by Kit Brennan
“I’m warning you again,” I told him. They say that a second time is easier than the first—so he’d better be careful.
“Don’t make me hurt you, miss,” he snarled nervously. He was now close enough for me to smell his foul breath.
“Third warning.” Taking a few hasty steps back, I planted my feet for balance. Did I want information, or just to be rid of him? I had no time. Sensing him beginning to lunge, I whipped the pistol out from under the shawl, took a chance, pointed at my target and pulled the trigger. He let out a fearful howl and toppled to the ground.
“Be quiet,” I hissed, reloading speedily so that he could see me do it, “and tell me how you know about me. Fast, or I’ll shoot you again!”
“Jesus, you’ve taken me foot off!” he sobbed.
“Shut up. Let me see.” Holding the cocked pistol warily, I watched while he pulled off his wretched boot. There was quite a bit of blood coming from just above the toes; I guessed that the bullet might have gone through and out.
“Who told you about me?” I demanded.
He kept moaning and weeping. He couldn’t be one of them, then. “The lady. Mrs. Craigie, I think she said she was. Said she’d split the take, if I’d do it for her.”
What the—? Shite and triple gob-shite! Could this be believed?
“You’re rich,” he panted, “she said you must be, with your fame and all. She’s read about you in the papers, you’re always in the news, and you needed a bit of a scare to smarten you up—that’s what she said, mind, not me! Jesus, I’m going to die!”
“No you’re not. If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it. Get up and go—go down the street, that way.” And I pointed. “There’s a stable there; they’ll have bandages, liniment. Tell them you did it to yourself, it was an accident—don’t mention me to anyone. Don’t you dare. In the morning get yourself to a doctor. Now get out of here—fast, or I will do it again.” I was angry, but relieved. I believed the fool.
He leapt up and, limping, crashed back into the rosebushes. Firing the reloaded pistol at the ground generated a final exit at double speed. I shook my head in disbelief, shocked at how true the adage about second times seemed to be. Crikey.
Right. Time to find out what the bloody hell is going on. Turning on my heel, I marched back towards the house.