Ok and old short story that I have revamped and edited...the original is still on this site if you want to see it. There were problems with the tenses, and it was overwritten in many ways. I have cut, and updated the language, in fact something along the lines of 1600 words have been taken from this. Tell me what you think guys...those who have read the original please also reread.
My tears are acid. Ceaseless juddering wobbles the photo I am holding. I blow softly on the candle and stand the photograph against it. My Princess gazes drunkenly back, her tongue stuck out in audacious revelry; her arm draped around a robust woman with scarlet hair and glutinous black lipstick.
My phone vibrates. I hope my client nurtures a change beneath his frigid chest. No. The text flashes “££”. I pick up my coat and conceal my equipment.
The Arctic wind slaps my face. I shudder with each deliberate step. The dim concrete world is empty of the spasmodic cattle that have fled to town. A three ton pang of guilt, grief and shame hang around my neck. Each breath a juggernaut forced through a drinking straw.
My princess tries to call me. Many a time I have failed to answer, staring at her opal eyes on my phone. Tonight I answer first time. I explain that I’m nearly there, and I love her. I accelerate toward the tawdry light.
The high street is already saturated with kebab grease, sweat and dog-ends. I enter a well lit bar. Yellows, and jades flood the room littered with tall stools and thin tables, the sort found splattered within Ikea catalogues. I hail the barman, the one with pretty eyes.
“Good evening, a pinot grigot spritzer?” He flashes a wide smile.
“As always, and with ice.”
The weekend cattle stumble past the window, posing in the glass, straightening Ben Sherman shirts and Levi Jeans. Couples trip by, braying jovially. The door opens. She walks in. Her long legs, shapely and elegant, rose up to meet with her short duck egg skirt. A pallid blue surf breaking upon porcelain. We wore the same foundation, giving us a matching exotic hue.
Gesturing to Pretty Eyes for another spritzer, she floats. Her teeth, whiter than sugar and thrice as sweet, illuminate her smile. We embrace.
“I missed you.” She is genuine.
“Sorry I was late Princess.”
“Youre here now.” Her syrupy voice is quiet.
“Are you OK?”
“I am now.” We finish our drinks, I wave to Pretty eyes and we leave for the club.
I find myself in the dark, watching from a comfortable couch. Flutters of colour wash over her. Denim clad girls lean at her with glistening lips and damp foreheads. She points me out, all disapprove of my ebony hair and plump lips in one glance before scampering to their next conquest.
“I see the job isn’t finished.” I didn’t see him sit down; the sweaty man with eyes as black as his leather jacket, “Are you playing with your food?”
“Nice! If you are seen with me, and this goes bad, you’re gonna look just as culpable as I.” I don’t even look at him; I watch My Princess tumble amongst the pulsing maggots.
“Twenty grand is a large investment my love. You are very good though, a few weeks play time and I bet she really trusts you now.”
I refuse to respond, willing my hands not to reach for his throat.
“The trial is tomorrow I’d hate for her to…”
“In ten minutes I will tell her I am unwell. We will leave together whilst the club is busy, there will be no people on the streets. I’ll head down the back alley away from any cameras.”
Black eyes smiles and nods. “It’s such a waste you two being dykes. I’d rattle the pair of you. I will see you in the side street.” He leaves with a scathing grin upon his face. I could smash a glass and catch up with him in a moment. I could slice him balls to jugular and escape virtually unseen. I could. I won’t. It is about professionalism, and in a cold world there is no time for trivialities. Life is the dish, love is just a condiment, waiting to passed to you once someone else has finished with it. Sprinkle to taste, but don’t overindulge. I will remember that in future.
I do as promised. Princess plays the concerned girlfriend well and slithers a sticky arm around my waist. We exit the club.
The streets are ghostly with absent voices. Buildings shake as the weekend roils inside dark walls. The side street whispers with a vacant breeze.
Princess doesn’t realise what is happening, she just sees Black Eyes, fear illuminates her face, and I stop her from screaming with a long filed screwdriver, thrust through her soft throat and into her brain. A claret fountain slows to a trickle, Bright diamonds dim to glass.
Black Eyes chuckles. Is it how quickly a cadaver turns grey that amuses him? Perhaps it was the act itself. Ruminating on this I kneel beside my dead Princess and curl my fingers around the screwdriver embedded in her throat.
“Worth every penny, job well d…” I don’t give Black Eyes the chance to finish that sentence.