Still, while he was trying to lay low, a little spinsterly companion might do the trick and throw any snoops off his scent. Just in case any of Harry’s boys were sniffing around. Or Stewie, Cath’s nut-job, gun-freak brother, with his flashbacks to Afghanistan and volcanic temper.
Bobby finished off his drink, walked on to the balcony and turned on the charm.
***
It was a star cluttered night but dark enough for Cath to follow Bobby and the woman without them noticing. She couldn’t believe her luck.
It had taken her a little over a month to find out where Bobby was. Then again, if he was daft enough to hide out in Spain, with an ex–criminal on every street corner, it was no surprise that someone had spotted him and grassed him up to Stewie so quickly.
Her joints ached as she shuffled up the cobblestone path, keeping in the shadows. Cath had only been in hospital for a week and had started on the physiotherapy straight off. But she still had a while to go before she’d be in tip-top condition again.
Bobby had knocked her out, put her in a cardboard box and buried her alive out in the forest. But she’d woken up and used the diamond on her wedding ring to cut through the box. It had been a struggle, but she’d managed to claw her way out. Though she tore a ligament and had a few cuts and bruises.
She went straight to Stewie. At first she’d planned on going to the police. But then Stewie had a better idea.
Bobby, ever the arsehole, had even changed his Facebook status to ‘single’ on the same day he’d tried to kill her; he was so sure she was dead. So she managed to keep her escape a secret and Stewie put the feelers out for Bobby once he went AWOL.
And there he was, walking up to the hotel with some frumpy, lesbian type. Was that the best he could get?
Cath checked the gun in her bag and kept on walking. Relaxed. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the beginning of the end.
The End
Paul D. Brazill was born in England, and now lives in Poland. He left school at 16, played bass guitar in a couple of early ‘80s post-punk bands and started writing flash fiction and short stories at the end of 2008.
He’s since had two collections published: -“13 Shots Of Noir” (Untreed Reads) and “Snapshot”(Pulp Metal Fiction).
Pulp Press has published the novella, “Guns Of Brixton,” and Paul has also edited two anthologies: “True Brit Grit” (Guilty Conscience) and “Drunk On The Moon” (Dark Valentine Press).
Unforgettable
~ Julia Madeleine
Jackie leaned with her big ass against the cold stone building and released a groan as she ripped the foot out of her pantyhose. Had she just worn knee-highs or stockings she could have pulled them off easily enough. But the capris she was wearing presented a tricky situation with the hose. A man walking passed gave her a curious look as she was tearing the foot out of the other one. She didn’t care. She didn’t care how she must appear with her long rain-drenched hair she’d spend over an hour fixing, or her makeup; the luminous mascara promising to make her lashes lush and luxurious in seconds now streaking down her face like Alice Cooper. Should have gotten the waterproof shit.
Thirty minutes. That’s how long she’d waited for the fucker, downing three glasses of wine and the entire breadbasket, sitting there like a loser alone in the restaurant while everyone stared at her. Granted she was there early, so technically she’d only waited fifteen minutes for him. But it was more than enough time for her to know exactly how the scene was going to play out. It’s not like she hadn’t been there before, numerous times. Too many to count even. It was always this way for her. But she’d been so hopeful this time. Told herself to forget all the others, put her fears aside. This guy was different. He seemed sincere. Like there could be something real there. And she’d wanted that for so long. Something lasting. A man who would love her back this time--truly love her. She knew, however, as soon as she checked the time and saw that it was five minutes past the time they were suppose to meet. She knew. It would turn out like all the others before him.
Jackie balled up the soiled torn-out feet of her pantyhose and tossed it onto the street where it plopped like a dead fish. She picked up the stiletto-heeled shoes she’d squandered her money on the day before, and continued on up the sidewalk in the downpour. Streetlights soaked the night landscape in grey tones straight out of a box of watercolours; a sickening metallic veneer running together behind her tears like a Dali painting. Cars whipped past on the street heedless to her, their carbon monoxide fumes burning her throat.
She was close now, only two or three blocks away. She could feel her heart pounding through her entire body. Her feet burned with pain, her knees felt swollen having to support over two hundred pounds on her five-foot frame. She cursed all the lattes and late night ice cream, all the days she’d blown off going to the gym. But what did she really expect. She’d been fat all her life. Nothing was ever going to change.
Her feet slapped against the hard pavement, cold and wet, but somehow it felt good. There was a certain satisfaction in her brisk stride, in her anger. This time, she was going to show this low-life son of a bitch. She was going to teach him a lesson he’d never forget. Teach all those fuckers a lesson. Show them all that she was not going to be used and tossed aside any longer, her heart discarded faster than the condoms.
Michael’s house was the third one up on the left side, the one with the giant magnolia tree in the yard, like something from a forgotten dream, the dashed hopes of future happiness. She’d been here only two days ago. Their first date and she’d gone and slept with him, something she said she wouldn’t do anymore. Somehow she always managed to break that promise to herself. And it always ended this way. They wouldn’t call her again. Or if they did, it was to ask her to come over, but not for a date, not to take her out for dinner, not to spend time getting to know her. Just for sex. She was good enough to fuck but not good enough to marry. She might as well start charging these bastards. At least she’d get something out of it other than disappointment.
The house was in darkness; his car wasn’t in the driveway. For a moment she hesitated, and checked her phone to see if there was a new text from Michael, perhaps an explanation. Just as she thought, there was nothing. Jackie tucked her phone in the front pocket of her capris, clenched her fists, and stole around the back of the house. She tried the door handle. Locked.
“Of course,” she said, jiggling the handle.
From the garden she grabbed a rock and smashed a hole in the window of the door, reaching inside to turn the deadbolt.
“Good thing you don’t have a dog.” He’d said he was a cat person.
Jackie set her shoes on the kitchen table. The place was pristine, as if it had been staged; he was so clean and neat. She remembered she’d been impressed by that, had thought about what it would be like to move in here. To finally get out of her lousy basement apartment, live in an actual house in a nice part of town. Have a real life with a husband, and children while she was still young enough to bare them.
She grabbed a bottle of red wine from the counter, pulled out the stopper, took a swig, and then turned it upside down on the floor. She splashed it on the walls and on the cupboard doors. Another sip from the bottle convinced her not to waste it.
From the cupboard she pulled down a bag of flour, and spread it over the counters and floor. She upturned a bag of oatmeal, an entire unopened bag of sugar, boxes of cereal, pasta, Uncle Ben’s long grain and wild rice, Oreos, syrup, and a large bottle of ketchup which she coated the walls with. She turned the faucet on full, put the plug in the sink. She pulled out the contents of drawers and tossed them on the floor, dumped a can of coffee and a bottle of dish soap on them.
“Not so clean now, is it Michael?” She chuckled, feeling the first flames of revenge unfurling their deadly tongues inside of her, licking at the edge of her heart. From the wine bottle she took a long drink and released a satisfying burp.
In the bottom drawer she
found a hammer and took it out. She grabbed a pair of scissors and a knife from the block on the counter. Under the sink she found a bottle of bleach and wandered into the living room, splashing it over his carpet, and his sofa where she’d sat drinking with him, where she’d allowed him to remove her blouse. She tossed the empty bleach bottle on the floor and lifted the photo album from the coffee table; his recent pictures from Italy where he’d gone to visit his family. Said maybe one day he’d take her there. He’d kissed her so tenderly, told her he liked her curves, her dimples, said she was sexy, that she was just the kind of woman he’d been waiting for.
“The rest of the clothes had come of easily at that point, hadn’t they you fucking slime dog?” she said, gazing longingly at his smiling photo, remembering his touch, the scent of his skin, his warmth.
She thought he was the one. Sex was just sealing the deal. How could he betray her like this? Make her believe he cared, gave her hope.
Jackie remembered her very first date at age sixteen, how her mother had taken her out and spent money she couldn’t afford on a new dress and shoes, how she’d told all of her friends in the neighbourhood that her daughter was going out on her very first date. They’d been so excited. Jackie had sat in front of her mother’s mirror in her bedroom while two of her mother’s friends curled her hair, and fussed over her makeup. They’d talked about their own dating experiences when they were girls, gave her advise, tips on how she should act, what she should and shouldn’t say. They brought her out on the balcony all done up like Cinderella to show her off to the neighbours and wait for her prince to arrive. Her mother had the camera ready, she was so proud. Then as the time ticked past his expected arrival, the worry set in. Then the disappointment, the offering of possible explanations. The condolences. Then the humiliation, the heartache, the self-loathing. And finally depression.
“You’re all the same. Cocksuckers all of you.”
One by one she pulled the pictures out of the album and patiently ripped them to pieces, tossing them in the air like confetti. From the kitchen she grabbed the hammer and systematically went around the house, smashing pictures, mirrors, his stereo, his flat screen television, his computer, the glass doors in the dining room cabinet. She took the knife, the scissors and the wine bottle and went upstairs to his bedroom. There she opened his closet, took out his expensive suits one by one and shredded them with the scissors. She cut up his shirts, his ties, sweaters, a leather jacket. She found a bag of kitty litter in the hall and dumped it down the bathroom sink and in the toilet and bathtub drain. She turned the faucets in the sink and the tub on full. A few minutes later she was sweating, her breath coming in wounded gasps.
In the bedroom she found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and lit one up. She’d given up smoking months ago. But what did that matter now? Jackie sat down on his bed with the hammer in her hand, puffing on the cigarette, staring at the pile of shredded clothing on the floor. She looked at the knife sitting on the bedside table and wondered how long it would take to bleed out.
The cigarette made her feel sick and she butted it in on the surface of the end table. She took another long drink from the wine bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She set the bottle down and picked up the knife, turning it in her hands, studying its gleaming finish. The monstrous horizontal scars on her left wrist peeked out from behind the tattoo that read “courage” in cursive script, meant to camouflage them. On her right wrist, hiding more scars was the word “believe”. Sucking in a breath, she made a deep vertical slice in her left wrist, cutting right through the tattoo. Dark blood pooled in the cut and dripped down her wrists. She held her breath, switched the knife to the other hand and made another vertical slice in her right wrist. The sobs bubbled up in her throat, surprising her.
She lay down in the centre of Michael’s bed staring up at the ceiling as hot tears leaked into her ears, listening to the hiss of the faucets in the bathroom, the dribble of water on the floor.
This would show him. This would certainly teach him. He’d never forget this moment. It would be etched in his brain for eternity. She would be etched in his brain. He would never recover. She would be unforgettable. Closing her eyes, she listened to the flow of water in the bathroom. Then, a moment later, a vibration in the front pocket of her capris. Her cell phone alerting her to a text message. She lifted her right hand from the sticky puddle on the comforter, feeling her body gravely weakened with the blood loss. She felt exhausted, as if she could sleep forever. Slipping the phone from her pocket, she brought it up to her face and squinted at the message.
Hey sweetheart, really sorry I’m late. Got pulled over. Where are you? Hope you’re not too mad at me.
The End
Julia Madeleine is a thriller writer and tattoo artist living in the Toronto area with her husband and teenaged (future tattooist) daughter. For a year she lived in the country on a 30-acre property in the middle of nowhere which became the inspiration for her novel, NO ONE TO HEAR YOU SCREAM. Find out more about her books at www.juliamadeleine.com.
A Freeway on Earth
~ Heath Lowrance
I was running late for work, again.
The alarm clock went off at 6:55 and I slept right through it.
So I jumped out of bed at eight and stumbled straight to the shower. No coffee, no breakfast, no time.
The day before I’d been written up for tardiness, showing up at my desk ten minutes late. The boss had glared at me and took me into her office. “Read and sign,” she said, handing the write-up to me across the desk.
So I read, and I signed. What else could I do?
Two write-ups, back to back. That would not look good in my employee file come raise-time.
Ten minutes after I woke up, I was in my car, backing out of the driveway.
I could still make it, provided traffic wasn’t crazy this morning. The problem with the freeway was its maddening lack of predictability: some mornings the back-up would be staggering, other mornings it was clear sailing. You could never tell what you were going to get.
Fortunately, traffic was light and everyone cruised along at a healthy clip.
I turned on the radio to get the traffic report, but the announcer was saying something about strange lights in the sky, unidentified flying objects, astronomers mystified. I flipped the dial. The adult rock station was playing “Walking on Sunshine”.
I glanced at the dashboard clock. 8:15. So far, so good. I had to be at my desk and punched in at 8:45, and the drive would probably take about twenty-five minutes. I might actually be a few minutes early.
The relief I felt with that realization only cheered me briefly. Following right on its heels was a feeling that was becoming more familiar to me, the feeling that this was all so ridiculous. Was this what I’d thought my life would turn out to be?
The announcer on the radio interrupted the music, saying something about a government response to strange aircraft seen in the skies over the city, and general panic in outlying areas. I was still too groggy from lack of caffeine to pay much attention. I snapped the radio off.
Traffic had slowed up a bit in the northbound lanes, but I noticed that the southbounds were jammed. Odd. Normally southbound was smooth sailing in the a.m. It looked like a mass exodus over there.
I drove along, flicking an occasional glance at the dashboard clock. The blue digital read-out flashed 8:21. It would be close, but I would probably still make it.
And then brake lights came on in front of me and I cursed and slowed down. “Aw, come on,” I mumbled. “What now?”
The traffic came to a complete stop. Horns honked, engines revved impatiently.
My lane had stopped moving.
About five cars in front, a Cadillac Escalade had rolled and rested now against the concrete divider with its fat tires groping skyward. People were honking at it, as if it was within the driver’s power to right the vehicle and move on.
No ambulance or cops, so it must have just happe
ned. I hoped, vaguely, that no one was hurt. But that didn’t stop me from sighing with impatience.
I craned my neck to get a better look at the Escalade. Heat shimmers hung over it, warping the air, and as I watched a little flicker of flame appeared near the exposed gas tank.
“Whoa,” I said.
Just under the din of racing motors and honking horns, I heard what sounded like pounding, and someone screaming.
The driver was strapped into his seat, hanging upside down, slamming his fists against the roof and yelling.
“Help!” he screamed. “Somebody, please help me! I’m stuck!” Honking horns answered him.
There was a sudden whoosh sound and the flames ignited into a full-on fire. The trapped man screamed and struggled to get out. The fire spread along the bottom of the Escalade and black smoke started drifting skyward. “Help me! Please!”
I looked around at the other vehicles. Everyone gawked at the burning SUV. Nobody did anything.
I got out of the car and trotted up to the burning Escalade. The heat was intense. Wincing against the smoke, I crouched down next to the smashed driver’s side window and said, “Is it your seatbelt? Are you caught on the seatbelt?”
Fire crackled and whooshed above us, and hot sweat pricked at my face. The man said, “Yes! I’m stuck! Please, please help me!”
I squinted into the cab. Sitting on the hot pavement, I stretched my arm as far as I could into the Escalade, fingers groping, until they came in contact with something hot and metallic.
“Hurry!” the man said.
Globs of melted rubber plopped down around us, still burning, and I smelled gasoline. A pool of it began spreading out from the rear of the vehicle and soaked my pants leg. “Hang on,” I said. “I think I got it.”
I jerked at the buckle. The metal was getting hotter, and sweat poured into my eyes. I fumbled until I finally felt the little latch on the side. I gripped it and squeezed.
The man tumbled down onto the top of the cab. I grabbed him by the wrist, and, bracing my feet on either side of the window, yanked him through. When his upper body was clear, I grabbed him under his arms and dragged him away from the fire.