by Carla René
Her voice softened. "Mr. Haigh, if that is what you wish, then I'll be happy to take my idea elsewhere."
He slammed his hand on his desk. NO!" He muttered something about his father.
She became alarmed and moved to go.
He imagined that she'd probably been barking orders at people her entire life and he saw red. His composure gave way. He left the desk and moved between her and the door. "No."
"I truly didn't mean to offend. But I've had enough for today, as I'm tired. Let us re-schedule for next week?"
He was tired of this bitch's sniveling. He kept his voice even against his rising excitement. "I say when you've had enough." He pulled his .38 Enfield revolver from his pocket. Soon he would taste her and he became so excited he couldn't see straight.
She stood frozen.
"Get in your chair."
"I… I… "
In one swift motion, he grabbed her wrists and shoved her into the chair.
She was so caught off-guard, she didn't fight.
He pulled two long handkerchiefs from his pocket and tied her wrists to the chair. Then he went to the jugs of chemicals, pulled one down, and walked back to her.
She began to whimper.
"Aw, I'm sorry. Am I making you nervous?" He guffawed. He pulled on his rubber gloves and apron. Carefully he opened the jug, poured the acidic liquid, and held it close to Olive's face. "Do you know what sulphuric acid does to a body?"
She cried louder.
"Now, now, concentrate, and answer the question for £100."
"I… I… don't know."
"You're not even trying! Think."
She swallowed. "It stings the skin?"
"Wrong! You lose. The correct answer: it eats away flesh and is so painful the victim prays to die. Thank you for playing."
"Help me!"
He ignored her pleas, and tossed the cup of acid onto her chest. The liquid immediately began to burn her flesh, and her howling gave him a headache, but he watched the show with glee. Slowly and before his eyes, the undiluted chemical began eating away at her shoulders, exposing the very bone beneath. As blood dripped down her body, his heart thumped wildly.
As he moved for another round of acid, this time in her eyes, she pulled the handkerchiefs loose and made for the door. She tried to get past, but he grabbed her wrists and they struggled. She freed herself and ran for the back door, but before she reached it, he rounded on her, grabbed her hair and yanked her backward.
"It's rich whores like you who spit on God-fearing people like me. You had this coming."
He leaned close and could smell her—Vaporub and Chanel. He caressed her weathered cheek with the revolver, making her howl like a bloodied dog. "What type are you?" he whispered.
"W-What?"
"Y'know, type. A? B? O-negative?? Ooh!"
"You'll never get away with this!"
"Threats: the last bastion of the doomed."
She dug her fingernails into his thigh.
He screamed, repositioned his grasp on her head, and shot into her jugular at point blank range.
She fell forward into his arms, eyes open.
For a long moment, he stood, holding her as if just being given a gift. He longed to devour her, become a part of her. He needed to become one with her. He let her body drift to the floor, and went to his car for a penknife and glass.
The mere clutter of her was enough to panic him, so he dragged her dead weight to the chair, making sure he smoothed her disheveled clothing. Then he brushed her hair.
He closed his eyes, cut into the Carotid artery, and savoured a full cup of her. He reveled in the feeling as it traveled down his body, and a warm honey oozed over him. He then dabbed the corners of his mouth, rounding off his nice meal.
He put on his mask and dragged the forty-gallon drum from against the wall.
Next, he removed her fur coat, took any cash she had, and pulled off her jewels. He forced her portly body into the drum, and covered it with as much sulphuric acid as he had. He secured the lid, pushed the drum back against the wall, and waited for two days to allow the acid to work.
His Irish Setter was happy to see him, and he smothered the dog with attention for the next hour.
On the morning of the second day, Haigh appeared from upstairs, coiffed as always. The remains were now a thick, black sludge, and he slid the drum outside and dumped it in the alley behind his home, with the other sludge.
That afternoon, Haigh made a quick trip to town, where he sold her personal belongings.
"These are nice. How much you want for all of this?" asked the pawn broker.
"I'd say five hundred pounds is fair, wouldn't you? They don't make jewels like these anymore, and that fur is vintage."
The man laughed a belly laugh. "Someone's duped you, mister. The jewels are costume, and the fur's about the only thing of worth. Give you a hundred pounds for all of it."
Haigh wanted to choke him. "Fine."
"By the way, where'd you get these? They're quite old."
"Oh, it was my mother's dying wish."
After the transaction, Haigh headed home.
As soon as he was safely in his car and pulling out from in front of the store, the pawnbroker pulled out a photo from behind his cash register: "Wanted: Information leading to the whereabouts of Mrs. Olive Durand-Deacon." At the bottom of the flyer, it described in detail what she had been wearing two days ago when she disappeared. The pawnbroker picked up his phone receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece:
"Operator? Get me the police."
God stalks the mind of those who would seek to defy him, but he labours under a misapprehension, for what is a crime without evidence, what murder a punishable offense without a body? —Final journal entry of John George Haigh, Jr.
On the morning of April 30th, 1949, Haigh received a knock at his warehouse door.
"Open up, Haigh, we know you're in there."
Haigh, upstairs, saw a battalion of Sussex police outside his warehouse door. He laughed, and gladly went down to let them in. "May I see a search warrant, gentlemen?" His arrogance was palpable.
"Haigh, we know you were the last to see Mrs. Deacon alive, and we know you killed her. What we don't know, is how you did it."
"Indeed, she was a client and we discussed a prosperous business venture, but she pulled out at the last minute. I've no idea why."
"Make sure he doesn't go anywhere," the sergeant said to a burly officer, who stood guard over Haigh while the men ransacked the warehouse.
"Sergeant! Out here!" One of the officers yelled from the backyard.
The sergeant grabbed his mouth to keep from vomiting when he smelled the thick sludge in the yard where his men had overturned a barrel, spilling its contents. The sergeant, kneeling down and snatching on his rubber gloves, grabbed something of interest from out of the sludge. Something that sparkled in the light.
Haigh was then escorted to the backyard and observed, unconcerned. "I'll do anything I can to help you find her. She was a sweet lady," he volunteered. After all, the police didn't need to think he was uncooperative.
When the sergeant walked over to Haigh, all the policemen were smirking. "So. Don't know anything about her disappearance, eh?"
"Yes, that's right." Haigh smiled.
"Did you know her son was supposed to pick her up that afternoon, but when he got no answer he contacted us?"
Haigh smiled. "So? What does that have to do with me?"
The sergeant continued. "May I ask you a question? How long have you been working with chemicals?"
This was getting ridiculous, but he played. "Many years. Twenty. Why?"
"Did Mrs. Deacon ever mention her ailment to you?"
He chuckled. "As a matter of fact, she did. Something about a gallstone. Why?"
"This stone?" The sergeant held the stone up to Haigh's eye level.
In a flash, Haigh took off for the warehouse, but was met with a line of officers, who promptly carted him off, while Mi
randizing him.
But before they loaded him into the wagon, the sergeant spoke once more. "You thought you couldn't get caught, didn't you?"
Haigh only stared.
"What you didn't consider, was the gallstone wouldn't dissolve in chemicals. Isn't it ironic that your own victim fingered you from her grave?"
The sergeant laughed, and threw Haigh in the back of the wagon.
Bitch
by
Carla René
Bang, bang bang!
"I said shut up!" Rob screamed to the ceiling as he lowered the broom handle.
"What does she do up there anyway?" said Marissa.
"We've sent notes, spoken to the landlord, and nothing. She's still thumping away, whining… . Too bad she doesn't land a nice, juicy stroke. That'd teach her," he said, throwing on his pants.
"What're you doing?"
"If we can't get the mountain to come to Mohammed… ."
"Please—we all have to live here." She lay her head down and let the full moon stream across her face.
Rob fought an urge to take her right there.
"I have a right to silence, too. Gonna talk, that's all." He kissed her, tossed on a plaid shirt, and made up the stairs, two at a time.
He'd complained for three months, and the landlord didn't hold out hope. But Rob snickered at the chance to meet her. He grabbed the knocker, and listened. Footsteps. His heart quickened. He could be diplomatic, too.
The door creaked open. She wore too much lipstick and her lips stretched thinly when she smiled.
"Yes?"
"Hi. I'm Rob, from downstairs."
"Yes! Nice to finally meet you. Come in."
"It's late, but I thought I'd ask if you could keep it down?"
"Oh," she said. "Was I loud?" Her voice dripped.
"In this building the sound carries."
She grabbed his hand, leading him inside.
Rob swore he heard the door lock.
"You're exaggerating. I can't be that loud."
His mouth gaped open. "I've tried to be nice… "
"… have you? The landlord's been here several times. That wasn't courteous." She turned away.
He froze, watching the print skirt sway in hypnotic fashion and didn't notice what she was doing.
Her voice deepened and she moved close to the open window. Suddenly, Rob gasped as her form began lengthening, tearing, stretching. She growled, and the temperature dropped ten degrees. The sickening silhouette spoke.
"I've… .been… .waiting… .for… .you… ." it rumbled.
He grabbed for the doorknob but it was locked. He began yelling and pounding for help.
"No… .one… .can… .hear… .you… ." In one motion, her dew claw sliced into his back and he screeched.
This excited her, and she moved over his crooked body.
"Stand… .up… ." She lifted him to eye level.
Her eyes were yellow smoke and her breath was putrid upon him.
"Wh-wh-what do you want?"
"Respect."
As she sank a fang into his jugular, he felt himself slipping away. She fed on his flesh, ripping, snarling, tearing, gorging herself on his sinews. Finally, she took her last bite out of his head and dropped his corpse to the floor. She howled, skulked back to the window, and let the moon turn her back into her original shape.
She smoothed the print skirt, and watched Rob's body dissolve into steam, then disappear.
She poured herself a cup of tea, and dialed the number.
"It's done," she said.
"Good. Thanks, Edna. And don't forget, I'll be collecting your rent tomorrow. G'night."
The Needles Drip Blots of Blue
by
Carla René
Life is a dance of the grotesque. Find the beauty bemused and you've mastered your demons.
The blood gushed river-raging down my cheek, orchard sweet. Wine I'd tasted once, when Jimmy took me to my junior prom. We drank it on the way home before he fucked me raw. I never told them …
"Now look what you've done," Mr. Lewis said. Eyes flashed red like Satan's scrotum.
I sat up, trying to focus. Mistake. My body floated back to the pillow as another blow locked with my head. I began to dream of far away fields of clover and golden retrievers.
Sleep, child.
"Guess what? Today makes one year since the courts said you could live with us. Isn't that *wonderful*?" Mrs. Lewis gave a thread-bare smile when Mr. Lewis was around.
He sat proselytising to no one.
"After breakfast, we are taking you to the Museum. Wouldn't you like that?" she asked with fear singeing her eyes.
Nodding was a way of life for me. Safer that way, I s'ppose.
But not today.
"The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, sleep with my maidservant; perhaps I can build a family through her." He whispered in my ear and shoved into me until he fell sweat-stained onto my padded cell bed. He hiked up his pants.
I didn't look him in his eye — mine was still swollen blue from yesterday.
"You are doing God's work here, my little maidservant. Get ready for the museum. I'll be back to unlock the door when you're ready."
Mrs. Lewis watched from her hole in the wall.
The golden retriever jumped over the fence.
My mind ran rampant with joy at the museum. The paintings were full of cheap-paint colours I adored. Cold marble felt good on my bare feet and the air was like in our refrigerator. When "he" wasn't looking, I would smile at Mrs. Lewis and she would muse-touch my shoulder. For an instant, it was almost like …
We always had lunch in the café. I was allowed water or sometimes if I was good, iced tea. Today I wasn't good. As they munched burgers I saw pig teeth and giggled. I didn't mean to. He kicked my leg. I was brave as the knot raised on my shin.
"Is anything wrong?" said the manager, whose head was twice its normal size. "Did you just kick that child?"
Mrs. Lewis dropped her coward-head and Mr. Lewis lowered his fool one.
"No sir, I had a leg cramp and accidentally kicked his." I waited, heart-leaden.
He ignored me. "If I ever see you touch that child again, I will have you arrested." He didn't wait for an answer.
Mr. Lewis glared at me.
I've never seen a man's bathroom before. It's not like I imagined. The stalls are big enough for two people. I always got to wear dresses cause they hid things better. This time lasted a long time, and the hand-gagging kept me from making noise, so as not to "'mburrass the family."
"My, doesn't she look pretty? What a beautiful young lady. I'll bet the boys are lining up for you already. Dear, did you see that beautiful golden retriever just jump through those clouds?"
The tile was cool. I was dizzy. He shoved me to stand up straight.
The whispering. "That you may tell your children and grandchildren how I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among them, and that you may know that I am the LORD."
He brushed my cheek.
I'll try harder.
Mrs. Lewis gave me sunglasses and we walked to the Van Goghs. I liked one they called "Starry Night." It swirled and massed and danced and eye-flirted with me. I stared at it so long the colours washed into each other and began to drip.
"Will you behave yourself while we're over there?"
Another nod.
I resumed my game. Its circles hypnotic and beckoning. Endless. Joyous and endless. I followed each brush stroke around the perimeter of each star. I couldn't stop myself. Each stroke pushed me into the next and the next and …
"May I swallow you whole?"
I turned but no one was there.
I resumed my star-gazing.
"Let me swallow you whole."
This time it exhaled from the painting, and I walked as close as they would allow. I heard a euphony like ocean waves. It so soothed me that I wanted to fall asleep on its shores.
"Are you talking to me?" I answered my
own question by assuming I was now brain-busted.
"Your visits here are as welcome as a swallow in the spring." The voice had a chime-like quality while still floating on top of the whooshing wave, and I got greedy and wanted to hear more. It read my thoughts.
"And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort in its truth and enter in." The lights from the stars began to pulsate and I stared transfixed, the soporific combination of wave-chimes and pulse-particles nearly tipping me over.
"Are you for real?" I sounded like I was in the third grade.
"Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d."
For a moment, the voice went quiet and I waited. Instead of soft-water poetry, a wind began to blow the fields beneath the rotary sky, and as the wind became louder, the grasses and trees swayed with such vehemence that they overlapped the entire community below. Everything in the painting increased in concentration: intensity of the starlight, colours of the sky and field and the din of the wind. The painting was coming to life!
I looked for my fosters, but they were still on the other side and didn't notice me for once. Fear welled up and blow-punched every thought in my head, making holes in my logic where meager wisdom had once resided. My heart began searing strips of pain as my breathing laboured, but I was powerless to stop it.
Then, as if on cue, a golden retriever raced across the field, leaping higher than any amber wave. He stopped and turned toward me, and wagged his ragged tail as if he really saw me.
My heart leapt for joy and pushed a tear onto my face simultaneously, and as I stared transfixed into his trusting eyes, I watched the canvas getting closer, the frame drawing nearer, my body becoming smaller, and the rope passing beneath my feet as I sailed toward the painting. I closed my eyes and stifled a scream, but when I opened them, I was standing in the field next to the golden retriever and he was licking my face. I could feel it — his hot breath on my tear-tracked cheek.
I turned back to see the gallery, but it was no longer there. Bright blue and aquamarine fields surrounded me on every side, running stately between the purple and black dwellings. I could still see each brush stroke, only this time each was larger than me. The colours were so intense and vivid that I felt if I had to look at one more, they would cause my insides to ignite.