CATTLE CALL by Terry White

Terry returns in style with...

Cattle Call






Freddie Arbogast had no more doubts now.  When the call came, he was giddy with relief.  It was like dropping his gear after a forced march.  He had arrived back at two a.m. from his second pizza delivery shift and saw the red blinking light of the message recorder.  A young woman’s voice with that irritating California lilt said he was to report downtown in front of the Radisson lobby at five in the morning.  He was told to shave closely, wear a dark business suit and would be given instructions and told what to do when he got there.


Expecting something like this, Freddie had already provided himself with three inexpensive suits from Goodwill—blue, charcoal gray, and beige—and had made the same alterations in all three including the darts in the back that would allow him to wear his holster without drawing attention.


Freddie’s cab dropped him off at quarter to five in front of the hotel.  A beefeater opened the door.  He hadn’t slept and his eyes were scratchy.  His heart hammered in his ribs.  A film of sweat lacquered his brow and his armpits were dripping from tension. The temperature was in the seventies with the suffocating mugginess of Lake Erie certain to make things unbearable by noon.  A one-minute walk-on might not happen until late at night. 


By five, people were milling about like hungry sheep.  Freddie held himself in check with a pasted-on smile and tried not to seem out of place in case somebody was watching via the hotel’s CCTV system.  By five-forty, one of the assistant lackeys herded them all into a dozen SUV rentals and they were driven to the Warehouse District. A different lackey showed up and divided them into groups; when the cue was given, he said, they were to walk toward the camera, on a tracking dolly in front of Arturo’s on the corner of West Sixth.  They were not ever to look at the camera. He repeated these instructions with emphasis on not looking at the actors heading opposite them.  


Freddie was soaked in perspiration from listening to this self-important minion rattle on.  His guts seemed twisted into a pretzel, he had an urge to take a dump, and ants crawled under his skin.  He could no longer hear the words the imbecile was speaking.   


An hour went by, then two.  A dozen times Freddie felt himself on the verge of blowing a rod, ripping off his clothes and running down the empty streets, gibbering.  It was unbearable. Amazingly, no one noticed the volcanic pressure boiling up inside him.  A tall black man in sunglasses stepped out of the restaurant and looked around for a moment, frowned and fixed his beret.  His shaved head glistened when he removed his beret and Freddie recognized him as one of the four stars in town.  


At four, Freddie’s group was signalled to begin walking down the street.  He manoeuvred to get himself near the back and when the cue was flashed across the street, they headed toward the restaurant at the pace explained that morning.  Each man and woman was given a prop—umbrellas, attaché cases, laptops—“accoutrement of the workaday professional,” as that little creep director had tediously explained a million times.


As the group passed the restaurant, Freddie peeled off, a wingman on his own mission, and headed directly up the steps of Arturo’s.  He heard a loud voice amplified by a megaphone scream: “Cut!  Cut!  Where the hell’s that guy think he’s going?” 


Freddie ignored him and everything else.  Sound coalesced to a tinny buzz in his head.  His vision contracted like a hi-beam on what was directly in front of him.  


His heart bumped in his chest:  Where were they?  The Fate Sisters made it easy.  The four big celebrities were isolated at a table in the center of the restaurant with all the other tables pushed back.  Waiters or actors playing waiters hovered nearby.  Three cameras triangulated on the table. Two couples having an unreal meal.  A last supper . . . 


Freddie removed his Baby Desert Eagle from his holster and shot the older female in the back just as she was raising a cup to her lips.  The .45 ACP round blew a grapefruit-sized hole coming out her chest and spattered the young beauty opposite her with a face full of red matter.  Her carefully made-up face was instantly stippled with red freckles while tissue debris and bone fragments dotted her coiffed hair.  Before she could form her pretty mouth into a scream, the famous tall black man stood up.  Freddie shot him just below the Adam’s apple and he somersaulted backwards.
Time had stopped now.  No sounds at all, which didn’t surprise Freddie because he had experienced the same thing during those terrifying firefights in Afghanistan.  


Freddie held the gun on the bespattered young star, hesitated, and then shot the second male lead instead as he tried to scramble under the table.  Freddie suddenly forgot his name.  He was a typical Hollywood pretty boy with his good looks and buffed body.  The third shot scored a neat wound channel through the scalp and blew off a piece of skull cap.


The starlet’s eyes were glazed over in shock.  His fourth shot took her in the right cheek and punched through her brain before exiting with a thwacking sound into the table behind her.  


Freddie, now firm master of his destiny, looked down at the havoc he alone had created like a god.  Time stood still.  He could feel everything in the flood of adrenalin surging through him.  Suddenly, the air around him seemed to ripple, sending him signals: danger, movement from the corners.  The big bodies of the security men and bodyguards smashed into him a second later; they drove him face-first into the gleaming parquet floor.  It was like being dragged beneath the chassis of a speeding car.


While they mauled him on the floor and snarled into his face, spitting curses.  Freddie felt his elbow snap and a bone crack in his ribs.  One hard kick to his face put his lights out. Before he drifted into that black whirlpool rushing toward him, he smiled through cracked teeth and bloody lips.  Freddie wondered what his new body would look like when he emerged once again into the world in his terrible reincarnation.


BIO:
Terry White lives in Northeast Ohio and has been publishing noir and hardboiled fiction for several years. Among his recent publications are stories in Yellow Mama, A Twist of Noir, Sex and Murder and “The Dog Returneth to His Vomit,” archived in TKnC. “The Frotteur in the Dark” was named one of the 6 Best Of stories for 2009 by 10,000 Tons of Black Ink.


An excerpt from Terry's first novel, featuring the P.I. Thomas Haftmann (Grand Mal, 2011) can be read here. 

ANNIE'S STORY by Graham Smith

Let's all give a warm welcome to Graham on his hard-hitting début...  

Annie’s Story

NOTICE... 


... After an editorial meeting - including the author - 'Annie's Story' was discussed in detail based on initial reactions.  Despite the graphic detail being arguably justified in setting up the unexpected and quite brilliant denouement, it has been agreed by all concerned that the unprecedented step of removing this particular story should be taken.


The comments section will remain open for the purpose of intelligent adult debate...


Discuss...


Regards,
Crime Editor, Col 

THE CONVENIENT by Robin Billings

Newly revamped TKnC welcomes Robin on her debut with this beaut...

 

The Convenient


This one guy came into the Convenient most afternoons about suppertime, and every time he came, he bought himself some good beer, the kind in green bottles, and a couple cartons of yogurt. We only talked when I told him how much he owed when he walked up to the counter. He didn’t talk to me when he paid, he just handed me his money and waited for his change and said thanks under his breath when he was turning to go. I was used to that, because it isn’t like people who stop by the Convenient pay attention to the checkout girl. People are usually in a hurry to be gone.


I was in a really happy mood one day, though, so when the guy came to the checkout I smiled at him and said looks like you’re really into yeast. He stared at me like I was stupid for saying that, so I said, you know, because there’s yeast in your beer. And in your yogurt. Then he kind of smiled, like he’d missed a beat but then he found it, and he said did I wanna go out and maybe do something together when I got off work.


He was a tall, bony guy with a faded away look to him, kind of tired, kind of pitiful, with his light brown hair and his pasty face, but it was a Friday and getting dark outside, the time of day that makes a person wanna go out and do something new, so I said yes.


All we did when I met him outside after my shift ended was walk a couple blocks down to his apartment. But hey, I figured, what the hell. Maybe he’d like me and I’d get to do something different with him another night.


He walked us back to his kitchen, pulled a couple bottles of Heineken out of his refrigerator, and we leaned against his kitchen cabinets, drinking.


The only light in the room came from this skinny fluorescent tube over the stove that made us look like shadowy hiders in a secret place. It looked darker than dark outside the kitchen windows, because the fire escape stairs hanging outside the windows hid any lights from the street.


The guy told me he was a prison lawyer. He talked about the prisoners some, but other than that, he didn’t say much. I’m not sure he ever even told me his name. Not that I needed his name.


I was kind of mad we hadn’t done anything I was thinking we were gonna do, though, like maybe have a late supper somewhere nice or maybe have a nice drink in a bar or something. Plus the guy kept staring at me like I was a suspect at the county jail or one of those dead bugs stuck on a pin in a bug collection box. So I took a last swig of beer and said I’d better go, but when I reached down to get my purse off the floor, the guy, he grabbed hard on my arm and yanked me back to his bedroom.


It scared me how hard he held on, and him still staring.


I didn’t wanna get hurt or raped or anything so I said I’m sorry you’re mad when he pulled down hard on my jeans, and I stripped, and him staring the whole time, and then we were on the bed and he was feeling of me like he owned me and humping his ass on me in a crazy target practice. I don’t think he made it all the way inside me, though. I don’t think he went inside far enough for it to count. I think I won on that one, because someone on the other side of his front door starting hammering on it, or maybe someone was working out in the hall, I don’t know.


All I know is, the front door wobbled against the force of the mystery fist banging away out there, and the guy stopped to listen. He raised up just long enough for me to think ahead and slide away a little, so I said we’ve made so much noise, maybe somebody’s called the cops.


He kept listening and looking toward the bedroom door, because of all people, I guess a prison lawyer sure wouldn’t wanna be stuck in prison.


The banging stopped then, a chopped-off, silent sound that you could almost say was a loud noise of its own, like a train running sound, or maybe the sound of blood whooshing through your head that you could hear because there wasn’t any other sound to distract you. And that must’ve caused the guy to come back from his purpose-built trance and see me only halfway under him. All I know is, when he looked down and saw I’d moved some, he looked dead pissed.


Then the banging started again, like somebody was testing on a wall with a hammer to find the stud. I smiled up at the guy’s face and whispered maybe you better check and see who’s out there.


He must’ve agreed, because he slapped his pants on and loped out to the front door, with him probably figuring I was stuck in the bed and he was between me and the front door, so what the hell, I couldn’t get away, but I yanked my clothes up and ran back into the kitchen and out the window and just about jumped out on the fire escape.


I almost fell, but I made it down to the pavement and fast-fast around the corner, pulled my jeans back on, and then I ran. I made it down a block and around a corner and then I leaned up against this big brick apartment house to rest.


For a desperate second, I wished so hard I could close my eyes and open them again and a little room would've grown out of the side of that brick wall and I could live in that room, instantly. Living there would be clean and neat and the perfect shrubs and flower beds would stay all around it just like they looked now, leaves and pale flowers shining in the dark, looking like they grew perfect that way, from their birth, and never had needed any trimming. If a room could just appear right behind where I was standing, I would be very quiet so no one would care I was living in that room. But how would I go and ask for that to happen and who would I ask, and anyway, people would think I was crazy.


***


I saw that guy a couple days later, back at the Convenient. He plops his beer and yogurt down big as you please, and I’m standing above him on the platform behind the checkout counter, and he’s staring up at me with his bug eyes, then he smiles big, says he hopes I have change for a fifty, and I say yes I do, because hell, what else am I gonna say. Here’s this lawyer guy just about capturing people and making it look like a lucky date for them, and he looks good on paper, doing work for the already-captured people he calls the incarcerated, and if I say anything it’s only me against him.


So I gave him his change, but I didn’t smile. I was bone dead finished with the smiling. Plus, he didn’t know it yet, but he was close to being bone dead, too. I’d been thinking about how he left his kitchen windows unlocked.


The thing is, the thing people don't wanna think about but what is really true, is that all it takes to kill a person is to know they need killing, and not to feel bad about doing it.


Then figure out how to get at them when they’re asleep or something, and have a killing something in your hand so when you do get at them, it’ll do the trick fast and pretty quiet. Like maybe a hammer. Even if you’re kind of a skinny girl, so you don’t weigh much, if you beat into a guy’s temple when he’s asleep, he’ll never wake up again, especially if you crunch down on him with it a few times, even after you know he’s conked out. And by his temple I don't mean his balls, which he probably thinks about right away when anybody mentions stuff like 'my body, my temple'. No. I mean one of the two temples on the sides of his head.


Phlap down hard, and I mean hard, on one of those two suckers, cave it in a little, basically, and he's done. Not done like having his balls hammered on. No. I mean, done done. I know this is true. It works out fine.
 
BIO:

Robin Billings lives in Virginia, United States. She's had stories published in the Potomac Journal and in Wilderness House Literary Review. Robin can be contacted on Facebook. 

 

If you enjoyed this story, then I'm sure Robin would appreciate your feedback...

THE SECRET SLEUTH by Ron Koppelberger

A deadly, double dose with a difference, as Ron debuts...

The Secret Sleuth

Winnow Folly stood in the midst of a tall commotion; a short middle aged adventurist, hair drawn in a taunt bun and pleated cotton skirt flowing in waves around her chubby ankles, she was a maiden at the wheel of a great mystery. The body was a broken bleeding pile of visceral riot. She surprised the tall rank, the police and the evil minded heir to the Pap fortune by leaning down to the mangled remains of Leo Pap and dipping her finger into the rapidly congealing blood.

“ Whater ya doing mam?” the blue vestured policeman asked.

“ The substance around Mr. Pap is, in appearance, blood Sergeant……” she read his embossed name tag, “Sergeant Reel, nevertheless it comes away clear, sticky and smelling of pine sap.”

Sergeant Reel looked at Winnows upraised finger. “Yer right Mrs. Folly,” he exclaimed in surprise.

Winnow smiled and pointed to the open book on the bedside table. “He had a penchant for the mysterious Sergeant, a dark and unabiding penchant," she explained calmly. She hefted the leather bound volume and said, “The spell on the open page, Sergeant."

In brute insistence the wolfish grimace of Idle Pap crowded Winnows world for a moment. Idle was Leo’s nephew and the sole heir to the Pap fortune. “What of my Uncles penchant, what of it?” he questioned.

She considered Idle for a moment before speaking. “Pine sap sir, it’s an ancient formula used in conjuring demons and ghosts, your uncle was covered in it.”

The shine of reflections and wild quests for freedom , the desire for power, even the power of a demon was the likely culprit, the decree of death as it were. Winnow glanced at the Sergeant and with a quiet whisper she ended his speculation. The Sergeant looked at Idles suit coat and gasped.

Aware of their sudden interest in his attire he became agitated. “What is it!…What is it? “ Idle growled.

The Sergeant gently guided Idles hands into the stainless steel cuffs and lead him away. The back of his suit jacket was covered in sap and scarlet gore. A design, a pattern in crimson. Clear simple and proposed by the vesture of hell she thought. The lettering on the back of Idles suit jacket was drawn in blood. It read,“ABBADON WAS HERE!”


The Mystery of the Gilded Mirror

Oral Practice surveyed the room with delicate secret and stealthy abandon. The curtains were a deep scarlet; velvet sashes, he thought. The walls were decorated with several reproductions, Monet and Picasso, “A terrible combination,” he whispered to himself. Touching the nightstand his finger came away dusty and dry.

“Has anyone moved the deceased?” he asked the hotel manager and the night clerk.

The manager spread his arms outward in exasperation. “This mess,” he pointed to the torn bleeding bodies, “is as I found it Mr. Practice.”

Practice, in steadfast summery, examined the bloody remains of Cordial Germ. The carpeting was a surge of amended beige and scarlet. The gouts of blood had splashed the entire room with what was now a congealed, sticky gloss. Cordial lay scattered about the room in an array of puzzle pieces, arms, legs and head; his head was in the flower basket and his arms were sticking upward like great bloody stems from the waste paper basket near the silken flowers.

A moment of silence passed between the three and in that space a gentle thunder rolled far away, distant, desolate yet exclaiming the grace of those who were in the arranged veils of life. Silent, the blood had streamed and spattered the wallpaper with tiny copper arrays of essence, essence of Cordial brought to you by unknown demons and affairs of fear. The silence weighed like a chunk of lead in the stomachs of the three.

Practice cleared his throat and scratched his scalp. “What whimsy in tumult and two pennies for the eyes, what fury in wayward bond with the devil, what deed doth draw us into the will of fear and angry rebuke?” Practice paused for an instant and tapped the manager on the breast. “Tis a storm, in arrays of price paid by those who live by shadow and silhouette.” He pointed to the gilded mirror hanging askew on the wall. “Tis here, the answer, the secret, we need only capture in the reflection of a gilded mirror.”


BIO:

Ron Koppelberger is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. He has published 266 poems and 101 short stories in a variety of periodicals, including, The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. His poem, 'Secret Sash' recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller, and he is a member of both The American Poet’s Society and The Isles Poetry Association.

TO DUST by Rebecca L. Brown

TKnC welcomes Rebecca...

To Dust

His fingernails were dirty. He dragged his knife under the tip of each one, scraping them clean. The reddish-brown curls of the scrapings fell onto the threadbare carpet; he brushed them away with a weather-worn hand. Coming here, especially coming here with her; the biggest mistake of his life. He sighed, the warm staleness of his breath turning to a plume in the unheated room, and brushed one hand through his dusty hair. His neck itched, the hairs prickling against his filthy shirt. The dirt mixed with his sweat, forming little streaks of mud on his skin.

They had arrived the previous night, hand in hand. He remembered her laughing at some joke or another, her teeth sharp but off-white, a little crooked. They had sat up late, rekindling their flame even as the candles died away to nothing.

There was a rusty tang in his mouth, a gritty bitterness on his tongue. He spat the brown gobbet onto the carpet- not his problem. Even if it was, he wouldn’t care.

She had poured him a glass of deep red wine, swirling it around the glass as she walked towards him. Never the connoisseur she wanted him to be, he had gulped it down. A trickle of wine had fallen from the side of his mouth, leaving a sticky trail on his chin. She had unbuttoned his shirt, rubbing his tired shoulders. His head swimming, he rested his chin on his chest, then his chest on his knees. He remembered hearing her snort inelegantly, thinking that was so unlike her, the pristine persona she so desperately tried to create; something he was never a part of.

He was cold now. The hairs on his arms bristled. He rubbed his hands up and down them, feeling the grit rolling on his skin.

She had never been too clever for all her pretences. The grave had been shallow, just enough to cover the rug she had wrapped him in. When he had come round, it had taken him moments to dig his way out. Of course, he supposed, she hadn’t expected him to be digging his way out…

Now he was waiting. The dirt didn’t bother him any more, he’d been dirty before. He couldn’t wait to see her face when she came to collect her things. With two fingers and a thumb, he wiped the knife clean.

BIO:

Rebecca L. Brown is a British writer. She specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost. For updates and examples of Rebecca’s work, visit her Twitter page @rlbrownwriter or her blog Bewildering Circumstances http://bewilderingcircumstances.blogspot.com/

THE WATCHER by A.J. Humpage

AJ's back with a cracker...

The Watcher

The darkness around me made it easier to see her.

The soft glare from her window first drew me in; a hint of flesh, innocent tease, a fleeting glimpse had I not looked twice. Pale skin, as supple and striking as summer colours, reflected against the brightness of her lights, and the curiosity of that brief moment held me captive. She was not aware of my attention.

The following night I stood at my window, out of curiosity, and she did it again, disrobing like a flower shedding petals in a breeze, sanguine expression brightened by the lights in her apartment. She stood there a while, taking in the silent appreciation of an invisible audience, before catching herself in the mirror. I watched as she ran her hands through her hair, bright blonde strands reflecting the light, but she gave me only a few minutes before disappearing from view. I felt cheated.

The next night she was bold, moving naked about the kitchen, unaware of my jaded gaze pouring through the darkness. She seemed to enjoy her own parade, and once again, she stopped to admire herself in the mirror, skirting her hands over her breasts and through her hair with intimate appreciation.

Her tease lasted an hour.

On the fourth night she stood in the centre of the room, waiting.

I knew then she had seen me somehow; seen my shadow in the darkness. It troubled me, because I was always careful not to flick on any of my lights when I watched her. But somehow, she knew. Perhaps she saw the curtains twitch, saw my reflection cast from the nearby streetlight.

Perhaps she knew all along.

I pulled aside the curtain, despite the shadows that veiled my face from her. But she didn’t move. She played with her hair, ran her hands down her stomach, a subtle tease, but I knew she was playing with me instead, easily melting the darkness between us. Comfortable now within each other’s presence, I watched her parade for an hour until she disappeared once again.

On the last night, I ventured out and stood on the corner of the street. I looked up at her window. She eventually came to the window, pressed her naked flesh against the glass, looked down at me, and then vanished.

I made my way across the street.

A soft wind rolled across the front of the apartment block, tormented the ivy covering the walls. Stagnant darkness crept through the street and sucked up the fading light of a cold December evening.

I edged towards the entrance, placed my gloved hand upon the door handle and gently pushed down. The door clicked open. I stepped inside the dimly lit hallway, made my way across the tiled floor towards the stairs.

I listened, but there was little sound.

I ascended the stairs to the top floor, wound my way to the bright red door at the end of the hall. The corridors were so silent that it appeared no one lived there, yet my footsteps seemed overtly loud along the corridor, the noise echoing around my head like vile cracks of thunder.

I pushed on the door. It swung open; her invite accepted.

A crowding silence rushed to greet me. I love the silence, the pressing nature of it. I’m a solitary creature; I live a private existence. Silence is my companion. See, my sort is not too welcome in this neighbourhood, so I keep to the shadows.

I drifted forward, surveyed the room. It was sparsely feminine, yet expensive in taste, full with glass and chrome furnishings and polished wooden floors.

I noticed the headline in the newspaper opened out on the coffee table.

Victim No 4 found dead. Police suspect local man...

Poor victim number four, a drug-addled teenager no one would miss.

‘I’ve been watching you for a while now,’ a voice said, breaking the silence.

I looked up. She appeared from a doorway wearing a white bathrobe, hair slicked back.

‘I noticed your reflection in your window,’ she said.

My insides juddered. ‘I didn’t think you could see me.’

Her blue eyes were derisive. ‘Of course I could. Only a slight reflection, I couldn’t see your face completely, but I knew you were watching me. You obviously like what you see.’

I eased forward until I was barely feet from her. The scent of fruits tickled my senses. Now she could see my face, the ghostly reflection that had watched her so many times. ‘Do you entice all your potential lovers like that?’

‘Only the ones who want to be enticed. It gets their attention.’ She loosened the belt on her bathrobe, gazed at my tall shadow. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

That’s what they all say. I shook my head. ‘No, I guess I’m not.’

‘Not that it matters. I don’t mind who I fuck.’ She slowly let the robe open out to reveal soft pink flesh. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at me. I’ve seen the way you mist up your windows. I know you want me.’

I blinked slowly, felt my hands grow clammy inside my gloves.

She unzipped my jacket, and slowly picked apart my shirt buttons. She touched me tentatively, raised a curious eyebrow.

Beneath the calm surface, I fought the urge to grab her, all the while trying to close the black hole opening out in my stomach.

She inched the robe from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. She turned and slinked towards the bathroom. ‘Why don’t you get out of those clothes and come and join me? The water is hot.’

I followed her to the bathroom door, quiet steps across the floor, watched as she stepped into the porcelain bathtub. I wondered then, absurdly, whether the phone might ring, or a noise from outside would disturb us.

But nothing happened.

She smiled as she eased back into the foamy water. Ripples rolled against her voluminous breasts. She blew bath bubbles into the air and they glittered like slivers of frost beneath the stark bathroom light.

I took off my gloves, knelt down. I leaned in and placed my hand against her neck, touched softly.

She pointed to the door with an exquisitely manicured finger. ‘Patience. It’s £200 for full sex, so leave the money on the side table.’

I stared at her, felt adrenaline from my stomach drain into my bloodstream, but it felt like someone pulling on my innards, tearing me from the inside. The black hole shuddered inside me.

Her voice was cold. ‘No money, no sex, sweetie.’ She swept bath gel along her glistening, wet arms.

I smiled thinly, but remained silent as I straightened and moved through the doorway, mind clamouring. I had no money. That wasn’t the reason I came. I gazed out of the window; saw my apartment across the street, my darkened window. I wondered then, just how long she had been watching me. Gauging me. Tempting me.

A hint of sexual fascination had lured me, but she had been fishing, too, like a silver-eyed anglerfish, dangling an alluring bright light through the blackness to entice me into her pencil like jaws.

I wanted to have sex with her – it was an added bonus – but I wasn’t expecting to pay.

I turned from the window and switched off the light, lest someone should see, and I inched towards the darkened kitchen. My ribcage fizzed as I gazed at the assortment of knives.

Her voice drifted into the gloom, broke through my reverie. ‘Hey? You still there?’

I returned to the bathroom and the sweet smell of fruits, and I smiled as I walked towards the bathtub, listening to devious whispers forging ideas in the back of my mind.

‘The money is on the table,’ I lied.

She nodded, and beckoned me with a finger. ‘I trust you.’

I walked around the bathtub and stood at her shoulders. She rested back and looked up at me; her turquoise blue eyes fiercely bright. I stared down at her, my vision filling with satanic colour, belly filling with bile. I placed both hands on her shoulders, kneaded softly.

Her painted lips smiled.

I sucked in a breath, and in one violent jolt, I pushed her beneath the water, all my weight bearing down into my forearms.

She thrashed; legs and water heaving over the bath, heels cracking against the taps.

I held her down for a while, listening to her struggling against me, listening as though it was a lullaby of fear, then I let go. I walked around the side of the bath, and she surfaced, spluttering.

She wiped suds from her eyes, her voice heavy. ‘Christ!’

I grabbed her ankles, pulled them up, plunging her back into the water. She flailed and gurgled, but she was no match for my superior strength. Then I eased off after a few seconds, let her come up for air.

‘Christ, dammit, what the hell are you-’

I tugged again and she slipped below the water, her distorted mouth open beneath the soapy surface, her scream muffled. I eased off again, enjoying this game.

She slammed her fist against the porcelain bath. ‘You fucking crazy shit!’

‘How long have you been watching me?’ My hands were still tight around her ankles.

She caught her breath. Mascara melted down her cheeks in thick black streams. She gripped onto the side of the bath.

My eyes narrowed. ‘How long?’

‘Weeks...’ she gasped. Saliva and water dribbled from her mouth. ‘I’ve been watching you for weeks.’

I pulled her legs again, higher, dragging her beneath the water, but this time I did not ease. Instead, I listened as she thumped her fists against the tub, the sounds echoing from the tiles in bilious waves and making me feel high. Adrenaline soaked into my body, flooding every cell with ecstasy until the sounds of her drowning slowly dissipated and silence once again settled like fine dust. I lowered her legs, left them dangling over the bath, and moved to the side of the tub.

I gazed at the shimmering shadow beneath the water, watched as air bubbles escaped from her nose. Then she blinked. Fingers slowly uncurled. Her body suddenly convulsed, thrusting water from the tub, and she shot up. A strange rattling noise spilled from her lips as she sucked in air

I quickly grabbed her neck, reached to the back of my jeans for the knife I had taken from the kitchen. I leaned over, saw my reflection in her eyes; saw the demon crouched in my expression, devious and dusted with malevolence.

I thrust the knife into her neck, slitting neatly into her windpipe, then I neatly tore sideways, opening out the cherry red innards of her throat. The gash bubbled and frothed, spewed out a dark red torrent over my hands. Her eyes rolled white, then I pushed her back beneath the water again, held her down until she was still.

Scarlet clouds misted her face and soiled the water, turning it to the colour of rust.

I picked up my gloves, wiped the blade and calmly left the bathroom.

I walked past the mirror, the one she had spent so much time gazing into, and I caught my darkened reflection. The figure staring back at me was gaunt; brown eyes turned black, and in my mind, imaginary doors were slamming shut against the voices.

They would find victim No.5 soon enough.

My shirt was open. Thin beads of blood dribbled down my neck, soaked my bra and stained my breasts.

Her voice wouldn’t leave my mind. You’re not what I expected...

I never am.


BIO:
AJ Humpage works full-time for a local authority, but in her spare time she writes articles for local business magazines, short stories and poetry, and she has just completed her first novel.

DARK WATER - by A J Humpage

Pour yourself a drink and enjoy this absolute cracker from AJ...

DARK WATER

An eye stared at her through the murk - a black orb glimpsed in torchlight - then it was gone.

The frenzy stopped. Bits of flesh slowly floated down from the surface like snow. Pink snow. Clouds of blood spread quickly from torn limbs, leaving spiralling, inky trails.

She knew Ben was dead. The shark had taken both legs and most of his arm. Gnawed lumps of sinew dangled in the water – tasty morsels for scavenging fish. Fading sunlight broke through the water and silhouetted his broken body with a dappled halo.

She choked back her emotion. She wanted to vomit, but couldn’t. Somewhere in this darkness lurked the sleek, thick-skinned monster that had attacked her fiancé. Blood in the water would bring more. And she dared not leave the sanctuary of the rocks.

But there was only 20 minutes air left in the tank.

She had to do something, otherwise she would die. She could die quickly; let herself drown. Or she could die slowly, painfully, ripped open by the shark.

Movement in the water made her heart jolt.

A thin snouted barracuda swept by. She cursed herself for letting Ben talk her into doing a late afternoon dive. Although an accomplished diver, she had never felt at ease whenever the sun dipped below the horizon. In daylight, it was easy to see what was lurking in the water behind her, but the blackness of the evening was different. With only a flashlight, it was almost impossible to know what was behind her, until it was too late. She would see nothing and she would hear nothing. She would only hear her own muffled screams clogging the blackness.

She sank further into the coral-encrusted crevice, and slowly swept the torchlight through the darkness. She half expected a sharp row of teeth to emerge from the gloom in a sudden attack, but there was nothing; just her own thudding heartbeat loud in her ears.

She glanced up. The rounded belly of the boat was just visible, but still a distance away. She could swim for it, but she knew the shark would sense her, smell her, and make a move. She would have to ascend quickly; making sure that the beast was within range so that she could see it approach, and she could defend herself.

The light was fading fast. She wouldn’t be able to see the boat much longer.

She swallowed the knot in her throat, felt the approaching darkness squeeze around her. The claustrophobic grip pinched at her nerves, and she shivered. She was vulnerable.

Alone.

Something brushed past her and she spun, saw only a flutter of bubbles. The urge to scream was strong, but doing so would mean panic, and the noise would bring the shark. Not only that, the regulator would drop from her mouth and there was risk she would drown through her terror.

Another bump against her thigh.

She swung her torch through the black soup. The rocky outcrop protecting her came into view and disappeared back into the undulating maw. She shone the torch at her feet. Nothing. Just shapes moving at the bottom; brightly coloured tropical fish flitted from her light.

She shone the torch above. Beams of fading light reached down and dappled the blackness. A large shadow briefly darkened her view and then disappeared. Her heart quickened; blood began frosting her veins.

The shark. He was circling her.

Every cell in her body swelled with anxiety. Bubbles from her regulator flooded into the darkness, rising swiftly...alerting the beast to her hiding place.

She saw a shape fill her vision, almost upon her.

She tried to wedge herself further into the rocks, but the passage was too narrow. She looked up, desperate not to scream, saw a flash of teeth. She jerked around, frantically trying to hide, but she felt something jolt her with tremendous force, dragging her from the crevice.

Her body bounced along the rocks. Pain shot into her left leg like an electric current. She screamed, lost the regulator from her mouth. Water rushed in, flooded her lungs, and she gagged, frantically grasping for the regulator, spewing out excess water, then holding her breath.

The pulling sensation stopped abruptly.

Senses swiftly came back into focus as she slowly descended into the darkness.

She remained calm as she fumbled for the regulator. She slipped it back into her mouth, but before she could regain her direction, she felt another shove into her ribs. It spun her, disorienting her in the thick blackness. She flashed the torch; saw the familiar shape of the shark blending into the background as it swam away from her. She tried to keep it in her sight, but it was far too fast, and she lost him.

She swung the torch into the dark chasm beneath her feet. The rocks had vanished; her only sanctuary was gone.

She was screaming; the noise loud in her mind, but silent in the ocean. She was descending again, sinking into the cold, sinister depths. She quickly unclipped her weight belt and it dropped away from her. She glanced at her air gauge: ten minutes left; 56 feet down.

She had no choice.

She kicked hard, scrambling for the surface somewhere through the dark haze. She couldn’t stop the panic creeping through her veins like a virus; couldn’t stop thinking about the sinister blackness, the cold deathly silence of an infinite ocean. It felt so long, swimming those 56 feet, and the fear was now soaking up the oxygen and making her feel woozy.

The surface swelled, invited her.

She felt something tug at her left leg, almost wrenching the flipper from her foot. She was breathing hard, fast, sucking up the oxygen and burning the adrenaline in equal quantities. She used her arms, stretched as though reaching out to an invisible hand...

Another tug wrenched her down.

She kicked hard again. It felt as though the flipper had come off.

She thrashed, reaching up once again for the twinkling ripples on the surface, kicking against the current until she finally broke the water. She spat out the regulator, gasped, before sucking in the warm, sultry Caribbean evening.

Water bubbled from her lungs and throat and she coughed hard; phlegm oozed from her nose and mouth as she caught her breath.

She turned; saw the edge of the blood red disc dip below the horizon.

West. Sunset. The boat was facing East. She turned, searched the calm water.

A shape bobbed on the water in the far distance. The boat.

I can make it, she thought. I can do this.

A splash forced water over her, and something latched onto her legs, dragging her back beneath the ocean. A curtain of bubbles veiled her view momentarily, but then, through the maw, she saw the water quickly turn deep crimson.

Another jolt, another direction.

She twisted in the water, saw teeth, then an eye. He was larger than she thought, stronger, and he whipped his tail fin as he jerked away, slamming it in her face. She recoiled, turned in the water, and the torch slipped from her grasp. Water began seeping through the fracture in her goggles.

She pulled at the cracked visor, blinded by the rush of saltwater, and managed to remove it. Now she couldn’t see anything, and the salt stung her eyes.

Her heartbeat thundered through the watery silence. A scream began forming in her throat, but a dull pain in her left leg brought her to. She knew she was badly injured; she was thankful she couldn’t see through the murk, but the heavy sensation down her leg made her realise her left foot was gone.

She sensed the shark nearby. The claustrophobic grip of the darkness frightened her; senses became like sharp needles pressing into her brain. Unable to see, unable to hear through the muffled depths, she knew she was about to die, not unless she started swimming for the surface...air....

She broke the surface once again, gasped, tasted blood in her mouth.

The sky was darker, the boat drifting further away.

No, please, Christ...

She quickly detached the oxygen tank, slipped it off her back. She could swim faster without it. She let go of it, and something clunked against it, startling her. The water swelled as the shark pulled the tank down. Instantly she began swimming for the boat, panic bubbling in her lungs like acid, the sound of her voice bouncing from the rippling surface. She knew he was right behind her, effortlessly gliding through the dark water, following the trail of blood oozing from her wound.

The shape of the boat came into view; safety beckoned. The adrenaline made her swim faster than she thought possible, despite her severed limb, but in those few long minutes, nothing came at her, no attack, even though she knew the shark was lurking in the water beneath her.

She reached the side of the boat, swum aft to the platform. Tears quickly washed the salt from her eyes; relief swept through her. At last, she was safe, she could radio for help, escape this nightmare.

She grabbed the rail, lifted her uninjured leg and kneeled on the platform to remove the flipper. She pulled it off and flung it into the water. She turned; saw the jagged flesh of her ripped calf, the space where her left foot should have been. Her stomach contracted; she balked. She had to get help, fast, otherwise she would bleed to death.

She stared at the water, shuddered. Reflections from the surface glittered coldly in her eyes. ‘I beat you, you son of a bitch! I beat you.’

She turned. Crying, nauseous, she reached up for the top rail.

The waves rose up behind her; swirled with malice. She didn’t see it.

There was no sound. No splash. No scream.

The water fizzed with movement, eddies danced on the surface before becoming calm once more.

Tiny beads of blood dribbled down the wooden rail. The water near the platform quickly turned dark red, before eventually fading.

Darkness swiftly gilded the ocean. Unmanned, the boat drifted silently into the darkness.


BIO:
AJ works full time for a local authority, but in her spare time she write articles for local business magazines, short stories and poetry, and has just completed her first novel.

CONTENTS MAY VARY - by Mark Robinson

Mark debuts...

CONTENTS MAY VARY

‘Shine the torch over here; I’m not seeing it.’

It was two am; about thirty-two hours after his guests had left the restaurant and, maybe, sixteen hours since they all started to get sick.

Food poisoning was written on the forms accompanying the bodies; the food part caged inside brackets and counter-signed by the shaky hand holding on to the torch.

‘Come on, hurry up; you want me to lose my job?’ The smell was overpowering, even to Tyrone who should have been used to it after his time working in the hospital. But, like death itself, Tyrone maintained it was something he would never get used to.

‘If you wanna roll your sleeves up and give me a hand, I’ll be done a lot quicker.’ Rubbing his running nose with the back of his bloody wrist; unsure but convinced he’d, somehow, managed to smear their blood on his face.

‘Forget it; this is your mess; you sort it out.’ Tyrone was only there so his mate wouldn’t be arrested; he felt like reminding Paul of the fact but realised he was just repeating himself.

And, what a mess it was; all Paul had been trying to do was show off the diamond engagement ring he was planning to pass on to his girlfriend, Amanda, for the elaborate dinner he had arranged. Whether it was the Salmon pate for starters or the bourguignon sauce; the ring must have slipped from his fingers and dropped into one of the pans lined along the stove.

It wasn’t until he came to get up off his chair and bend before her that he realised the ring was missing. Leaving his guests; their families and friends, Paul rounded up the kitchen staff and, together, they dredged the pots, pans and trays but the ring was gone.

Looking out across the dining hall of seated guests enjoying the celebrations, all of them unaware what they were actually present to celebrate, realisation hit him that the ring was out there somewhere; should he tell them and ruin the surprise for Amanda? A three-hundred pound diamond ring that had belonged to his mother and his father’s mother? He had to do something, but what?

Gary, his Suez-chef, told him to wait it out; if someone had swallowed it accidentally, they would surely find out when it passed through them the next day. That idea was all well and good until the diners started getting sick. Worse still when his mate, Tyrone who worked at the hospital, rang up and told him two of his soon-to-be-fiancé’s cousins were dead.

Soon the hospital admittance form read like the restaurant guest list; reading through the names of his extended family while he waited for the consultant to finish with Amanda. Later, at his dying girlfriend’s bedside, Paul had an idea; with nothing left to lose now everyone he cared about were either on their hospital or death beds, he text Tyrone and asked him to meet in the basement outside the morgue.

Neither of them knew what they were doing; Paul was a chef, whereas Tyrone worked in a hospital, granted, but that didn’t qualify him to be doing this. He was just a glorified porter; someone who signed the bodies in and out.

The sight and aroma of his food during digestion left little to the imagination; all that hard work and dedicated preparation it underwent before the plate was allowed to even leave the kitchen, now seemed like such wasted effort. He would cry if there were any tears left to shed; Amanda and this whole situation had seen to that. Was it his fault that the guests were keeling over? Was his cooking that bad? Being so busy, Paul had had little chance to sample the food and, for that, he was overwhelmed with guilt.

Not so with Tyrone; the fact that he was scheduled to cover a late shift meant he had missed the meal and was still standing, albeit in a dark morgue basement holding onto a torch while his best mate sifted through the stomach contents of his family and friends.

‘Anything yet?’ Tyrone was getting nervous; but, that was hardly a shock, he had a nervous disposition normally.

No reply except the sounds of forced breathing and effort.

‘Paul!’ Louder; an octave above a whisper.

‘What?!’ On his knees above a mass of mess, squinting against a beam of torch light. Bringing out the deep colour red around the stark white room sheathed in shadows.

‘Have you found it, yet?’ A stupid question that floated in the air between them; did he really think they would still be standing there if Paul had managed to find it? And, who would clean up the mess; someone would notice this tomorrow morning.

A noise startled them; stopped Paul from giving Tyrone the response he deserved. From outside, along the corridor, they waited like wax mannequins eyes wide toward the sound as they heard it again; a squeaking whinge like something rolling across a tile floor.

In a second, the torch beam disappeared and they were both swamped in darkness; ‘Hide!’

Paul had nowhere to go; up to his wrists in his girlfriend’s uncle, he reached for a steady surface and shot toward the back of the room, unsure if a trail of someone else’s blood would lead whoever should enter to his hiding place.

The door bounced open and brilliant light blinkered them both; Paul on his knees beneath a bench and Tyrone behind a door. Then, the room went still; like breath caught in someone’s throat; Paul guessed it was the scene he had set. Looking down at his bloody hands, then up to the streaks that had brought him over.

It was probably all over, anyway; from the questions being asked by the police at Amanda’s bedside. He was the cook so it was all his fault. Paul knew he shouldn’t have brought Tyrone into all this. About to rise from the cold floor, he heard the double doors slam shut and a lock being slid into place.

Had the person gone? A few squeaks told him no.

‘We’re locked in.’ A loud call that echoed slightly around the room.

Paul didn’t answer; neither did Tyrone. Like him, he probably wanted to know who it was. And, why they had decided to lock themselves inside. Apart from the obvious, something else was wrong.

‘Don’t make me drag you out of wherever it is you’re hiding; I’ve got somewhere else to be tonight.’

That voice; now he heard more of it, Paul realised it was being masked. Yet, sounded, familiar; like a caller on the phone chewing gum while they spoke.

Scanning the brightness for a weapon; he’d had a scalpel in his hand earlier, where was it now? Lying beside the last body.

Movement followed by a light scrape registered; ‘Hey, Paul? You forgot your scalpel, Paul.’

He knew his name; was Tyrone as worried as he was?

‘I just spoke to Amanda; shocking what a bit of food poisoning can do to the nervous system.’

Teeth clamped tight against his jaw, Paul refused to be drawn out; if this was the end, whoever it was would have to drag him out.

‘And, to think; of all the people I wanted to be lying in this room, staring at their eyelids and you’re all right, Paul. At least have the decency to fight for her like I have.’

Paul knew then that it was Gary; the kid he had partnered with through secondary school then college; had stuck to through every little high and low their lives had struck; that was, until they met Amanda.

Somehow, ever since they got it together behind his best mate's back, Paul knew this day would come; although begrudgingly standing aside, Gary had never been the same since he caught them, mouth agape like it was his girlfriend who was half-naked and not Paul’s. Their friendship had slowly spiralled; first Paul succeeded in capturing Amanda’s heart over Gary, then the head chef job before him. Lately, it had been their engagement which lead to marriage, a family equalling happiness. Maybe, that was the final after dinner mint in the box.

‘You wanted my life, Paul; my girl, my job. Then take this, too.’

Just because Gary had met Amanda before him; just because Gary had got his application in first; it had not been Paul’s intention to go after her, she had chosen him; yes, he wanted that job, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if he didn’t get it.

What was Tyrone thinking right now? A mutual friend from school, would he be siding with Gary now he knew this? He wanted to speak up but felt at fault, like he deserved all this; that he had been greedy in getting what he always wanted.

‘And, in the end, all you really care about is that ring; that object over the woman of our dreams. If it was me, Paul, I’d be right beside her rather than cowering in here. But, then, you and me; we’re not even the same species are we.’

Tears in his eyes, Paul leapt up from beneath the bench, whirling around to make a stand; ‘You think I wanted this?’ Waiting for Gary to bound around the corner. ‘That ring meant everything to her; if only she got to wear it for a second before she dies; after what you did to her.’ Anger curling up his fists; adrenalin surging through his feet. ‘If she dies Gary.’

Tyrone had to say something; he’d stood there as quietly as Paul had crouched until the outpour began. Blocked by the door, he had watched the morning porter bringing in the body; not realising until that moment that his shift here was over. Leaving the lights on and body inside the entrance; taking the scene in that greeted him; all that blood; those hollowed out stomachs. Before turning to go, locking the doors as he went; standard procedure when foul play was suspected.

Tyrone, in so much trouble when security came back, took a step closer and saw it was Gary lying there, dead beneath the sheet. A silence in the room so huge it had been deafening.

That was, until Paul started shouting.

© Mark Robinson April 2009.

BIO:
Previous writing has appeared on Sunk Island Review, Microhorror.com, Hackwriters.com, Manchester’s Transmission Magazine, Birmingham’s Raw Edge Magazine, Short Story Library (US), Txtlit.co.uk, Post Card Shorts, Enigma and the Lulu Anthology, Never Hit by Lightning, Edited by Tucker Lieberman & Andrew Tivey.
Forthcoming publications in 2010 include A Thousand-faces & Delivered.

MISCONCEPTIONS by Vallon Jackson

MISCONCEPTIONS

I sat in the room, doing the old Sam Spade bit waiting for the femme fatale to knock, and thinking to myself, ‘There has to be a better way than this?’ I couldn’t think of anything. A man past forty, whose waist size exceeds his age, needs something kind of sedate to get by on. Couldn't think of a better way to make money. Or amends.

The room wasn’t a PI’s office. In fact it wasn’t even much of a room. It was a box at the end of a damp corridor above a pole-dancing club with rusty poles. It was more like a storage closet, plaster board tacked onto a wooden frame, no paper, no photos or diplomas in frames, just boxes of stacked junk lining the walls and an old Formica-topped table and two plastic chairs. I’d sat in chairs just like them at school back in the eighties. They were uncomfortable then; now that my arse had grown much bigger they were torture. I was itching like crazy and all I wanted to do was get up and pull the material of my shorts out of my crack. But I held the nonchalant pose of a noir anti-hero; people kind of expected it when they arrived.

The femme fatale arrived. She didn’t knock because there was no door. She just leaned in and scowled at me like I was something filthy. She wasn’t far wrong, I suppose. I looked back, and maybe the sour look on my face told her everything. Femme fatale she wasn’t; she’d a face like a hog and the body to match.

‘You can’t be Ward?’

Well I sure as hell wasn’t Sam Spade, but I didn’t quite get her meaning.

‘Why not?’
She came into the room uninvited and sat on the other chair. It squealed and little wonder. She pressed her hands into the thick rolls of flesh on her upper-thighs, giving me a head-to-heels inspection. By the look of things she wasn’t impressed. The feeling was mutual.
‘I heard you were meant to be something.’
I looked down at my gut hanging over my belt. I was more of a man than I used to be that was for certain. But meant to be something? Fair enough I was no oil painting, but who was she to complain?
‘Depends what you want,’ I said and she snorted.
‘Well it’s a good job I ain’t looking for a wild time.’
That pissed me off, but I didn’t say. She wasn’t exactly my type either, but she was carrying the money I wanted, and like I already said, I was there to make a living. Every job has pro’s and con’s. Seeing as I could think of nothing that suited me better, I just took the bullshit as a necessary evil.
‘You said on the phone that you’d do whatever I asked...’ She was obviously happy now that I was what she’d come looking for. She wasn’t the least nervous. Maybe it was my lack of response to her sarcasm that reassured her; an undercover cop would have argued his case more, to get her to incriminate herself before pulling out his cuffs.
‘Only one thing I don’t touch.’
‘Yes, you said. Kids.’
I nodded. ‘Kids.’
‘So you do have some standards.’ She was eyeing my rumpled suit, her mouth twisted into a sneer, and I guessed she was confusing standards with morals. That was OK; a body like mine didn’t carry a nice suit well, so I just made do with an old one. I didn’t dress nice, and I didn’t kill children – some legend I’m graced with.
Not that I was squeamish about doing a child, but they carried too much fuss along with them. You could kill a man, a woman, and it barely hit the papers these days. But do a kid and there was a national outrage. Doesn’t do much for your career chances if the entire country is looking for you, and I had a living to make.
‘I don’t want you to harm a kid; not unless you have a limit on mental age?’
I held up the flat of my hand, surprising even myself. ‘I don’t do handicapped people either.’ I pinched my lips round the un-PC term, but I wasn’t sure what the acceptable moniker for someone soft in the head was these days. Should have said I’d never killed anyone with mental health issues before, not any in the clinical sense. Plenty of whack jobs and nut-cases mind you, but that’s not the same.
The femme grunted and it suited her.
‘I was making a joke. My husband still thinks he’s a teenager the way he’s running around.’
I got her this time, but didn’t say. So she’d cottoned on that her husband was having a good time, looking elsewhere? Can’t say I blamed him too much. Still, she was the cash cow so I tried to look sympathetic without putting the emphasis on ‘cow’.
‘You still sure you want me to kill him?’
‘That’s what I’m paying you for. I don’t want a frigging half-baked job. Put a bullet in his brains to make sure.’
‘I was just checking. See, maybe after you think about it, you’ll have a change of mind.’
She shook her head and I caught a whiff of cheap fragrance and sweat. ‘That bastard is screwing everything in a skirt that he can find. And I’ve got the proof. Bastard gave me a STD and then tried to say he got it off me!’
I could understand her outrage, I mean, what were the chances of that?
She gave me the beady eye, still didn’t care for what she found. ‘When you’ve done it, how’d I know you can keep your mouth shut afterwards?’
‘I was just going to ask the same thing.’ We stared at each other, my hard eyes on her limpid ones. When she didn’t offer anything, I said, ‘I’m not in the habit of confessing my sins. I’m taking it that once he’s out of the way you want to start a new life. You aren’t gonna speak if it means your new life is in a cell not much bigger than this shit-hole.’
She looked around the cramped room. Then she shrugged; a roll of fat bulging out of her collar. ‘I could live with that,’ she laughed, ‘if it means getting him out of the way. Really, though, I can’t live with him any longer.’ She placed a pudgy hand over her heart. Her eyes rolled back and I was looking at the vein-marbled whites. ‘I solemnly promise I won’t say a word to anyone,’ she said in a sing-song voice. ‘So? We have a deal?’
‘When I see the cash,’ I told her.
She dug an envelope out of her coat pocket and slapped it down on the Formica. I tried to weigh the contents with my eyes. Couldn’t, so reached over and lifted the flap. Plenty of purples, not enough gold notes. ‘Looks a little light to me.’
‘Half now, half on completion.’
‘That isn’t the way I work.’
‘How can I be sure that you’ll even do the job? For all I know you could just pick up the cash, walk away, and that’s the last I’d ever hear of you.’
‘Sometimes you have to take things on faith,’ I told her.
‘You don’t look like a professional hitman to me.’
‘What were you expecting? Matt Damon?’
‘I should be so lucky,’ she snorted. She started picking at a scab on her chin and I thought no one with a face like that has that kind of luck!
‘You’ve heard my credentials,’ I said.
‘Only what you told me on the phone.’
‘I don’t do kids, I don’t do handicapped folk and I don’t do lies.’ My legend was growing.
‘You don’t do much exercise either,’ she said with a wicked smile, the old kettle and pot argument raging on.
‘These days I hardly run for a bus,’ I acquiesced. ‘But I don’t have to. A bullet’s quicker than any man.’
‘How many have you killed?’
‘You’re sure you want to hear?’
‘I want to know I’m going to get value for money.’
‘Thirty-three,’ I said.
She adjusted her weight on the chair, covering a sniff of disdain with the creaking of the plastic.
‘You still doubt me?’
‘Can’t blame a girl for being nervous with her hard-earned cash, can you?’
‘OK. You want proof?’
She patted her opposite coat pocket. I didn’t look; I was still watching the flake of scab hanging off her chin. ‘I have the rest of the money right here. Show me something that will convince me that you’re really up to the task and you’ve got a deal.’
‘That’s fair,’ I decided.
I lifted my silenced Sig-Sauer from under the table and pointed it at her tremulous gut. I pulled the trigger.
The thud of the bullet pounding her flesh was louder than the gun’s retort.
The femme took a moment to realise she was dying. She looked down at the hole I’d just put in her coat, then up at me.
‘Will that do it?’ I asked.
Her mouth hung open, a string of saliva tethering her tongue to her dentures. She blinked slowly and there was disbelief in her eyes. Maybe it was because I’d shot her, or maybe she still doubted me. That damn flake of scab still waved at me and I used it as a target. Scab and chin disintegrated together.
‘So I guess we’ve got a deal?’ I asked her. Her head was nodding, her floppy neck riding the ripples still shuddering through her body. The nod was enough to seal it for me.
I jostled myself out of the chair, thankfully unhitched material from the crack of my cheeks and went over to her. Her arms had fallen to her sides, but her girth pushed them away from her. She reminded me of that spoiled bitch that blew up with juice in Willy Wonka’s factory. I dipped a hand in her pocket and pulled out another envelope.
I flicked through the notes. They were all there.
I pushed both envelopes into my pockets and walked along the cramped corridor to the far end, ignoring the pain in my knees. The corridor was long and I was puffing by the time I reached the far end. Maybe the femme was right and I should be in better shape for this game. I dabbed perspiration from my forehead before pushing open a door: I had to look the part. There was another room, not much bigger than the first.
The femme’s husband was a little squirt with glasses and a comb-over. His jumper was a market stall special, all diamond patterned down the chest, the two for the price of one type you buy on special offer. Black nylon trousers, white socks for frig sake! Couldn’t see how someone like him could be living the double life his wife claimed, but she was right in a way. Just shows you that looks can be deceiving. People look at me and don’t credit me with much either.
‘It’s done?’
I looked down at the little man. His eyes looked huge behind the glasses. He was sitting in the chair where I’d left him earlier while I prepped for his wife’s arrival.
‘Just like you asked,’ I reassured him.
‘Did she suffer?’
The malignant gleam in his eye told me the answer he was waiting for.
‘Yeah, she suffered.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘She deserved it. Did she tell you I gave her a sexually transmitted disease?’
‘Yeah, you called it right.’
‘Bitch. It was her who gave me the clap. It was her who was sleeping around.’
I didn’t comment. It was beginning to sound like I was stuck in the middle of the Jeremy Kyle show.
‘What else did she say?’ he asked. “Did she have any idea that...”
‘She was sure you were being unfaithful to her; chasing all these young skirts all the time.’ I laughed at the absurdity of it.
He laughed with me. ‘You think I’d stand any chance with a young girl?’
Decorum isn’t my main strength. ‘Not a chance.’
To his credit he didn’t take any offence. ‘Crazy bitch has accused me of running after girls for years,’ he said. ‘She’s made my life hell and I think it was all guilt over her own infidelity. Did she admit to having someone else?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘She must have said something.’
‘She did. She asked me to kill you.’
‘What?’
I just smiled at him and he shook his head.
‘Good job I met you first, then,’ he said, blinking mole-like. ‘I can’t believe she’d want to kill me. But it would make sense, I suppose. She wants me out the way so she can sleep around any time she likes. What a bitch!’
I shrugged, held out my hand. ‘Forget about her; you don’t have to take her shit ever again.” I snapped my fingers. “Money on completion; just like we agreed.’
The man pulled out a thick envelope and I took it from him. Didn’t bother counting the notes, because I knew he was good for it.
‘A deal’s a deal,’ he said, smiling.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is.’
I shot him in the head, just like I’d agreed to do for his wife.
But that wasn’t the main reason.
The little squirt should have mentioned it when first we met. I wiggled my trousers out of my butt again, exhaling at the chaffing-pain. ‘That’s for giving me the fucking pox, lover boy.’

***

BIO:

Vallon Jackson is the pen name of a published thriller author who likes to let his imagination roam occasionally. Sometimes in odd directions.

JORDAN'S TURN by Christopher Grant

This is the follow-up to Chris' FOR THE RECORD. Maybe you want to read that first if you missed it first time round.

JORDAN'S TURN

My earliest memory of my parents:

I am four years old. My parents are fighting again. I can hear Daddy yelling; Mommy is giving as good as she's getting. At least until the slap. And then I can hear him grunting as his fist meets her face again and again. I can't hear Mommy anymore. I've crawled into my bedroom closet and I'm crying. I don't like it when they fight.

Mommy was there one day, gone the next. When I finally got up the courage to ask Daddy where she was, he told me that she left us, that she was just gone. It was a pretty adult thing to say to a four year-old kid.

Growing up, I went wherever my Dad went when I could. Went to ball games. I got a look at the inside of a bar at age eight. I went hunting with him and he taught me how to skin animals after he'd shot them, taught me real good with a knife. Eventually, he taught me how to do the shooting, too.

I was eleven years old when I made my first kill; I wasn't on a hunting trip with Dad.

We had a dog, a hunting dog for when we went out pheasant hunting, named Bill. One afternoon, I took Dad's knife, the same one that he'd taught me how to skin with, took Bill and we went into the woods.

When I came back and Bill didn't, I told Dad that a bear had come out of nowhere and Bill had defended me, bought me time to get to safety. I cleaned the knife and then hid it under my bed.

Dad went down with a stroke when I was fifteen and I had to go to work to supplement his disability and, eventually, Social Security checks. He was helpless for the first time that I could remember and I had to be the man of the house. I resented it. I trooped to school and then to the six to midnight shift at the 7-11. Aunt Sarah, Dad's sister, took care of Dad while I was at work.

It all got to be too much for everyone concerned. Sarah had gotten a new job and would be working mornings. She couldn't be stuck with Dad from six until midnight without having to cut down on her sleep time. I couldn't handle both school and the job and, besides, no one would be with Dad in the morning anymore, not with Sarah working again. School wasn't paying so I dropped out. And Dad, you could tell he was upset, feeling like a burden to us.

I tried to get better hours, hours that would work out for Sarah and me, so that we could switch duties. One day, after asking for better hours for about the fortieth time, the manager at work got on my ass, talked about how I was coming in late and leaving early as it was. I punched him in the face, broke his nose and got fired. The pussy even threatened me with a lawsuit.

When I came home early that day, Aunt Sarah asked why I wasn't at work.

I lashed out. "You don't have to worry about your precious beauty sleep anymore. Get as much as you can. You fucking need it."

She started to argue with me, told me that I was a rude little shit. I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the door, tossed her out on the porch and slammed the door shut before she could recover. I never saw her at the house after that. I did see her around town every now and again but tried my best to avoid her.

I took care of Dad for the next two years, working out of the house, opening up the garage and working on buddies' cars. It was a modest living, at best. I barely scraped enough money together to call it a job.

Dad was making slow progress in his recovery, able to speak but not quite back to one hundred percent. He still had a hard time getting around on his own and used a walker. He could feed himself but needed help with bathing and getting dressed.

Just after I had turned seventeen, I discovered something about Mom and Dad. I was looking for a set of wrenches and dug deep into a pile of junk in one of the corners of the garage. I came away with what turned out to be a high school yearbook, instead.

I paged through the yearbook and found Dad's photo. It was the sixties and the hairstyles and fashions were outrageous. It was worth a couple chuckles.

I went looking for Mom and couldn't find the name Marian Crane anywhere in the book. I paged once, twice, three times through and wondered if I was somehow missing her listing.

The fact was she wasn't there.

There was no way that they could have been high school sweethearts like Dad and Aunt Sarah had always claimed. If Mom had even lived in town, she hadn't gone to school with Dad.

There were a few newspaper clippings tucked into the yearbook. One was my public birth notice. Dad would've been eighteen when I was born; I didn't know if that made Mom younger, older or the same age. Dad's name, Lowell, was right there in boldface. But Mom's name wasn't Marian Crane. The notice said her name was Angela Townsend. I quickly paged through the yearbook and located Angela Townsend.

Dark hair, full lips, very pretty.

Why had Dad and Aunt Sarah lied about her name?

Another newspaper clipping. A picture of a ravine just outside of town. Cop cars in the foreground, Police Line Do Not Cross across the faded tape that was strung between two trees at the top of the drop-off.

The article talked about a dark-haired female found dead at the bottom of the ravine, face-down in the stream that ran through it. She had been nude, mutilated. Perhaps animals had gotten to her if she had laid there a while, police said. They wouldn't give a name but I knew immediately that her name had been Angela Townsend.

My Dad was no longer my Dad. He was a foreign body rotting away in the E-Z chair in the living room. He was a goddamned liar and probably had killed Mom. I confronted him, presenting him with all of the stuff I'd found but made sure to keep it in my grasp.

"Did you do it?" I raged. "Did you kill her?"

He tried to say something. He tried but he couldn't find the words.

I took the stairs two at a time and pushed through the door to my room. I grabbed a backpack, stuffed it with clothes and the yearbook and what cash I had. I took the keys to his truck off my dresser. I got down on hands and knees and grabbed the knife out from under my bed. I came up slow.

How easy would it be to end his life, I wondered. I came back downstairs, knife in hand, and seriously thought about it, standing at the foot of the stairs. Then I walked to the door, listening to him yelling for me to stop, come back, that he would explain everything.

I kept walking. Out of my life and into the unknown.

*

I took the truck to the airport and then I bought a plane ticket to Seattle, which was halfway across the country. I wanted to get as far away as possible from Dad, from the lies, even though, at the same time, I wanted to know the truth.

The guy that sat next to me on the plane was fat, sweaty, balding. The tie he was wearing was unknotted, hanging loosely around his neck. The top two buttons on his shirt were undone.

He tried a couple times to strike up a conversation, talking about sports and current events. I didn't bite. I didn't want to chat. I was single-minded. I wanted out.

He gave up talking for a while. I felt his hand on my thigh.

"Wanna follow me to the bathroom?" he asked. His eyebrows went up with the question. I looked down at his hand, back up at him. He smiled at me.

"I'm afraid of enclosed spaces," I said.

But I didn't remove his hand.

When we landed at SeaTac, I followed him into the restroom. He locked the door behind us to make sure that we weren't interrupted. He led me into a stall and then locked that door, too. He brushed against me as he passed, then pulled down his pants and underwear and sat down on the toilet. He reached down and grabbed hold of his cock.

"Come on, boy," he said. "It won't bite you."

The stall reminded me of being four and in the closet and crying as Daddy beat Mommy. Is that when he killed her? I started to breathe heavily, panicking. I turned my back on the fat man and tried to get out of there. When I couldn't get the door open, I quickly rummaged through my backpack.

"What have you got there, boy?" the man asked.

My breathing returned to normal as I stabbed him in the eye with the knife. The same knife I'd learned how to skin with, that I'd killed Bill with, the knife that I wish I had killed my old man with.

The fucker screamed and writhed in pain, his legs and arms flailing, banging against the stall's walls and the toilet. I pulled the knife out and buried it in his throat, cutting off his screams. Blood geysered all over, all over me and the stall and the floor.

I kicked at the stall door and it finally gave way. I quickly stripped out of my bloody clothes, washed my hands, face and arms. I changed into something new, something clean in my bag. I left the restroom and Seattle shortly thereafter.

My biggest regret was that I had to leave the knife behind in that asshole's throat.

*

MONDAY:

The phone is ringing, well, vibrating, actually, and moving along the table in front of me. Three buzzes and it's almost over the edge. I reach out and grab it.

"Yeah? You did it? How many? Jesus! Yeah, yeah, lucky bastard."

I flip the phone shut. The waitress, a cute blonde, is standing next to the table, her hands full with my order. She sets the plates down. Steak and eggs, bacon and toast. I've got an appetite going, even if Craig just tried his best to spoil it.

When she finishes, she gives me a look like she wants an explanation of my conversation, as if she's owed it or something.

"Buddy of mine hit six on the lottery," I say.

"Holy shit," she says, making no apology for her remark.

"That's what I said."

She smiles, asks if I need anything else and then remembers my large OJ. When she returns with the juice, she gives me the check. Her nametag says Tina.

I'm waiting in the parking lot when Tina gets off work a couple hours later. The sun's not quite up yet.

"Need a ride home?" I ask.

*

I'm behind Tina and deep inside of her, my hands on her hips. Her moans are loud enough to wake the dead. When we finish, I fall forward and on top of her, still inside. I'm slow to slide out of her. I don't want to but nature takes its course. I roll off of her, but not before I have a taste of the sweet sweat on her smooth back.

I fire up a cigarette.

"Give me one of those," Tina says. I hand her mine and light another.

Her hand is on me, stroking me and I'm starting to get hard again already. This woman really knows what she's doing in bed.

"Been in town long?" she asks me.

I shake my head.

"Didn't think so," she says, her hand continuing to move up and down. "I would have noticed. What do you do for a living, Jordan?"

I've told her my name, told her a few other ancillary things, shit that won't ever matter. Now she's asking a loaded question.

I could tell her that I kill people, have done since the fucker at SeaTac years ago. That might drive her off, might make her want to marry me. I don't know much about her. Truth is all I know is that she can carry three plates at once and that she's a goddess in bed.

"I'm a businessman," I say.

"Oh, yeah? What kind of business?"

"None of yours," I say, grab her cigarette and mine and put them out between my fingers. I take her hand and pin it to the bed and then roll over and on top of her as we go for Round Two.

*

WEDNESDAY:

I've been watching this family, the Munsons, for the last couple weeks, almost as long as I've been in town. Old man, old lady. Found out that the old lady's going to be having a birthday party in a few days. A small get-together, a couple of their children and grandchildren are coming into town. It's amazing what you can find out on someone's computer when they're out grocery shopping.

I smoke the last cigarette in the pack down to the nub, then crush it underfoot as I watch from across the street. Family number one has shown up early. A little boy, mommy and daddy. They knock on the door, the old lady is crying as she hugs everyone. The door shuts behind them and I get in my car and pull away.

Tina's home when I return, in the backyard, topless, getting some sun. I love this woman's moxy. The neighbors have a clear view and she doesn't care. I touch her thigh with the back of my hand, then slide my fingers underneath her bikini bottoms. We do it in the backyard and fuck what the neighbors can see.

*

THURSDAY:

The night before the last family is to arrive, I decide that the job has to go down no later than Saturday afternoon. Tonight, though, Craig is all over the national news. The bodies in Texas were discovered by a mailman, puzzled as to why the mail hadn't been picked up for days.

The cops have Craig listed as a "person of interest". I know damn well he's the prime suspect. The sketch art of Craig, along with his vitals, is up on the screen. From what I remember of him (it's been about a year since we've seen each other), they've got the nose wrong and the eyebrows are a little thick but they got the rest dead accurate.

The difference between Craig and me is that I have always taken precautions. Disguises to fix something in people's minds. I've grown mustaches, shaved my head, worn glasses. All kinds of shit.

Even when I would meet with Craig, I was in disguise. And again, here and now with Tina, I'm not myself. Right now, I have long hair and a mustache. Saturday, after the job, it's gone.

Tina slides up behind me, her breasts pressing against my back. She feels so good. She reaches around and takes me in her hand and I'm not thinking about Craig or the job or anything else, except how Saturday is going to be a real shame.

*

SATURDAY:

She wants to know what I do for a living? She can find out firsthand. Tina's not working on Saturday and I drop by with the promise of a great lunch and then some fun.

"What kind of fun?" she asks, biting her lower lip seductively.

"You wanted to see what business I'm in," I say, "I'll show you."

The restaurant is expensive but I can afford it. Since I got out from under my Dad's thumb, I can afford anything. Tina reaches across the table and we hold hands like the lovers we are throughout the meal.

Tina gets excited as we drive through the rich side of town, thinking perhaps I'm something more than I've let on. A stockbroker or an accountant. Maybe I've got an estate of my own out here.

I stop the car and park it in front of the Munsons so that it's blocking the driveway. There are three cars there, a new addition to the one that carried the boy and his parents and the old man's vehicle. Everyone's home.

Tina grabs my hand as we stroll up the small walk and have her ring the doorbell. I put my arm around her just before the door opens and the old lady appears.

"Hi, Mom," I say and shove Tina into her, kick the door shut behind me. I'm always very careful not to touch anything with my hands, unless I have gloves on.

"What the hell is going on, Jordan?" Tina yells. I pull out my gun and shoot her in the head. Good thing I thought to screw the silencer on. Tina's body jerks a couple times on its way to the floor, even though she's already technically dead. The old lady is trying to scream but the sound catches in her throat. I don't hear anyone else in the house.

"Where's your husband?" I ask her, my voice exceedingly calm. This is the way it has always been. With Bill, with the fucker in the airport bathroom (at least once I had the knife in my hands), with others since.

"They...they're all in the backyard, backyard," she stutters. She's trying not to look at Tina, sprawled out on the floor. The old lady has Tina's blood in her white hair.

"Get them in here," I say, as I pull gloves from my pocket and yank them on. "All of them."

*

I put the two kids, the little boy and a little girl, in a closet. Children shouldn't see what I can do to their parents.

I line them all up, make them kneel, use plastic ties to bind their wrists and makeshift gag them. Execution style is how I'm killing them, six in all.

The only one that I'm really interested in is the old man. He's the key. When I ask him where the safe is, everyone's going to think that this is just a robbery. Even the kids, who might remember that and tell the cops later. It makes my job easier. When people are calm and don't think they're going to get hurt, they're less likely to do shit, less likely to fight back.

So I ask. I rip down the old man's gag and he decides to play hero, refuses to answer. I turn the gun to hold the barrel and smack him upside the skull with the butt. He goes down. Lights out. Maybe I killed him then. The old lady is bawling. So much for that plan. She makes noise like she wants to talk so I let, while keeping everyone covered.

She tells me where the safe is. I put the gag back in her mouth, pause, then shoot her in the head. Each family member takes a bullet, all except for the old man; I put two in him for his antics. I'm out of cartridges when I'm done. I owe it all to Dad, who taught me how to put animals down.

All kinds of animals, except for him.

I release the kids from the closet. Or at least open the door, offering them the chance to come out. They don't want to come out. Curled into the corner, holding each other, they're sure they're safer in there than out here with me. I stare at the tears streaming down their faces. I won't be around when they ask where Mommy is. But I've heard it before. I've asked it a million times myself.

***

BIO: Christopher Grant is a crime fiction writer and the owner of A Twist Of Noir. His fiction can be found at Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive and Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.