A change of direction - a woman will only take so much abuse....
Alice stood at the kitchen sink with a dinner plate hovering midway between suds and draining board, staring out of the window at the rain lashed brick wall which divided her backyard from the one next door. Watching the water cascading from the over flowing gutter she dreamt of blue skies and glamorous lifestyles. Soon it would be time to collect Brendan and Caitlin from the infant school on the next street. Sean would be home early for a change and he’d promised to take her out for their seventh wedding anniversary, but he’d made promises before - many, many times. There was always another pint at the bar and another game of darts, and she was lucky to see him before closing time when he’d stagger in full of excuses and promises not to do it again.
She looked down at a big purple bruise on her arm. If she complained he turned nasty so she kept quiet most of the time, but sometimes she couldn’t help responding angrily at the injustice of it. Many’s the time she’d sent the kids up to bed rather than let them witness the violent scenes between their parents, and they would lie in their beds with the blankets pulled up under their little chins, their big round eyes full of questions and fear. Children had ears as well as eyes and, as much as she tried to shield them, they could still hear what went on through the floor boards.
If Sean remembered they would probably go to the pub down the road where he met up with his mates after work. Carol next door had promised to babysit for a couple of hours if needs be. She was a good friend; one who was always willing to sympathise with Alice’s tales of woe, and one who could always be relied upon to help in an emergency.
How Alice wished she had taken the opportunity and accepted that job in Zambia. But she’d been too scared, too worried about security. The thick black headlines in the newspapers were an inch high predicting bush warfare and bloody battles in the streets after Ian Smith had pronounced U.D.I. in Rhodesia. Britain had sent troops to defend the Zambian border from the Rhodesian ground forces. So Alice had backed down from the contract she had been offered. Sean was the safer option, and when he’d asked her to marry him she’d jumped at the chance to leave home and become independent.
Sean was a good-looking fellow full of Irish charm with a responsible job and good prospects. All her friends had been envious of her. She’d fallen pregnant with Brendan soon after getting married and then eighteen months later Caitlin came along, which put a stop to her promising teaching career. They hadn’t had a holiday for five years and money was tight in spite of the fact that Sean was on a good salary. Why hadn’t she taken the plunge and accepted that contract in Zambia? She might have been married to a rich Rhodesian now, living a life of luxury in the sunshine in a big sprawling ranch-house with servants to do the housework, a big garden and a nanny to look after the children, not struggling to survive in this miserable Manchester back street waiting for an unreliable husband to take her to the local pub for her wedding anniversary.
Her sister had sent her long descriptions written on blue airmail paper of long, low sprawling bungalows with colourful creepers tumbling over breeze blocked walls surrounding sparkling swimming pools. Madge had lived over there for ten years now. The lifestyle sounded really glamorous. She and her husband had done well with their scrap metal business and she’d written to Alice encouraging her to come over and teach there. Alice had even gone down to Stag Place in Earl’s Court where the Overseas Aid Scheme had offered her a contract with a great salary and a generous end of contract gratuity after three years. But when the unrest started in that part of the world she’d allowed friends and family to influence her decision with their negative opinions.
Ah well, no good dreaming about what might have been. She’d better get moving. It was nearly half three and the teachers didn’t like you to be late. She wiped her hands on the tea-towel and reached for her coat behind the kitchen door.
Standing at the school gate Alice looked around at the other young mums. They were all dressed in the latest fashions enjoying gossiping with one another about last night’s Corrie episode or where they were going on holiday. Most had made lifelong friendships at this school gate in spite of living in the same dismal environment as herself. Why couldn’t she be content with her life like they were? She looked down at her scuffed shoes and second hand coat bought at charity shops. She must look a frightful mess. She hadn’t even bothered to brush her hair.
The kids appeared at the school door and she went forward for the teacher to hand them over to her. They seemed serious and subdued in comparison to the other happy chattering bunch around them. Was this what being in an unhappy marriage had brought upon them – two fearful children with a depressed, downtrodden mother and a drunken father? Was this the life she was forced to endure for the next twenty years and beyond?
Suddenly everything became very clear. She fished in her pocket for a scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. Carole had given it to her some time ago and now she was ready to use it. Yes, she could change things if she really wanted to.
And now she was ready.
The End
The Phonecall - An anonymous caller knows about a secret love affair
'Why can you never get this wheelchair in the right position?' grumbled Edith's mother sliding out of her wheelchair onto the bed. 'And try not to scald me with the Horlicks tonight. My throat is still raw from last night'
'I'll be back in a minute', sighed Edith. Nothing she did was ever right. It had been a hard day and her mother had been even more crotchety than usual.
The phone rang as she was going downstairs and she picked up the phone in the hallway.
'Hello,' she said nervously.
'I know what you're doing, you dirty whore. I saw you last night in the church porch. You should be ashamed of yourself.' The muffled female voice taunted vindictively.
'Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?' Edith sobbed. She and Bernard were so careful. They always found different places to meet but this person always saw them.
'Doesn't matter who I am. What matters is the damage you're doing to other people.' continued the voice.
'We're not hurting anyone. Please stop phoning me. These phonecalls are upsetting my mother. She's a sick lady.'
'And how about Bernard's wife? Don't you think you're hurting her?' asked the voice.
'Bernard's wife's in a Home. She has Alzheimer's. He visits her every day. Doesn't he deserve a little happiness of his own?'
'Through sickness and in health till death us do part. That's the oath he made on his wedding day. But you wouldn't know about that. You've never been married have you Edith? You're just a frumpy old spinster taking advantage of a lonely man,' the voice droned on, 'and how about your responsibilities to your mother? How would she feel if she knew her beloved daughter, her carer, was talking of putting her in a home and bringing her boyfriend to stay in her house?'
Edith shuddered. Not only could this woman see their assignations, she was also close enough to hear their whispered conversations. It was creepy.
'Edith!' Her mother's voice shouted from the bedroom upstairs. 'Who is it? I need to take my pill. Hurry up and tell whoever it is you're busy.'
Edith put her hand over the phone and shouted up the stairs, 'Wont be a minute, mum!' She took her hand away from the mouthpiece, ' Now look here, whoever you are,' she said quietly trying to be more assertive, 'if you call again I shall call the police.'
The caller laughed unpleasantly, 'Ha. You do that and everyone will know what's been going on including your mother.' The line went dead and Edith was left staring at the receiver.
She took a quick look in the mirror above the telephone table to check her appearance. She didn't want her mother asking awkward questions. Life was difficult enough with her demanding mother and Edith could only meet her lover once the old lady was unconscious after taking her sleeping tablet.
'Edith!!' Her mother's strident voice broke into her thoughts
'Coming Mum, Just making your Horlicks.' Edith went into the kitchen and put the pan of milk on the hotplate. Whilst she waited for it to boil she spooned Horlicks powder into a china mug, her mother's favourite, took her mobile phone from her pocket and dialled the familiar number.
'It's me. I need to see you urgently,' she whispered
At the other end of the line Bernard sounded distant, 'Er. Can't it wait till tomorrow? I'm visiting Marion at the moment.'
'No! This is important, Bernard. I'll be at the place we first met in an hour.'
'EDITH!'
'Got to go. Mother is calling. COMING MOTHER.'
Edith put the phone back in her pocket and went upstairs carrying a tray of Horlicks and digestive biscuits.
Half an hour later she checked that her mother was sleeping, then quickly put on her padded anorak and stepped out into the damp night air. She looked back hurriedly to make sure her mother's bedroom light was still off and saw the shiny black window reflecting the lights of the street below.....but she didn't see the hate filled eyes staring after her from behind the curtain.
Edith turned up Castle Street and arrived at the cobbled market square. She could see Bernard's grey outline against the stone wall of the medieval Council Chambers.
They hugged and Edith quickly told him about the anonymous phone calls over the past few nights.
'Whoever it is knows everything, Bernard. We'll have to stop seeing each other. It's no good.' She broke down and sobbed. 'If Mother ever found out about you....' She stopped, unable to carry on.
Bernard put his arms around her and she laid her head on his shoulder. He stroked her back 'OK. Take it easy, Love. Tell me once again exactly what this person said.'
'Um. Let me think. She said you had a wife, and I told her your wife was in a home with altzheimers. Then she said she knew we were planning to put my mother in a home so that we could live together in her house. There was other nasty horrible stuff too about me.'
'Is that all?' asked Bernard, 'the real stuff I mean, not the nasty stuff.'
'Er yes, I think so.'
'Think back. Did we ever discuss putting your mother in a home when we met one another?'
Edith frowned in concentration, 'Er I'm not sure. I don't think so. We talked about it a lot on the phone once Mother was in bed asleep.'
Bernard looked thoughtful, 'Mmmm, I see'
'What is it Bernard, what do you see?' enquired Edith mystified.
'I have an idea. Here's what we're going to do.'
The following night whilst Edith was helping her mother into bed, the back door opened quietly and a shadowy figure crept silently up the stairs, missing the creaking step, and stationed himself in the room opposite the old lady's bedroom. Five minutes later Edith came out, leaving the bedroom door ajar, and went downstairs to make the Horlicks as usual. As she reached the bottom step the phone rang and Edith answered it as she always did in the hallway. Her heart raced as she lifted the receiver to her ear, knowing what was coming.
'You were with him again last night you dirty slut, rubbing yourself up against him like a bitch on heat,' accused the muffled female voice.
Bernard, meanwhile, was peering round the spare room door right into the old woman's bedroom where she was sitting up in bed with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, making lewd comments into the phone about him and Edith.
When she had finished Edith came upstairs again carrying the tray of Horlicks and digestives as usual. Bernard nodded at her as she passed by.
Edith settled her mother, gave her the sleeping tablet and left, leaving the bedroom door slightly open. Bernard saw her mother hide the tablet under her pillow and then pretend to be asleep.
Downstairs Edith waited for half an hour and slammed the front door, then hid in the kitchen. Immediately the old woman got up, threw on her slippers and dressing gown and ran downstairs, no longer the cripple she pretended to be. As she was about to open the front door, Edith rushed out of the kitchen to confront her.
'So, Mother, this is a surprise! All this time you've been able to walk as well as me. I've been a fool too long,' Edith shouted angrily, the pain of her mother's betrayal in her voice. 'And all this time you've been eavesdropping on my telephone calls when I thought you were asleep and then following me.'
'Ah yes, the phone calls. And when exactly were you going to put me in a Home may I ask?' Her mother asked
sarcastically.
'If I'd known you were so active there would have been no need,' declared Edith. 'After meeting Bernard I wasn't prepared to waste my life any longer, especially when you are so unappreciative. Bernard loves me and I'm going to take my chance of happiness now with him'.
Her mother glared back at her, ' You stupid, selfish girl. Do you think he loves you? How could any man love an ugly duckling like you. You're just a plaything. It's his wife he really loves, not you. Once he has you he'll leave you. And don't think you can come crawling back to me when that happens, Girlie.'
She swung around as she heard the stair creak behind her.
'What do you know about love?' Bernard demanded disdainfully. 'Edith is beautiful. She could have had anyone, been married with children, your grandchildren, long ago, if it wasn't for your selfish jealousy. Call yourself a mother?' He shook his head, 'you don't know the meaning of the word. I love Edith and I think she loves me'.
Edith nodded, a glow of happiness lighting up her care worn face. She truly was the most beautiful woman Bernard had ever seen with lustrous dark hair and a flawless skin. And what was even more beautiful was the inner light which shone from within whenever they were together.
He turned back to her mother who stood looking as though a bomb had hit her. 'So you'd better find someone else to fetch and carry for you, old woman, because Edith is coming home with me.'
Bernard reached out and took Edith's hand and they went out of the front door without a backward glance at the old lady who stood in the open doorway begging her daughter not to leave her.
But it was too late. Edith was free at last.
The End
Copyright 2016 by Wendy Breytenbach (or Jane Maxwell). All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission
Caught Red Handed
‘Caught red handed Croc!’
Croc swung around in front of the safe, his fingers dripping with strings of glittering diamonds and emeralds. I was about to lunge forward and slam his arm behind his back with one hand whilst I crushed him in an arm lock with the other. That was until I saw the cold grey metal of the revolver in his other hand pointing shakily at my chest. I stepped back, mesmerised by the dark hole wavering in my direction. I was no hero and Crock was no cold blooded killer but he was nervous and I wasn't taking any chances.
‘Stay back Mr.Gregory,’ he growled, his voice wavering, ‘Ah don't want ter shoot yer but ah will if ah ‘ave to.’
‘ Come on Croc, you don't want to get in any more trouble. Put the gun on the floor now and kick it towards me, there's a good chap.’ The genteel commanding voice came with a public school education and had never failed me before.
‘And ‘ave you give me up to the police like yer did before? No fear. Ah’ve spent 15 years in a crummy cell for summat I never did, an ah’m not goin’ back.
He stuffed the jewels in his pocket and changed the gun into his right hand, putting his left hand into his left hand pocket.
I remained calm. I knew Croc of old. We called him Croc because of his rough pock marked skin, long nose and sleepy eyes that could put the fear of God in you if you didn't know how soft he really was. He also slithered around soundlessly on short fat legs just like a crocodile We'd worked together on a number of occasions and not been caught. It was in and out as quick as possible and away before the police arrived. The last time though he'd almost been caught. A new copper on the beat had noticed the getaway vehicle parked at the rear of the bank. He'd become suspicious and was radioing for backup just as we were on our way out with a couple of million pounds worth of safety deposit box contents in a hessian sack, too much to lose I had no choice.. I shot the him but I was too late. He'd already radioed his whereabouts and a police car chased us across Westminster Bridge
‘Yer made sure yer didn't get caught didn't yer Gregory. Gettin’ the driver te slow down as we turned I inte Birdcage Walk so yer could jump aht. And then when the fuzz rammed us where did they find the gun? In my pocket, that's where.’
I grinned ‘Yes. That was quite slick of me, even though I say it myself. Even managed to clean the fingerprints of the gun before I jumped out of the car and hid the loot. And then I doubled back and appeared on the scene to investigate the crime along with the other officers. ’
‘And then, when I told ‘em it was Superintendent Arnold Gregory, Chief of Police as ‘ad done it they wouldn't believe me.’
‘Well what did you expect Croc? I'm above reproach, whereas you, well you're a nobody, just a brainless lackey.’
Croc narrowed his eyes and rubbed his pitted cheek ‘As a matter of interest just ‘ow much did we come aht with on that raid, Mr Gregory?’
I thought for a moment, ‘Well somewhere in the region of two and a half million I'd say, give or take a hundred’
‘And you got the lot didn't yer Mr Gregory’
I grinned and nodded, ‘I certainly did Croc except for a couple of thousand I gave to Fallon, the getaway driver, and a nice little retirement fund its made for me too. ‘
Croc’s ugly face broke into a leer but as far as I could see he didn't have anything to smile about. ‘Get away from the door, Gregory before ah shoot yer’.
I think I'd upset him with that last remark. The poor can't abide to see the rich making money with so little effort, so I stood back and watched as he walked past still levelling the gun at me. Once he’d gone I could press the secret button under my chair and have my ten acres of lavish grounds surrounded in minutes. He'd not get far.
As Croc ran out of the front door I pressed the button. I then poured myself a chivas regal, sat back and waited for the West Midlands Police force to descend upon my Georgian Manor House.
Half an hour later the lights of half a dozen police cars swept up the driveway and screeched to a halt at the front door.
Did they really need to be so dramatic I thought as I went out to welcome them.
‘Good evening, Inspector. Did you catch the thief?’
‘Oh yes, Sir. We’ve got him.’
Very good, inspector. I'll see you down at the station tomorrow morning to give you my statement.’
I was about to close the door when the Inspector pushed forward, rather disrespectfully l thought at the time.
‘Not so fast Sir. Superintendent Arnold Gregory, I am arresting you for the murder of PC James Garvey. You need not say anything but whatever you do say will be taken down in writing and used as evidence….’
I couldn't quite take it in. This was all wrong. It should be Croc they were arresting not me
‘There's been a mistake,’ I said. ‘Do you know who I am?’
In response the inspector held up a mobile phone and pressed a play back button, Yer made sure yer didn't get caught didn't yer Gregory. Gettin’ the driver te slow down as we turned into Birdcage Walk so yer could jump aht. And then when the fuzz rammed us where did they find the gun? In my pocket, that's where……….. It was all there, the whole damning conversation. So that's why Croc had his hand in his pocket the whole time. He obviously wasn't as stupid as I thought he was.
‘You see Croc was working for us,’ said the Inspector snapping the handcuffs onto my wrists.
So that's why I'm sitting here in a cell writing my memoirs.
The End
‘Caught red handed Croc!’
Croc swung around in front of the safe, his fingers dripping with strings of glittering diamonds and emeralds. I was about to lunge forward and slam his arm behind his back with one hand whilst I crushed him in an arm lock with the other. That was until I saw the cold grey metal of the revolver in his other hand pointing shakily at my chest. I stepped back, mesmerised by the dark hole wavering in my direction. I was no hero and Crock was no cold blooded killer but he was nervous and I wasn't taking any chances.
‘Stay back Mr.Gregory,’ he growled, his voice wavering, ‘Ah don't want ter shoot yer but ah will if ah ‘ave to.’
‘ Come on Croc, you don't want to get in any more trouble. Put the gun on the floor now and kick it towards me, there's a good chap.’ The genteel commanding voice came with a public school education and had never failed me before.
‘And ‘ave you give me up to the police like yer did before? No fear. Ah’ve spent 15 years in a crummy cell for summat I never did, an ah’m not goin’ back.
He stuffed the jewels in his pocket and changed the gun into his right hand, putting his left hand into his left hand pocket.
I remained calm. I knew Croc of old. We called him Croc because of his rough pock marked skin, long nose and sleepy eyes that could put the fear of God in you if you didn't know how soft he really was. He also slithered around soundlessly on short fat legs just like a crocodile We'd worked together on a number of occasions and not been caught. It was in and out as quick as possible and away before the police arrived. The last time though he'd almost been caught. A new copper on the beat had noticed the getaway vehicle parked at the rear of the bank. He'd become suspicious and was radioing for backup just as we were on our way out with a couple of million pounds worth of safety deposit box contents in a hessian sack, too much to lose I had no choice.. I shot the him but I was too late. He'd already radioed his whereabouts and a police car chased us across Westminster Bridge
‘Yer made sure yer didn't get caught didn't yer Gregory. Gettin’ the driver te slow down as we turned I inte Birdcage Walk so yer could jump aht. And then when the fuzz rammed us where did they find the gun? In my pocket, that's where.’
I grinned ‘Yes. That was quite slick of me, even though I say it myself. Even managed to clean the fingerprints of the gun before I jumped out of the car and hid the loot. And then I doubled back and appeared on the scene to investigate the crime along with the other officers. ’
‘And then, when I told ‘em it was Superintendent Arnold Gregory, Chief of Police as ‘ad done it they wouldn't believe me.’
‘Well what did you expect Croc? I'm above reproach, whereas you, well you're a nobody, just a brainless lackey.’
Croc narrowed his eyes and rubbed his pitted cheek ‘As a matter of interest just ‘ow much did we come aht with on that raid, Mr Gregory?’
I thought for a moment, ‘Well somewhere in the region of two and a half million I'd say, give or take a hundred’
‘And you got the lot didn't yer Mr Gregory’
I grinned and nodded, ‘I certainly did Croc except for a couple of thousand I gave to Fallon, the getaway driver, and a nice little retirement fund its made for me too. ‘
Croc’s ugly face broke into a leer but as far as I could see he didn't have anything to smile about. ‘Get away from the door, Gregory before ah shoot yer’.
I think I'd upset him with that last remark. The poor can't abide to see the rich making money with so little effort, so I stood back and watched as he walked past still levelling the gun at me. Once he’d gone I could press the secret button under my chair and have my ten acres of lavish grounds surrounded in minutes. He'd not get far.
As Croc ran out of the front door I pressed the button. I then poured myself a chivas regal, sat back and waited for the West Midlands Police force to descend upon my Georgian Manor House.
Half an hour later the lights of half a dozen police cars swept up the driveway and screeched to a halt at the front door.
Did they really need to be so dramatic I thought as I went out to welcome them.
‘Good evening, Inspector. Did you catch the thief?’
‘Oh yes, Sir. We’ve got him.’
Very good, inspector. I'll see you down at the station tomorrow morning to give you my statement.’
I was about to close the door when the Inspector pushed forward, rather disrespectfully l thought at the time.
‘Not so fast Sir. Superintendent Arnold Gregory, I am arresting you for the murder of PC James Garvey. You need not say anything but whatever you do say will be taken down in writing and used as evidence….’
I couldn't quite take it in. This was all wrong. It should be Croc they were arresting not me
‘There's been a mistake,’ I said. ‘Do you know who I am?’
In response the inspector held up a mobile phone and pressed a play back button, Yer made sure yer didn't get caught didn't yer Gregory. Gettin’ the driver te slow down as we turned into Birdcage Walk so yer could jump aht. And then when the fuzz rammed us where did they find the gun? In my pocket, that's where……….. It was all there, the whole damning conversation. So that's why Croc had his hand in his pocket the whole time. He obviously wasn't as stupid as I thought he was.
‘You see Croc was working for us,’ said the Inspector snapping the handcuffs onto my wrists.
So that's why I'm sitting here in a cell writing my memoirs.
The End
Secret lives - Can a vicious killer kill one more time before he dies?
The local newspaper poked out of the letterbox and he pulled it through as he was passing with his morning cuppa. Once seated in his favourite armchair he spread it on his knee. The first thing he noticed was the big black headline.
SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE IN SOLIHULL
With a third body discovered within three months West Midlands Police have now reported that there is a serial killer at work in the Solihull area. All three bodies were found by walkers in wooded areas. Faces were disfigured and hands missing which makes identification difficult. Police are investigating all missing persons in the Solihull area. They warn people to be on their guard in lonely places, to lock their houses and windows at night and to be accompanied wherever possible. When asked if there is any particular section of the public more at risk than others Chief Inspector Roy Davis said that at this stage of the inquiry it is difficult to say as the bodies are those of both men and women. But until they are able to identify the victims and catch the killer he advised that everyone should be on their guard.
He put the paper down and stared out of the window. The cerise azalea was in full bloom and the baby blue tits clamoured around the coconut shell hanging under the bird table. The new green leaves on the oak tree shone in the sunlight. Everywhere there was a burst of life and he could already feel the excitement bubbling up inside him. He hadn’t felt like this since his last murder on Cannock Chase three years ago when he'd pulled a woman off her horse and choked her with her own riding crop. But he'd never disfigured any of his victims. That was something new and the thought excited him.
He couldn't count how many lives he had watched gradually fade away. It began with them fighting for their existence, pleading with him to let them live, just for one more second, one more breath, the most basic human need. It was amazing how the knowledge of imminent death brought the value of life into clear focus. It was then that they regretted all those wasted hours taking life for granted. And then the panic in their eyes as they realized that he had no mercy that they were powerless, and finally acceptance as life drained away. He felt like God. Oh it felt so good to have that power over life and death, and so easy.
It had all started when he was eight years old. He was given a fluffy white kitten for Christmas. One day it accidentally fell down the coal chute of his parents’ Victorian house. When he fished it out its lovely white fur was blackened with coal dust so he had taken it up to the bathroom and held it under the tap to wash it clean whilst it struggled to get free. It was then that he noticed the panic and the subsequent acceptance as the life light faded from its eyes. But what he noticed even more was the feeling of exhilaration, the power. It was euphoric and he wanted to repeat it. There followed birds, gerbils, puppies, each one meeting its death in peculiar circumstances. His parents put it down to bad luck. Not once did either of them think that their beautiful, clever boy was a serial killer in the making.
Then animals weren't enough anymore and eventually at seventeen he'd committed his first murder. He’d spotted her walking across Wimbledon Common one summer evening. She was young, probably early 20s, wearing a pretty cotton dress with red flowers on it. She was full of energy and laughter, throwing sticks for her little white Yorkshire terrier. It reminded him of his first kill. He'd watched her imagining how wonderful it would be to watch that energy gradually drain from her. He watched her for a few days, noting that she always came onto the Common at around tea time when very few people were around. He knew how dog owners often chatted to one another so one evening he picked up a puppy straying outside someone’s garden and walked with it on a leash parallel to the girl across the Common. When he was abreast of her he let the pup off the leash and it bounded across to greet her dog. Whilst the two animals got to know one another it was the most natural thing in the world to strike up a conversation.
'He's a friendly little fellow. What's he called?’ He flashed his magnetic smile and could see that she was smitten straight away. He had that knack with women and he looked mature for his years. She smiled at the handsome young stranger,
‘He’s a she,’ she laughed ‘and her name is Purdy’
They carried on walking and chatting for a few minutes until they came to a band of trees which hid them from the rest of the Common. He grabbed her and before she had time to shout out threw a leash around her neck and pulled it tight. He remembered the look of surprise and terror as he tightened the ligature and the amazing rush of adrenalin he felt as he watched the light leave her eyes. The dog went hysterical so he broke its neck. All far too easy. Then he just left the bodies in the undergrowth. It had taken the police weeks to find her by which time he had moved on to his next tournament, and his next kill.
It was three years since he’d experienced that exhilaration. Now in his 70th year with a diagnosis of terminal cancer he realized that this was his last chance. The urge to kill had gone. But he missed the euphoria. Even sex could never compete. Perhaps he could experience it one more time before he died. But would it be the same without the risk of being caught? He only had 6 months to live although he'd persuaded his doctor not to divulge this fact to his wife and family. He hated the thought of them worrying about him. In spite of his lethal addiction he loved his family and would protect them with his life. He wasn’t afraid of death. There had been a time at the beginning of his killing career when to be caught would have meant seeing the end of a hangman’s rope. That had given it a certain edge. But he'd been too clever for them. He'd never chosen people he had any connection with and he’d always varied his method of killing; strangulation; suffocation, drowning, hanging, stabbing. And who would suspect him anyway, a respected sports icon feted throughout the world. He'd even been a presenter on TV in his later years, a household name; the perfect cover for a serial killer. He was here, there and everywhere. But now in his retirement they lived in a nice house in Woodhouse Lane. His daughter lived nearby and his grand kids went to the local secondary school. He’d even done a stint on the Residents' Association. Who would ever suspect? And now an opportunity presented itself which he thought was never going to come along again, a chance to kill and put the blame onto someone else, and he couldn't resist it.
He got dressed, carefully making sure he was wearing his best silk tie and placing a sharp serrated hunting knife in his back pocket, hidden by his jacket.
‘Going somewhere nice?’ asked his wife when he appeared in the kitchen all dressed up.
‘Just going for a walk. Thought I’d go and check out the bluebells in Mickleton Woods.’
‘Oh yes, they’re beautiful this time of year. I’d come with you but I've promised to meet Caroline to sort out that charity walk we’re planning.’ His wife came and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Please be careful, Dear. It’s a bit lonely there and you know there's a serial killer on the loose!’
He smiled. ‘Stop fussing, Darling. There’lI be lots of other people around. I'll be fine. I’ll just take my walking stick. Not so good on my feet these days, and,’ he added with a grin, ‘if any serial killer comes along I’ll just whack him over the head with it.’ His wife smiled. He’d always had a weird sense of humour.
'Will you take the Merc?' She asked.
'No. I'll take the Jazz. Less petrol,’ and less conspicuous he thought.
He got into the car and headed for Mickleton where he parked in the Bull’s Head carpark and walked the last few hundred yards to the entrance of the wood. He stopped and leaned on his stick. There was a form nearby so he sat down to recover his energy. He had noticed lately that his energy levels were lower than they used to be and he feared he might not be strong enough to carry out his final killing, but when he thought of that feeling of power he was re-energised. So now all he had to do was wait. A victim was bound to appear. He smiled at the thought that he was like a lion waiting for a buck to stray from the herd. He felt young again, exhilarated.
‘Hey, Neighbour,’ shouted a familiar voice.’ It was Mark and his wife Dianna from next door. They'd only moved in a few months before and he hardly knew them. They kept pretty much to themselves apart from saying good morning as they left the house.
They stopped and Dianna rested a shopping bag on the seat next to him.
‘We’ve just been shopping and thought we'd do a detour to see the bluebells before they finish flowering. Want to come in with us?’
‘I’ll sit here a while longer and catch my breath if you don’t mind. I might meet up with you later.’ He didn’t want his neighbours spoiling his fun. Fortunately they didn't argue and went on their way.
He sat there for another five minutes and then his pulse quickened. A woman in her late forties came along with a little dog. Perfect! He nodded a greeting and she smiled indulgently at the old man resting on the form. As she entered the wood she let the dog off the leash and it ran off exploring its freedom sniffing here and there amongst the trees. A few seconds later he got up and followed. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees shedding light on the swathes of bluebells. The woman shouted to her dog, 'Come Rascal.' The dog bounded towards her out of the undergrowth, then darted off again. The woman continued down the path and he followed not far behind. When she turned a bend on the path he felt this would be a good time to speed up his pace and take her unawares. He took the knife from his belt and grasped his heavy walking stick more firmly. This was going to be so easy. His heart pounded in anticipation of the delights ahead.
Thump! The surprise blow to the back of his head felled him. Looking up from the carpet of bluebells through a bloody haze he saw his neighbours Mark and Dianna standing over him. Mark was wielding a hammer and his wife a saw. Before he could raise his head Mark grabbed his tie and tied it around his mouth to smother his screams as they set to work battering his face to a pulp and sawing off his hands. The pain was excruciating but no one heard his screams of agony and no one cared.
Just before his life ebbed away he wondered how he had never suspected anything …… and then there was nothing.
The End
Copyright 2016 by Wendy Breytenbach (or Jane Maxwell). All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.
Why? - a celebratory day in London ends in tragedy
A deeply satisfying snore resonated from the seat behind Izzy as the London bus trundled down Oxford Street towards Marylebone Station. She turned around and looked down at Leon passed out on the seat behind her, and shook her head fondly.
'We're going to have to get Lee down those stairs somehow,' she laughed. 'That last beer finished him off.'
Izzy had become a big-sister figure to Leon over the past few years, compensating for a family who had died in a car accident when he was a baby.
The three friends had come down from Oxford to celebrate their hard-won PhDs. This was their final day together before going their separate ways to fulfil their ambitions in their chosen fields: Izzy to become a paediatrician at Guys; Caroline as a micro-biologist at a top-secret laboratory in Wales, and Leon, who planned to drink the world dry before settling down and making pots of money in Silicon Valley. Life was not for suffocating in a pokey office - not yet anyway.
The girls chattered happily about their day; they'd bought wraps at a sandwich bar on Whitehall and eaten them in St James' Park overlooking the lake, before strolling through Admiralty Arch to Trafalgar Square; they'd studied the living statues, trying to work out how they could possibly stand unsupported in mid-air; they'd wandered around the labyrinth of fine arts in the National Gallery, finally hopping on a bus to Oxford Street for some retail therapy, whilst Leon found a little pub on a side street and got quietly hammered
'Let's have a look at that sexy evening dress you bought then, Carrie.' Izzy leant over and sneaked a cheeky peep inside the Harvey Nichols bag on her friend’s lap, revealing a flash of petrol blue lace. Caroline grinned, shook her blond curls and held the bag closer to her chest, 'It's nothing special. You'll see it at the Graduation Ball. What did you buy?'
'Oh nothing so exciting. Saw a gorgeous red strapless number, though, in Selfridges. Even tried it on but the saleslady hovered over me as if I was about to steal the Koh-I-Noor diamond.'
Caroline laughed. Izzy was her closest friend from a completely different social background to her own, which is what drew her to the effervescent young woman with her Northern accent and kinky charity shop clothes. She was a breath of fresh air to Caroline who despised her snobby private school education and the soulless manor house in the Cotswolds, where her parents were too busy socialising at the local golf club to take notice of their beautiful sensitive daughter. All they were bothered about was showing off her achievements to their wealthy friends.
‘Darlings. We're sooo proud of our little girl. Caroline got a PhD in Micro-Biology from Oxford, you know'
'So, what did you buy?' she asked, pushing her mother's irritating voice out of her mind. Izzy opened a Topshop bag and pulled out a very short bright orange mini shift
'Tra la. Got it in a sale.'
'That's so you,' said Caroline, admiringly. 'It'll suit your exotic colouring.'
The bus stopped at the terminus outside Marylebone Station. Izzy leaned over and thumped Leon on the shoulder, 'Come on you drunken fool. Time to roll.’
Leon blinked blearily, and groped his way to the top of the stairs. They helped him stumble down and cross the road to the station where the huge Victorian clock registered six thirty. With a couple of minutes to spare they rushed past the flower sellers onto the busy platform and pushed their way through the jostling crowds, keeping a wary eye on their weaving companion…… Then, everything happened so fast. The train lumbering towards them, a flash of blue, a scream - it was all over in a second.
At the Enquiry six months later one person insisted Caroline jumped. Another said it looked like someone pushed her. The final verdict was 'suicide', but Izzy wasn’t convinced. They’d had such a happy carefree day. Why buy an expensive dress and then jump in front of a train?
It didn’t make sense - did it?
The End
Copyright 2016 by Wendy Breytenbach (or Jane Maxwell). All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission