The Last Ball Before Lunch

by Paul Westgate

 

a double whiskey

Big stride, mighty swing, clatter behind!

About the author

Paul is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives quietly in his native Essex.

Murder Most Perfect

Paul Westgate

 

 

A glass of ice-cold water

I cannot say how or why I formed such an intense dislike for a man with whom I was not acquainted and indeed had never seen before three weeks ago. Nevertheless, whenever I saw him, which had been every day, I was hard pushed not to strike the fellow, so repulsed was I by his very presence.

Equally, I cannot identify the exact moment that I resolved to kill him.

For me however, while the act of killing was simple enough – any street ruffian could do as much - it would have to be a murder of refinement, with an elegance that would raise it above mere killing. It would need to be a perfect murder; the perfect murder in fact. Not only one where I would not in the least be suspected but one where murder would not be suspected at all.

I began to plan.

I had for some time been enjoying the novelty of travelling on the newly opened railway. A regular journey of some 40 minutes. My quarry, as I will now refer to him, making the same journey and often sitting opposite me. Within, I observed, arm’s reach. It was during one such journey that it came, fully formed, into my mind. I would kill my quarry on the train and in such a way that it would pass unnoticed and be unremarked.

With that objective I embarked upon a period of research and practical application.

Back in my rooms I read widely, purchasing books from numerous bookshops in order to disguise my particular interest. I also read rapidly, for I had a mounting dread that my quarry would suddenly lose his taste for railway travel and I my opportunity. After a week of study I had my method.

I then moved to its practical application. Arranging sofas, chairs and screens I created the closest facsimile of the railway train carriage as I could manage. With pillows, cushions, towels and clothed in old garments I created a life sized simulacrum of my quarry. A mannequin would have been better but I did not wish to prompt questions with such an unusual purchase. A further three nights and I had perfected the sequence of moves. I could perform the act with my eyes shut, which in essence I would have to do.

The railway ran, for the most part, through open country but there was a single stretch where it left woods and fields and entered into a tunnel. There was gas lighting of course, this being a modern railway, but this was not lit for daylight journeys with only such a brief period of darkness. I had timed it during the course of a week. We were in complete darkness for an average of 43 seconds and for never less than 38 seconds. I needed thirty.

I did not so much choose a day for the murder as simply wait for an appropriate disposition of the dramatis personae. I did not have long to wait.

I must confess to a slight quickening of heart and a shortness of breath as we neared the tunnel but I fancied that my fellow passengers were unaware of any change in my demeanour.

At the first marker, a peculiarly-shaped tree, I leant forward slightly as though easing a stiff back so that subsequent movements would not be noticed by the passengers on either side of me.

At the second marker, a whitewashed barn, I fixed my gaze upon the spot I would need to reach. The train entered the tunnel and I began counting. At 3 seconds I leaned further forward, arm extended, hand open. The train rocked side to side as it always did at that point shunting the passengers left and right. A piece of uneven track I thought. The movements were more violent than I remembered, perhaps we were travelling faster than usual, but I had continued the movement of my arm and hand and found my mark. At 33 seconds I eased myself back, placing my hand on my thigh. Six seconds later bright sunlight burst into the carriage and I quietly settled back into my seat.

I calmly studied the victim. He sat quietly, his head resting against the carriage wall, as if merely asleep. It would take, I felt, a close and sustained scrutiny to realise that there was an unnatural stillness about him and no perceptible breathing. I was confident that his death would not be discovered until the end of the journey when the passengers disembarked. There would be no marks suggestive of foul play and his death would be attributed to unknown but wholly natural causes. The perfect murder!

But I felt no triumph, no satisfaction of a job exceedingly well done. I brooded on a simple fact, that the absolute raison d’être of a murder is that the intended victim dies. My quarry sat unscathed and oblivious to the victim sitting next to him. The murder was perfection in all respects save one, and in that it had been a perfect failure.

About the author

Paul was born and brought up in Essex and spent his working life in London. He is married and continues to live in Essex. He began fiction writing after attending a writing course in 2011 and regularly contributes to cafelit.co.uk and other on-line magazines. He was delighted to have a short story published in The Best of CafeLit 5 in 2016. As well as writing, Paul pursues an eclectic mix of activities and is cultivating a 1920’s gentleman’s lifestyle.

The Taste of Coffee

Paul Westgate

a demitasse of Arabic coffee

I make coffee in the traditional way I learned as a child in my Mother’s kitchen. Boiling and stirring, the pot lifted from the heat each time the foam rises to the brim. The smell of coffee and cardamom takes me back to that kitchen; to her blessing and the old coffee pot she pressed into my hands before I fled the country. I serve the coffee in tiny cups with a small plate of dates. At the same time bitter and sweet, familiar and strange, exotic and ordinary, the taste of coffee is all I have left of home.

The Good Deed

Paul Westgate

a glass of brown ale

 I’d seen the couple earlier, at the chapel.

‘Took him under our wing like’ the man said.

‘Had him for Sunday dinner as soon as we found out he lived alone’ the woman added. ‘Proper roast dinner, once a month regular’ she continued. ‘Thanked us no end of times, said he really enjoyed it’.

‘Under our wing like’ the man repeated. ‘Some company for him, something different like’.

‘He were a nice man’ the woman concluded.

‘Yes’ I said ‘a very nice man’.

I didn’t mention the many friends, the range of interests or that he’d been a life-long vegetarian.

About the author

Paul is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives in Essex and works in London and uses the two train journeys each day to read books, sleep and, occasionally, to think up stories; sometimes these are even written.

Come Back to Me

Paul Westgate

Vodka, Straight up

Stillness. The woman’s hands are relaxed in her lap. She gazes unseeing at them. Her thumbs start to move.

I was angry, very angry. I’d missed the meeting and it had upset all my plans. You were always so good at that sort of thing. I know the reasons but that wasn’t any excuse was it? I just didn’t think you’d let me down. Angry face. I over‑reacted and you left. I know, I’m a bitch. But you’ve always come back before. I didn’t expect you to be gone forever. Confused face. You don’t have to punish me anymore. I want, I need you back. You were always there for me. The last thing I saw at night, the first thing I looked to in the morning. Sad face. We were always together, always at each other’s beck and call, even waking me from sleep with an urgent demand. Cheeky face. I tried stupid things hoping you’d ring; like washing my hair, having a bath, going to the loo – you always seemed to want my attention at those times. Smiley face. I thought we could go back to how it used to be – maybe we could watch a film, hear some music, play some games, call some friends. Just like before. Please don’t do this to me. I feel so alone. All my friends are your friends and without you they don’t call. I don’t know what’s happening anymore, who’s where, with whom, what’s being said, nothing. I can’t work, can’t eat. I have no voice now, no life. Crying face. Wake up! Please wake up! Please, please, please come back to me.

Stillness. The woman’s hands lie relaxed in her lap. She gazes unseeing at them. Her thumbs start to move.

I was angry, very angry…

About the author

Paul is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives in Essex and works in London and uses the two train journeys each day to read books, sleep and, occasionally, to think up stories; sometimes these are even written.

100 Worder Perseverance

100 Worder

Paul Westgate

Perseverance

A glass of dandelion and burdock

The clock’s faces showed different times. Instead of a watch my fingers found only the pawn ticket; but what did it matter if I caught the train or not?

            She hadn’t said no; only that it couldn’t work, it would be too difficult. Without speaking she’d looked intently at me, her pale face surrounded by dark fur. I’d said nothing and she’d turned and left the station.

            Through clouds of steam I glimpsed the engine’s name – ‘Perseverance’. I turned around. I now knew what that last look had meant. Gripping the small box tightly, I started walking towards the exit.

About the author

Paul is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives in Essex and works in London and uses the two train journeys each day to read books, sleep and, occasionally, to think up stories; sometimes these are even written.

Published April 9 2015