Just One Of Those Days (1353 words)

(Warning: very bad language, violence)

 

The old man’s flat already smells like someone has died there. The stench of rotting flesh comes mostly from the overflowing kitchen waste bin, Mylo can see from the doorway, although he thinks the white pus oozing from the ulcers on the old codgers skinny white legs play their part.

“Not seen you before,” the old bastard says, wearing nothing but a knee high dressing pink gown.  “Where’s Jeanette? I thought it was Jeanette’s day. I like Jeanette,” he peers into Mylo’s face. “You’re not foriegn are you?”

Mylo smiles his best reassuring I’m-not-here-to-rob-and-murder-you smile. “No mate, British, through and through, me.”

“You speak funny,” the old man says. Clearly he is unconvinced.

“I’m from the Midlands,” Mylo says, pushing past the old twat, with his leather bag and his smile still fixed to his face.

“That’ll be it.”

Mylo had canceled the real nurse, of course.  He had phoned up and pretended to be the old git’s nephew: his only living relative, or at least the only one that gave half a crap about the old sack of bones. Research and planning is key to not getting caught – that and moving about, changing your M.O. and not leaving D.N.A. lying about (Mylo watches a lot of crime series on the telly). After the early afternoon nurse visit, there are no other visits planned for the day, not until teatime when his nephew will pop around for half an hour.  Plenty of time to kick the crap out of this duffer, rob the place and leave.

Mylo doesn’t always resort to violence, and has only killed a handful of his previous victims, although he admits that the urge to finish the job is stronger, each time. He never hurts women, of course. That’s wrong. It is against Mylo’s Code. Apart from that one time, but that wasn’t his fault. That dirty old bastard in Crewe had a bird, from the care home round the corner, in bed upstairs, he didn’t know about. It was unforeseen. It wasn’t Mylo’s fault. After he’d finished with the old boy he’d found her in bed, clutching her duvet to her neck, like it was some kind of fucking magic shield. He could smell that she had shat herself –  a common enough occurrence in Mylo’s line of work. He’d had to smother her with a pillow when she started screaming. It was just one of those days.

No, Mylo doesn’t alway hurt them, the old fellas. Sometimes he just scared them witless. But this one has it coming. He reminds Mylo of his grandad. Has the same sneer-for-a-smile. The same mean glint in his eye.

Mylo waits in the hallway, by the kitchenette with it’s vile stinking bin, for the old man to lock the front door. He notes the keys are left in the lock. He lets the old man lead him into what might be called the living room. Dying room, more like. Mylo stifles a giggle. It’s like any one of the fifty or more other places he’s robbed, up and down the country. A TV stands pride of place, next to the heavily curtained window. Even though it’s lunchtime, and the sun is shining brightly outside, the curtains are drawn. The room is brightly lit from a single bulb suspended from a cord in the ceiling. Facing the telly is one brown chair abused with the stains of TV dinners, and next to it a sofa, that might once have been cream-coloured. On the mantlepiece are three photos: one, Mylo recognises from his research, is of his nephew with a girl, not bad looking, but not a stunner, neither; another is an old picture of some woman, presumably his dead wife,  and the third is of the old geezer, younger though, much younger, with some other bloke. They look like old time East End gangsters. Next to the photos are three urns. So, there are at least three dead people in the room. Well, let’s make it four.

Mylo is wearing gloves – part of the uniform of a community nurse – so he doesn’t have to worry about leaving prints anywhere. Not that he has any desire to touch the filthy surfaces. Mylo can’t believe how some people live, although he is no longer surprised that people who live like dirty pigs have large amounts of cash hidden about their stys.

Mylo lets the old fucker sit down, as he’ll be more vulnerable (most of these old twats take five minutes to get out of their chairs at the best times) before opening his bag. Inside are the tools of his trade. Not the usual tools you’d expect to see in a nurses bag, of course. Obviously, there’s Nelly – his favourite knuckle duster – sitting on top of an old sock with a pool ball in it (his lucky number eight). There is also a crow bar and bolt cutters.  He lets his fingers walk over the various objects – eeny meeny miny moe – and then settles on the sock eightball combo, which he swings out of the bag and smacks the old bastard in the side of the mouth. Blood sprays over the already filthy furniture and something falls out of the old man’s head. Dentures. They glisten with red-tinged saliva.

“Right you old cunt,” Mylo says, pushing his face as close as he can get to the old bastard’s without actually touching the fucker. He tries not to breath in the old man’s stench. His voice is soft and clear. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” It’s a cliché, but Mylo likes it. It gives them the illusion that there will be an easy way.

“What?” the old man says, through his damaged lips. “Speak up, young man, speak up.” His hearing aid has popped out of his ear, probably with the force of the blow.

Mylo tries again. “Tell me where you hide your fucking money!” he yells into the wax encrusted earhole. He stands back and looks at the old man as he pulls Nelly out of his bag of tricks and on to his fist, ripping the glove as he does so. Bollocks. The old git doesn’t seem to be as scared as he should be so Mylo gives him a clout. Nelly makes contact with his nose. There is the satisfying sound of the crunch of cartilage. More blood.

Mylo has to hit the old bastard three more times before he whispers, “Ashes,”. His eyes, surrounded by blue swollen flesh are looking in the direction of the mantelpiece. Mylo stands up and looks at the urns. One of them, the big one in the centre does look a bit different, now he looks at it more closely. Bigger than the other two. Christ, they hide their money in all sorts of places these days. Mylo remembers that old boy, in Margate, who had a roll of fifties stuffed inside a hollowed out dildo). Mylo smiles and peers at the urn. It has a small round hole near the top, something glints within.  Mylo turns around when he hears the old man laughing.

“Smile,” the old tosser says, his mouth a smear of red on his wrinkled face. “You’re on Candid Camera.” He chuckles. “You’ve been framed, arsehole.”

Mylo turns back to the urn and pulls off the top. Sure enough there is a camera and what looks like bits of a phone, including a SIM. An LED flashes until Mylo pulls the cable from the battery. The bottom half is full of ashes. The old bastard has a fucking Granny Cam.

“While you stand there gawping like an arsehole on poppers, my nephew’ll be sending pictures of your ugly face to the coppers, you young twat,” the old man says, from the chair. “So the question is, who’ll find you first? The pigs, or my old mates? ‘Cos you’d better hope it’s not my friends. Now, fuck off out of my house.”

 

The sound of the old man’s crusty laugh follows Mylo, as he fumbles with the keys. Unlocking the door, he leaves.

 

 

Brains in his pants

Sitting half-naked behind the wheel of a 67mustang, handcuffed to a totally naked beautiful blond hadn’t been on Sheriff Raiden’s bucket list.
But, of course, when the opportunity presented, he hadn’t said no.
Probably not the wisest thing he had ever done, in retrospect. But – to be fair – how could he have known her husband would show up?
He struggled again against the dead weight of the woman.
The very dead weight of the very dead woman.
He was trapped: handcuffed to a dead woman and the steering wheel of a classic car.
His gun (used to shoot his lover, and flung back into the car), his badge and his mobile phone were in the passenger footwell, tantalisingly out of reach.
As the lake-water filled the car he reflected that it wasn’t the first time his brain had been overruled by his dick.
But it did very much look like it would be the last.

Keep your eye on the sky

The drug has taken effect now and I think I see in your face that you suspect what is happening.
But it’s too late.
I help you off your stall and lead you out of the bar. The barman raises his eyebrows.
“Drank too much, too quickly”, I say. He offers to help but I say it’s OK, and he doesn’t push it. If it was the other way round, if you had succeeded in drugging me, would he have insisted on intervening?
I hope so, but can’t be sure.
After all, you’ve done it before.
“Keep your eye on the sky” i whisper in your ear as we stagger together into the parking lot. You do not know the significance.
You do not know that my sister had a poster on her bedroom wall of a wary duckling watching the sky as a bird of prey circled high above. “Be like her, Lisa,” my sister whispered to me, before she died. “Watch for predators”.
And I do.
I watch.
I watched you.
I watched you drug my drink.
I distracted you.
I switched our drinks.
You did not keep your eye on the sky.
You did not see the predator, circling above you.
There are no CCTV cameras in the parking lot. I knew you would have selected the bar carefully. I let you fall to the floor and search your pockets. Your phone is not password protected. I take the permanent marker pen out of my hand bag, and I tear your shirt open. I write “I drug women and rape them” on your chest, and using your phone I take photos and upload them to your profile on Facebook and all your other social media accounts.
I make sure I tag your wife, and your boss.
And then I leave.