Whoosh!

by Richard  C Elder

a (very) Bloody Mary 

Billy Williamson stands in the hallway of his home staring at the midnight street through one of the grubby panes in the front door. The wrought iron gate separating his garden from the world is closed. He frowns and reseats the NYC baseball hat, gets it sitting square across his broad skull. The privet hedge either side of the gateposts is a mess, growing wild as weeds. Trim it first thing in the morning, soon as the frost lifts. He turns and looks up the staircase; it’s barely visible in the gloom and muddy orange light percolating through the glass, but he could climb it with his eyes shut if he had to. Ten steps up, turn to the left, three steps more. 

Barney stands on tread number ten, his eyes black and round as marbles, staring down at Billy. Light floods the landing when the bathroom door swings open. Barney snuffles and dips his head before turning away to climb the top treads. The light dies at the clack of a switch. Slippers scuff across carpet and the woman says, ‘Off the bed, you little shit.’ 

Billy sighs and gives the hedge a last look. Am I getting forgetful, or what? A rocket explodes above the roof of the house across the road, and he grins at the expanding ball of emerald green diamonds. Another streaks into the sky, orange sparks blasting from its tail; a crackling, blinding storm of blue-white magnesium stars arc through the air when it detonates.

He climbs the stairs, taking his time for there’s a dull throb in the middle of his chest.

Janice - his wife for the past forty-three years - is at the far side of their bedroom, her back to the door. She’s sitting on a thickly upholstered stool at her faux oak dresser. There’s a free-standing vanity mirror in front of her and a table lamp to one side. She dips her fingertip into a small pink glass tub, scoops out a knob of moisturiser and dabs it over her face. Leaning close to the mirror she spreads the cream over grained skin, her features glowing sickly yellow in the light from the low energy bulb.

Standing just outside the doorway, Billy murmurs, ‘You finished in the bathroom?’ 

She freezes mid-knead, her eyes swivelling in their sockets at the sound of the voice. The room is dead silent. Stretched out on the floor beside the radiator, Barney raises his head and looks at Billy. Janice turns, slow as treacle running off a cold spoon, the stool creaking like a worn hip beneath her. Tortoise shell varifocals crammed onto her face, she peers into the murk at the far side of the bed. She can see the shape of a man, a big square-shouldered man, standing motionless, his features no more than hints of a nose and mouth, grey blotches-on-black.

Leaping to the bed she pulls a large black-handled kitchen knife from under the pillow and holds it high above her head, the tip glowing like a distant star. Her voice is shrill with adrenalin and shock. ‘Stay where you are you bastard or I’ll stick you! You hear me? Don’t you bloody move!’ Snatching her phone from the bedside table she taps 999 and screams her address, that’s there’s a maniac in her bedroom, to get here NOW, RIGHT NOW! 

She stands her ground, the bed, the blade and her gown the only things (she sleeps au-naturel) between her and the intruder. Glancing at Barney she decides when, if, she gets out of this she’ll tie the useless mutt into a sack, fill the bath and toss him in. 

Billy steps into the room and touches the light switch. Janice retreats a half step, squinting in the glare, tightening her grip on the quivering knife. ‘Cops are on the way,’ she growls, her brow furrowed deeper than corduroy, blue eyes glittering. She jabs the knife in his direction, keeps the threat real.

 ‘It’s me. Jan, it’s me,’ says Billy as he takes off his baseball hat, rolling it into a tube then pocketing it. Nodding at the knife, he asks, ‘And when did we start doing that?’

Janice stands slack-jawed, speechless for once in her life. Barney gets to his feet and trots across the laminate flooring, his nails click-click-clicking as he makes his way to the landing to stand beside Billy. The pair of them look at her, waiting for something, anything, she might care to offer as an explanation for the mad-ass behaviour they’ve both witnessed.

She lowers the knife to belly level, keeps the blade pointing at him.  

‘You’re dead. A year dead, you boring, limp-dicked old bastard,’ she hisses, her face twisted into a sneer. ‘You’re dead and bloody buried, and you’re going to stay that way.’ 

She runs across the bed, the mattress rebounding below her naked feet, dark-green quilt rucking and twisting like wind-lashed ocean. The ceiling light is a cable car in a hurricane, hurling shadows from one side of the room to the other. Billy’s legs turn to lead as he tries to get out of her way, but she’s coming at him like a cheetah, teeth bared and moving so fast she’s almost a blur. The blade skewers him and Billy gasps like his heart has stopped, then gasps again, incredulous; there’s no pain, no impact driving him back to the bannister, no struggle with a madwoman. The knife and Janice pass through him like he’s nothing more substantial than steam.     

A brief cry followed by heavy thuds has him spinning round, peering over the handrail. She’s lying at the bottom of the stairs, face down on the gold and red hall carpet. Her breadstick left forearm is snapped in two, the right trapped under her. Barney whimpers and looks at Billy; both of them race to the hall. 

‘She’s alive, Barney,’ says Billy, kneeling beside his wife. 

Her eyes flicker then open, her breathing deepening as she moves her head from side to side and wiggles her toes.

The pain in his chest is back, sharper than before. He rubs the front of his coat, yelps as his knuckles sizzle. There’s a palm print staining the grey denim. No, not a stain: it’s luminous and glowing with heat. It’s a small palm, thumb pointed upward to his throat, fingers splayed and covering his heart. The middle finger is unusually short. 

Janice moans and rolls over, panting like a dog. A couple of deep breaths then she sits up and gets her feet under herself. Pushing her heels into the carpet, she slides up the wall. A protruding shard of bone drags across the wallpaper, pulls grunts from deep in her throat. Blood paints her forehead, nose and cheeks from a gash in her scalp. The knife’s still in her white-knuckled fist, her skinny forearm a minestrone of raised blue veins and tensed muscle. She slashes at his throat but all she cuts is air. She stabs at his stomach and almost overbalances when the blade and her fist meet no resistance. As blood sheets down her face an eerie blue light fills the hallway. 

Billy jerks a thumb over his shoulder, says, ‘You pushed me down the stairs. You murdered me.’ He fills with pain. Pain and sadness. Sadness and regret. Whatever he is.

She laughs in his face; bloody saliva flies from thin lips drawn back to expose tiny sharp teeth. Leaning forward till they’re almost nose to nose she whispers, ‘Go haunt a bloody graveyard,’ then clamps the blade between her canines. Scrabbling fingers find the night latch. She unlocks the door and pulls it open an inch. The blade zings as she trails it from her mouth, gets it settled in her hand. ‘Piss off out of my house, freak.’

Billy’s face contorts, the lips thickening, teeth elongating, his pupils expanding to black saucers set in green orbs. Sulphurous breath streams from his nostrils, swirling round her face, burning her skin. Hell looks her in the eyes. 

Police constable Laura Engles has her gloved hand on the rusting wrought iron gate. Her colleague - constable Evelyn Simmons - is a few steps behind, talking on her radio, confirming their arrival at the address where an intruder has been reported. The cobalt strobes on the roof of their car hurl sheet lightning across the faces of the houses lining the street. 

The blast from a firework rattles windows, and Simmons curses under her breath. The job’s hard enough without pseudo-gunfire.

Engles looks back and mouths, Okay? Simmons gives her a thumbs-up. Engles pushes open the gate just as the front door is wrenched open, crashing against the wall and smashing several panes of glass. A woman bursts from the house, her face a glistening scarlet mask. She’s running at the policewoman, the knife flashing ominously in the strobe, yelling, ‘YOU’REDEADYOU’REFRIGGIN’DEAD!’  

Fast as a gunslinger, Engles draws her Glock pistol and snaps off a shot which drills into Janice’s throat, smashing through two cervical vertebrae. A cloud of bone chips, fat and gore follow the bullet which zips through Billy’s face before punching a hole in the kitchen door. Janice nosedives onto the concrete path, bounces and rolls to the side, ends up lying on her back on the lawn. The knife slips from her fingers into silvered grass; three strangled breaths and her chest sinks, never to rise again. As her vision fades to black she sees Billy drift past, his gaze fixed on something beyond the confines of the garden. Then Barney appears, his dachshund face seeming to smile before he too walks away. 

On the southern shore of Belfast Lough lies Ballyholme beach. It’s a sandy sheltered crescent almost a mile wide. At its western end stands Ballyholme yacht club. The dinghies in the yard are protected from the frosts and rain under bright-blue plastic tarpaulins, their halyards tap-tap-taping against bare masts in the freshening northerly breeze. To the east lies a low peninsula of fractured black rock topped with whin bushes and coarse, salt-scalded grass. 

Billy stands at the midpoint of the bay, just out of reach of the wavelets sliding over the hard-packed sand. A sprinkle of tiny lights are shimmering on the lough’s distant north shore, at the far end of the broad silver path laid on the sea by the full moon. It’s Whitehead, a seaside town he visited every summer as a child with his parents. 

A solitary cloud rises like smoke from the horizon, climbing toward the moon. His heart lurching, Billy gapes at the sky, blue-black and endless, the moonlight obliterating all but the brightest stars. He finds the cloud again. Its shadow falls on the brilliant pathway, a distant smudge tarnishing the silver. As the cloud climbs higher the shadow accelerates toward the beach. Billy looks down, sees Barney at his side.

‘That’s it, boy. Time for me t...’

The shadow sweeps over them and the beach is plunged into darkness. The cloud soars and the light returns. Barney whimpers, turning in circles, leaving scratches in the sand. He lowers his head and searches for scent but finds nothing. The wind strengthens, bringing with it colder air. He can’t stay any longer. 

A final look, just to be sure, then he lollops away, headed for home.   

Lost

by Richard C Elder 

strong black coffee with plenty of sugar

In the garden of the house opposite mine, there’s something small and bright in the unkempt grass. It’s not moving now, but it was; that’s what drew my attention. Maybe it’s a balled tissue rocking in the breeze. There it is again: small flicks and turns within the forest of shining green blades. Could be a mouse. The woman who lives there, Liz, she’ll want to close her front door. Ah, not a mouse, a bird, a small bird. Its wings blurred but it didn’t fly. 

          Then I see the cat. It’s lying on its back in the garden next door, dozing in the August sun.

          Coffee slops over the rim of my cup when I set it on the window sill and make for the hall. 

Two adult house martins are swooping in turn to the mud pellet nest in the gable of the house, feeding their brood. Earthbound, the chick stumbles through grass and daisies. The martins spot their offspring and scythe through the air above it but never land, fearful of the cat, respectful of its ability to hook even the quickest and slam them to the ground. 

         The cat stirs, opens its eyes and watches the martins fly. Rolling onto its feet it takes a spine-cracking stretch: front legs and claws extended, back bowed. Pulling velvet lips back from needle teeth it opens its jaws wide and yowls. Now it begins a slow, loose-limbed walk down the hot tarmac driveway, shoulder blades popping up and down, its black head swiveling from side to side looking for anything of interest. For the moment the chick is safe, screened by a small shrub.

Running across the road I shout at the cat, ‘Leave it be, go on, leave it, sisssssssssssss!’

Mere inches from the chick the cat drops to its belly in the grass, glaring at me, its white-tipped tail metronoming with irritation. It doesn’t retreat until I’m very close. Hunkered down I focus on the bird. It’s quiet and unmoving, looking at me with black pinhead eyes. The cat waits less than six feet away. I think to lift the chick, take it to safety and nurse it back to health. Then I see the infestation of insects, like armoured spiders, scuttling across the blue-grey plumage covering its head and back. I try to flick them off but they’re attracted to my fingertip, rushing toward it, thirsty for blood. 

This tiny creature fallen to earth is exhausted and beaten, on its way from what should have been to oblivion.

         There’s a length of wood stuck into the soil of a planter near my elbow. It looks like a piece of brush shaft. I pull it from the soil, feel the weight. It’s about eight inches-long. The cat waits, yellow eyes wide and staring. 

         There’s no one else on the street. Grass shifts and rustles in the warm breeze. Dart-shaped shadows streak across the tarmac and the martins cry, powerless and distraught. Their hearts and mine are breaking. Whispering, ‘I’m sorry,’ I raise the stick and strike. The chick convulses and flips over, revealing its snow-white breast. I strike again and it stills, its body deflated and limp. I push it under a vibrant azalea and go home, sick to my stomach.

         The cat creeps forward and sniffs the bird, then lopes away. 

Back in my kitchen, I fill a tumbler with water and down it in one. My hands are trembling. I can’t get the bird’s death throes out of my mind.

          ‘Saw you over the road, Mum, in the lady’s garden.’

          Turning from the sink, I shake my head as my eyes fill with tears. She rushes to me and throws her skinny nine year-old arms around my waist. ‘Mum?’

          ‘I’m okay, love. Really. A little bird died.’

          ‘That horrible cat. I saw it lying in the grass. I hate it.’

          ‘No, Caitlin, it’s a cat. They don’t know any better.’

Hate v Love

by Richard C Elder 

Barraquito (never stirred)

Pat and Aoife live in a cul-de-sac of eighteen semi-detached houses in Belfast. 

     ‘Piggin’ day,’ she says, staring at the monochrome view from her living room window. It’s 9.50 on the first Monday morning in January. The sky is an overturned grey bowl clamping down on the frozen city. Leaning close to the glass she cranes her head to the left to get a better view. Her breath fogs the pane; she pulls a crinkled tissue from her cardigan cuff and wipes it clear. ‘Where are you?’

And then she appears, black and lustrous, patrolling her territory. Aoife taps on the glass with a fingernail. The cat freezes mid-stride, its ears swiveling to pinpoint the sound’s source. It looks at her with unblinking hazel eyes. They stare at each other then the cat turns away and trots across the frozen lawn, melting into deep shadow below the conifer at the far corner of the garden. Aoife lifts a yellow duster from the arm of the settee and Pat’s voice leaps into her head, “You wouldn’t stay in a mingin’ B&B. Would you?”

 

She’s breathing too fast. Light-headed she lands heavily on the toilet seat which skews sideways, the hinges creaking. Forearms resting on her thighs she bows her head and takes slow, deep breaths. Her skin is shrinking, squeezing her, threatening to split. 

  ‘Aoife!’

  She stands and the room swirls.

  ‘AOIFE!’

  Stumbling on her way down the carpeted stairs she saves herself by grabbing the varnished banister with both hands.

         Pat’s standing on the concrete step with the kitchen door wide open. Cold air floods the room. He’s wearing his usual expression: the frown, brown eyes boring into hers, tight pale lips.

  ‘Sorry, I was in the bathroom. What is it?’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No problem. Give me five minutes.’

  He turns away and goes back to his ‘workshop’ as he likes to call it. In reality it’s a draughty garage with tools, heat, light and him in mucky dark-blue overalls.

  ‘Wee bastard,’ she mutters through clenched teeth, angry with herself for apologising. Cutlery rattles like a car crash when she rips open the drawer. 

  Months ago their GP advised him to adopt a healthy diet, drink decaf and take some exercise or face the possibility of an early death. Being a coward at heart, Pat ordered her to buy decaf right away, insisted she cooked him better meals and told her to use sweetener. 

He would balk at the plates of chips, sausages, fried chicken, black pudding, pointing a stubby finger across the dinner table, interrogating her, ‘How’s this good for me, eh? All this fried food. I told you what he said, about how dangerous it is for me to eat crap.’

Resisting the urge to stab him in the face with her fork, Aoife explained, ‘I’m usin’ olive oil in all my cookin’ now: Extra virgin. Everybody knows how good it is. Look at those Italians; they’re long-livers compared to us, use it on everythin’. Doctor told you to eat healthy, that’s what you’re doin’, no problem.’  

His protests faded and now the greedy little man shoves anything and everything into his mouth. As for his coffee, it’s a full strength Arabica, sweet enough to make her teeth wiggle, topped up with full-cream milk. 

She smiles to herself as she crosses the icy, desolate gap between the house and the side door of the garage: every sip he takes is a step closer to the heart attack or stroke - whatever - he deserves.

           Warm air pours out when he opens the door, carrying with it the smell of sweat, hot metal and grease. He takes the coffee. The door thunks closed, leaving her staring at peeling turquoise paint.

           Someday I’ll take a hammer to your precious motorbikes, little man.  

         

After a monosyllabic lunch she walks to the supermarket fifteen minutes away on the main road. The walk gives her time to look around, smell the air and breathe. Sometimes his favourite newspaper has sold out by the time she gets there. Today is one of those days so she buys ‘The Independent’ to wind him up. On the slow walk back a cherry-red VW Beetle pulls alongside her and stops, the tyres throwing dirty slush over the granite kerb stones. The passenger window whirrs down and the driver leans across, asks, ‘Hey, Aoife, how’s things?’

  Aoife crouches and smiles. The smell of good perfume wafts from the car’s interior. Music machine-guns from the sound system.

  ‘Great, Nikki. Sorry, miles away.’

  You look wretched. ‘No worries. Listen, I’m free this afternoon. Fancy coming in for a catch-up?’ 

  Aoife does a quick calculation. He’s going on a parts run for his bikes. Leaving at 2.30, back at 5.15, thereabouts. And spending time with her friend will be a change from afternoon TV. 

‘Quarter to three?’

  Nikki winks and selects first gear, saying, ‘Absolutely! Lift?’

  ‘Nah, need the exercise. See you soon.’ 

   The car shoots away. She checks the time: it’s 2.20 so she walks fast. Turning into the cul-de-sac she sees the Beetle parked in the driveway beside hers. Pat is sitting on his three-wheel motorcycle waiting for her. Pale-grey fumes pulse from the chromed twin exhausts. There’s a light tinkling from the matt-black engine. He’s wearing tight black leathers, boots, gloves and a silver helmet with its mirrored visor raised. 

I hate you.

     ‘Thought you’d left the country.’

      ‘Sorry, long queue. You goin’ for parts?’

       'Behave yourself.’

Aoife sets the table for dinner then races upstairs to change. She pulls on a fresh tee-shirt and jeans, brushes her hair and redoes her lipstick. Nine years younger than her husband, she’s a good-looking woman, with shoulder-length red hair, green eyes and an athletic build. She’s slightly taller than him, standing at five feet seven inches in her bare feet. On her way out through the kitchen she grabs a tub of Ben and Jerry's ice cream from the freezer.

  

Nikki has two large glasses of Pinot Noir and a plateful of nibbles waiting in the living room. ‘Deadlines and Commitments’ is bumping in the background. Strategically placed table lamps and a log fire push back the gathering gloom to give the room a cosy, intimate feel. 

The women met eighteen months ago. Nikki is forty-seven, unattached and works for Radio Belfast as well as doing some voluntary work for a charity called ‘Bright Life’. Why she is still single is a mystery to Aoife. The couple next door despise each other. Reason enough, don’t you think? Grimacing, she swallows a mouthful of wine, sinks into the deep leather settee and swallows another. The seat cushion swells and settles when Nikki drops beside her. Neither woman speaks. Nikki holds the wine in her mouth, savouring the heat and flavour of the grapes. Her head tilted back against the cushion she lets it flow into her stomach, eager for the delicious lightness to begin. Both of them have their reasons for letting the alcohol do its work. 

         Nikki’s father died a violent death and loneliness is killing her mother. She can tell Aoife how she feels because both women have shared secrets and tears. And the secrets have remained secret, the tears evidence of trust in one-another. It’s a worn-out joke, but Aoife often tells her that her own life would be perfect if it wasn’t for one small problem that rides a motorbike and hasn’t had an accident yet. 

         Drawing her legs under her, Aoife asks, ‘No man yet?’

  Nikki raises her eyebrows, takes a slurp of wine and says, ‘If there was he’d be in the kitchen making us dinner, the lazy sod.’

  Jabbing an index finger into her friend’s side, Aoife tells her, ‘You’re a bad woman, Ferguson. Bad but right. Hell with all of them.’

  Sniggering, Nikki fetches a fresh bottle from the kitchen. Dropping the screw top on the coffee table she tops up their glasses. Leaning close to Aoife she whispers, ‘This itch hasn’t been scratched in a while, girl. Just give me an opportunity.’

  They laugh, snort and the banter continues. These two women are good for each other because they’re both lonely. Nikki pulls the curtains closed and adds wood to the fire. Setting the dented spark-guard back in place she flops onto the settee. Both of them squirrel into the cushions. Shimmering golden light plays on their faces and hands.    

  ‘How’s it going with Pat?’

  Aoife takes a swig and empties the glass. Wiping her nose with a tissue she spits the words out, ‘Is what it is. Fill me.’

         Wine glugs, the bottle clunks on the table. Resting her hand on Aoife’s knee, Nikki asks, ‘What’s happened?’

  Aoife moves forward onto the edge of the settee and checks her phone; it’s 4.25. ‘Have to go soon. He’ll be home...’

  Nikki mutes the music, waiting.

  A flickering diamond falls from Aoife’s chin to the carpet. She sets her glass on the hearth, mumbling, ‘Water.’

  Nikki follows her into the kitchen. Aoife opens the tap and water bounces out of the tumbler, soaking her hand, arm, the front of her tee shirt. It runs down the cupboard doors and puddles on the cream floor tiles.

‘I’ll do it,’ says Nikki, taking the glass. She gives it back half-filled, murmuring, ‘Take sips. There’s no rush.’ 

Aoife’s body is a tuning fork, quivering and taut. The water in the glass has miniature tsunamis careering back and forward. She sips noisily. Her eyes are dull, unfocussed.

  ‘Better?’

  Aoife shakes her head, sets the empty glass in the sink.  

  ‘Tell me.’ 

  Aoife groans and draws fingers down her cheeks, stretching the skin. 

  ‘What?’

   The window is a black mirror silently playing-out the scene in the room. Aoife presses her mouth against Nikki’s cheek; her breath is hot and moist, heavy with the smell of alcohol. ‘Can’t take any more of it,’ she cries, dissolving into sobs.

   ‘Oh, Aoife.’

  Aoife’s head slumps against Nikki’s shoulder. Her breath is lurching. ‘I’m wastin’ my life. I have to get away from him.’

   Nikki sighs and embraces her. Aoife crushes her like a mother who finds the child she thought was dead. The kitchen door flies all the way back to the wall. The handle breaks a porcelain tile with a sound like bones being snapped as a barrage of words explode in their ears, ‘WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS GOIN’ ON HERE?’

  Pat takes two fast steps into the room, freezing air swirling in his wake. He catches hold of Aoife’s hair in his left hand and shoves Nikki away with his right. Twisting his wife’s head round he pulls her toward the open door, hissing in her ear, ‘So that’s what you like, eh? Well we’ll see about that, you ungrateful bitch.’

  Nikki roars at him, her every word a thunderclap, ‘LET  HER  GO!’ 

  He stops, looks her up and down then shakes his head, his words venomous, ‘You ugly, bony dyke. Stay away from her, she’s mine.’ 

  Her heart pounding, Nikki takes a small step toward him. With quiet authority she says, ‘No. You let her go. Let her go now.’ Releasing Aoife, he crosses the six feet of floor between him and Nikki in an instant and punches her in the belly. Her breath ooofs from her gaping mouth and she drops to the floor, dry-retching, knees pulled up to her chest. 

   Panting, Pat hunkers down and leans forward, dominating her. Rubbing his crotch, he tells her, ‘Stay away, dyke, or I’ll come back. And next time you’ll really not like what I’ll do to you.’ 

  Then he clears his throat and spits on her.

   Aoife has watched all this unfold, frozen by fear: until he spat. She is vibrating with rage.  Plucking the empty wine bottle from the draining board she disturbs a tea spoon. Clink. He turns toward her, rising, but he is too late. Far too late. Adrenalin supercharges her body. Muscles twitch in readiness. The last thing she sees as she swings the bottle down is a wide and uncomprehending eye staring back at her: it belongs to a beast in the slaughter house.

   The dark-green bottle strikes forward of the crown, smashing the skull and sending sharp-edged bone fragments deep into his brain. Blood explodes from severed vessels, spraying across cupboard doors and spattering floor tiles. He collapses on Nikki, pinning her to the floor. His arms and legs jiggle like he’s plugged into the mains. She wails and struggles beneath him; taut black leather groans and squeaks. Nikki shrieks. Blood flies in all directions, like a meat rocket exploding at a butchers’ convention. Then he slumps, crushing her. Punching, twisting, heaving him to one side, she rolls out from under. And there he lies, with his back against the sink unit cupboards and a fat pockmarked cheek on the floor. Suspicious, Aoife stands over him, her makeshift club ready. You’re a crafty bastard, always were. She kicks him in the gut but he doesn’t react. Hooking his nose with her fingers she pulls his head off the floor then lets it drop; blood oozes from a hair-choked nostril. Chuckling, she turns to Nikki, saying, ‘Hope you’ve plenty of kitchen roll.’     

  Dark winter cold has turned the kitchen into a meat locker. Aoife locks the door and pockets the key, pulls down the blind. Nikki crawls away from the horror and sits shivering, leant against the washing machine, thin legs straight out in front of her. She’s rubbing both palms on her jeans leaving glistening dark stains on the faded denim. The kitchen clock marks the seconds. Tickatickatick. Both women look at each other through thickening, foetid air. 

Aoife crouches beside Nikki and pushes sticky, blood-splattered blonde hair back from her friend’s face. Desire surges like a freak wave, its dark back a rippled monstrous hump lifting her toward the sky. ‘That’s that,’ she says, her scalp prickling. ‘And the rest...uh...the rest is just gettin’ rid.’

Nikki’s breath whistles through pursed lips. Swallowing, Aoife straddles her thighs; firm muscle trembles under her buttocks. Looking Nikki straight in the eyes she murmurs, ‘It’ll be alright. It will. We’ll bin bag him, move him into the workshop then give this place a good clean.’

‘Leave me be.’

Aoife takes her face in both hands. Wiping at the tears streaming down her blood-caked cheeks, she smiles and says, ‘You’re bloody freezin’. Let’s you and me get in the shower, right now, wash this muck of us. He’ll keep for an hour or two.’

Nikki winces, shakes her head.

Aoife moistens her lips, whispers, ‘Shhh, it’s okay,’ before kissing Nikki who recoils in disgust. Thumbnails sharp as needles dig into her cheeks when Aoife tightens her grip. Nikki grabs handfuls of red hair and shoves with all her strength, locking her elbows to keep the madwoman at arm’s length. Aoife snarls and seizes Nikki’s skull, pulling on it with such force that Nikki feels sure her neck will snap. Two pairs of arms judder with effort. Summer-blue eyes lock with reptilian-green: stalemate. 

‘I did what needed to be done,’ grunts Aoife, rose-pink sweat dripping from the tip of her nose. 

Nikki’s arms are burning, her shoulders molten. This thing in front of her is a stone-cold  psycho bitch. Get in the shower? GET IN THE SHOWER? Get the cops is what I’ll do. 

‘You’re what? Thinkin’ I’m a fuckin’ nut? That right, Nikki?’

Nikki croaks through dry lips, ‘He was a horrible man...but we can’t cover this up...we’ve got to phone...’

‘NO WE DON’T!’ screams Aoife, locking bloody hands around her throat. 

About the author 

Richard completed a creative writing course with the Open University in 2012 and has been writing ever since. He has almost completed book two of a thriller/speculative fiction trilogy. Rejections have come thick and fast! But several agents have commended him for his characters, pace and ‘voice’. Writing is cathartic, totally absorbing and, of course, his magnificent obsession! Publications: 2013 ‘It’s in the genes’ (flash fiction) and an early draft of R.E.S.P.E.C.T. (flash fiction) on the Skypen website (Blackstaff Press). Skypen now defunct.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

by Richard C Elder

ruby port

A bright-blue winter morning. January 5th. In the driveway of the redbrick house a hearse stands waiting, its tailgate an open maw. A burbling exhaust growls a warning as it slavers onto the frosted concrete. Swathed in black coats and steaming breath, two funeral directors wait to be summoned in.

Gary stands motionless in the front room of his father’s house. He’s twenty-eight, tall and athletic. His mother lies upstairs in her coffin, ready for the journey to the church. Gary stares through the window at the hearse. The chromed deck is rolled out, empty and shining and cold. For some reason it reminds him of a Pizza oven. Family members swirl around him like fish investigating a wreck. 

‘How are you, Gary?’ a face asks, its beard and moustache glinting in the sunlight streaming through the glass.

He doesn’t acknowledge the question, doesn’t show recognition. 

‘Gettin’ Dad,’ he announces, his voice too loud, each word a dagger-thrust. 

A florid, chubby face. Aunt May, his mother’s sister. She’s blocking his path to the door.

‘Do you want me to come up with you?’

‘No,’ he mutters, his eyes burning. ‘Tell them five minutes. We’ll be ready then.’

The staircase is a steep mountain path, forbidding and misted. He knows what he’ll see when he gets up there. Grabbing the newel post he dips his head and starts the climb.

What a way to spend my Saturday, standin’ here freezin’, waitin’ to box-up some aul doll. Shite.

Frowning, Gary stops on the first tread. The hallway is empty, the front room door closed. At the far end of the hall he can see the cat in the kitchen, biting at a ham. The only people he can see are the two funeral guys in the driveway. The tall one is at the far end of the hearse wiping a blemish from the windscreen and talking on a phone. His colleague is at the open tailgate, standing side-on to Gary, hands in his pockets, marking time, his polished shoes jerking up and down, up and down. Two glass doors separate him and Gary, both of them closed against the cold. Gary stares at the pale, pinched face which twitches and frowns under the shock of red hair.

Is there any friggin’ chance? Some of us have a life. Give me a friggin’ break!

More words, but Red’s lips aren’t moving.

Gary’s breathing has almost stopped. He’s light-headed and more detached now than before, in the front room. He sways then leans on the post. May appears in front of him. Smiling, she covers his hand with hers, feels tremors rattling through the rigid fingers gripping the painted wood. Leaning toward him she whispers, ‘I heard him, what he’s thinking. And you heard him. But no one else did. You know why, don’t you?’

Choking, he shakes his head but the words come as fast as a slot machine jackpot, ‘She told me, that last night. I thought it was the tablets. Passin’ it to me? You know? You know?’

May studies his face, sees confusion and distress, asks, ‘So what will you do about him?’

Gary wipes his brow with the back of his hand, saying, ‘Dunno. It’s not as if he said it out loud.’

‘But you want to do something?’

Sniffing and swallowing, he gives her a hard look, murmuring, ‘Yeah. Definitely.’

May stands on tiptoe and puts her soft lips to his ear. ‘Tell her,’ she purrs.

Chanel has him salivating as electricity surges through his groin. ‘Who?’

Words spiral into his head on hot breath. ‘You know who,’ she whispers, her tongue flicking across the fine blonde hairs covering his ear lobe.  

‘She’s dead,’ he groans, blood rushing through him, his body filled with fire.

Like a tarantula pinioning a frantic bird, May’s hand tightens on his, crushing resistance. ‘You need one minute alone with her before they come up. Hold her hands and tell her, then leave him there.’

‘This is mad,’ he hisses, trying to pull away.

May’s green eyes glitter and she digs her nails into his skin. ‘What was it he called your mother? An aul doll? Eh? Yes. So get on with it.’

Sobbing envelopes him as he pushes on the bedroom door; it moves smoothly across the carpet pile, makes a shuffing sound. His father is sitting at her bedside, stroking her hair, blinded by tears.

‘Dad,’ he breathes, ‘Dad, it’s time.’

‘Son...I know. But I can’t...’ 

Gary kneels by his father’s side, holds him. His mother lies still and calm, crisis past, pain gone.

‘Dad, it’s time. They’ll be up in a minute. You go to the bathroom and wash your face. Get steady.’

His kiss drying on her forehead, Gary’s dad stumbles from the room. Gary bends over his mother, reaches into the coffin and takes both her hands in his. They’re cool and soft. He tells her the tale and that he loves her, then places a kiss on her cheek. As he straightens he hears a soft knock on the door. Shuff. The tall guy enters the room first, smiling sympathetically, warmly. Gary steps back to give them room. As they make for the coffin lid set upright in the corner, Gary asks the tall guy if he can have a quiet word on the landing. Red says he can manage. 

They leave the room, pull the door closed. But before Gary can speak, a shriek shreds the silence. He throws the bedroom door open. 

Red is cowering on the floor, tearing at his hair, staring wide-eyed at the coffin. He turns his face toward Gary and the tall guy and reaches for them with straining arms.

         On the pale skin of his left cheek is the imprint of a hand: four fingers and a thumb glowing bright and hot, as if he had just been slapped.