the car?”

I open the door. Then she starts screaming. The officer freezes. He withdraws his gun and shouts, “Put your hands in the air!”

I do it.

“Now don’t get excited,” I say. He has the gun on me then he goes over to the trunk. “ Open it!” says the guy, really pissed now. He takes the keys and goes over to the trunk and open it. There is a ripe smell emanating from it.

“Geezus! Get down on the ground! Now motherfucker!” shouts the cop.

I do what I’m told…..All the while Duane Allman’s guitar is blasting away.

“Bury your fucking head in the ground I said, boy!”

So I done it. Jeesus. He puts his knee in my back and cuffs me with cold steel. “You too, boy!” He says to the hippy and slaps some cuffs on him.

“I just was hitching. I didn’t know nothing. He was gonna kill me. I swear,” offers the Kid.

“Shut the fuck up! I got my eye on you, boy.” He’s going to radio for backup.

“Yeah, I got two perps, two bodies in the trunk. One still alive. She’s been in there for while. Yeah. The other. A dead cop. Texarkana badge. Yup, ” says the officer.

“Just relax ma’m. I’ll cut you loose. Take a breath, you're safe. This scum can’t hurt you any more.”

You see I never wanted to hurt her. Women can hurt you without hurting you. You know what I mean? No one is making a jerk out of me! I couldn’t let her make a jerk out of me. You see you’ve got to look to the music. The classics. Blues. Rock and Roll. Guitar and Riffs. Heartbreak and emotion. That tape was one of the greatest tapes I’ve ever heard and that was one of the best road trips I’ve ever taken. Now they’re gonna haul my ass in. I’m gonna fry. Never!

So I take a chunk out of his ankle. He hits me with the pistol. But the pistol falls out of his hand. I scramble for it. Soon there are a whole mess of cops and they’re on me. They beat me with clubs, guns, fists, boots. Just when they think they got me, I get hold of one of their pistols.

You see music is life-saving. Redemptive. It may be the only real thing we can call our own. That is our individual emotions around music. When the music is over, life becomes stagnant and rotten like that cop that was in my trunk. Who wants to live like that. Not me. I try to fire the pistol. But it’s awkward cause I got it behind my back on account of the cuffs.

It’s too late. It’s too late and I know it. They’ve had enough. I see the one boy in blue out the corner of my eye. The music is over. The tape is over. No more blues, sweat, heartbreak, disillusionment, fear, inferiority, insecurity. No more of anything ever.

The bullet enters my temple. Just before the blackness, I hear Freddy Mercury screaming, “I Want it All!” I want it all, but I’ll settle for nothing. Then blackness.


BIO:
William 'Bill' Blick holds a master’s degree in English Literature and is pursuing a degree in Library Science from Queens College. He currently teaches research writing online. His work can be seen in The Pulp Pusher, Underground Voices, Alien Skin,, Bewildering Stories, Scribal Tales, Inscribed, Revisions, Seven Seas, Straitjackets Magazine. His film criticism can be seen at SensesofCinema.com.

BROKEN - by Col Bury

BROKEN

He sipped his Jack Daniels and began to reminisce…

‘Don’t be silly, son. I’ll always be around,’ were his dad’s last words to him before he’d run off with that harlot.

A home, broken.

‘I’ll stop drinking one day, kidder.’ But his mum didn’t - liver failure.

A bond, broken.

His army days were his escape, Johnny’s shoulder a comfort. The days of his life: the laughs, the banter. They travelled across barren terrain. He recalled the jokes were flying, the laughter peaking, when the bomb struck. He was blasted clear of the vehicle and hobbled back to the burning wreck, ears burning, his leg broken. Johnny was in two halves.

His body, broken.

Years of numbness, solitude followed. Then he met her, in a bar. Her smile was enough and he loved her from that moment on. Engulfed by happiness, marriage followed plus the obligatory two kids. He taught them values, loyalty: his life whole again. Then she met HIM.

Vows, broken.

Sucking hard on his cigarette he deliberated his next move, considering his kids. ‘I’ll always be there for you,’ he’d said. But he’d come full circle.

A promise, broken.

He gazed at the revolver.

A man, broken.

BIO:
Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel and his ever-growing selection of short stories can be found here on TKnC, A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences and Blink Ink. He blogs and interviews crime authors here:

http://colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/