SHALLOW CUTS
Crime flash fiction: 20 bite-sized stories of murder and mayhem
By
Michelle Ann King
Copyright 2013 Michelle Ann King
Published by Transient Cactus Publications
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Table of Contents
Inside
Stop Me If You’ve Heard This Before
Speeding Towards Enlightenment
Today, the Part of Hannah Will Be Played by Summer Glau
Bring it On
Grandpa
Communication Skills
Like a Boss
Sacred Space
Based on a True Story
Full Service Package
Silence
The Rehabilitating Power of Conversation
They Do Things Better in Albuquerque
The Sacred Rule
To Show Him a Kindness
Deep
Damnable Behaviour
Safe Place
Legion
About the Author
Also Available
Publication History
Inside
‘HI, DARLING,’ SAID the thing that looked like my wife. ‘I’ve just made coffee, would you like some?’
You had to give them credit, it was a tremendous feat. Some serious time, money and effort had gone into this. I suppose I should be flattered, really.
But that’s assuming this one’s the prototype. For all I know, there could be hundreds of these things out there, living alongside their unsuspecting families. Most people don’t pay attention the way I do.
‘Thank you, darling,’ I said, and followed it into the kitchen. I was careful to keep smiling.
It handed me a mug filled with black liquid. I sniffed carefully. It smelled remarkably like coffee. They really were very good at this.
I raised the mug close to my mouth, careful not to let the contents actually touch my lips. I wondered what was really inside; some kind of drug, presumably. To sedate me, or worse. They had to know I was getting suspicious.
The thing smiled at me. I wondered what was inside that, too; cogs and wires, dirt and clay, green blood and unrecognisable organs?
When it turned around I put the mug down and selected a knife from the drawer. Time to find out.
Stop Me If You’ve Heard This Before
SALLY TOOK HER place in the centre of the kitchen and bounced lightly on the soles of her feet. She shook out her arms and stretched her neck, trying to force the muscles to relax. It was all right to be nervous. All the best performers still suffered from stage fright.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘here we go. You’re going to like this one.’
She paused, unhappy with how thin and weedy her voice sounded. It had no resonance, no projection. But then this was just her father’s kitchen, not an auditorium. She had to make allowances.
She coughed to clear her throat, took a couple of deep abdominal breaths and collected her thoughts, mentally rehearsing the delivery of the punch line. She would get it right this time, for sure.
She raised an imaginary microphone to her lips. ‘Okay. So, three men walk into a bar. There’s a Scotsman, an Irishman, and that bloke who used to play Grant Mitchell on EastEnders and now does all those documentaries about gangs and pirates.’
In his chair at the back of the room, her father shrieked with laughter. Tears were running down his cheeks.
Sally dropped her arms to her sides. And yet again, he’d managed to get it wrong.
‘That’s not the funny bit,’ she said. ‘That’s all I want from you, to laugh at the funny bits. Is that so hard? So much to ask?’
This was what happened, every single time. No matter how easy she tried to make it for him, how clear she tried to be about her needs, he just didn’t get it. What kind of father couldn’t support his daughter’s dreams? Couldn’t even laugh at her jokes?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I—I’ll do better, I promise. Start again.’
Sally walked over to his seat. She shook her head and replaced the duct tape securely over his mouth. His head began to droop so she cut another flap of skin from his neck to make sure he was paying attention.
His eyes went wide and he screamed again, the sound muffled this time. She poked him with the knife a few times and the scream degenerated into a series of choking, gasping noises. It actually sounded reasonably like laughter.
Encouraged, Sally patted his shoulder and went back to her place. ‘Okay,’ she said, composing herself and putting her professional smile back in place, ‘listen up, because you’ll really like this one.’
Speeding Towards Enlightenment
I LOVE MY sister and I want to help her but she doesn’t make it easy.
Her mug of tea sits untouched on the table. I take it away and make a fresh one.
‘Don’t start,’ she says, even though I haven’t opened my mouth. ‘Don’t give me any of that positive thinking crap, okay? I can’t take it right now. I want to be miserable. And mean. And angry.’
She takes a photo out of her purse. It’s a shot of Roy on their last holiday to Majorca. He’s tanned and smiling. Aileen tears it neatly into pieces. ‘She’s 19, did you know that? What a cliche. I thought a mid-life crisis was just a tired storyline for rubbish sitcoms—you know, you’ve seen it: balding fortysomething buys a sports car and has an affair with his secretary. His nineteen-year-old secretary. Ha ha, very funny, cue laugh track.’
She wipes her nose and pushes away the second cup of tea. ‘Jesus, Laurel, how do you drink this shit? It smells worse than that disgusting compost heap outside. Haven’t you got any proper tea? Or a bottle of wine, like normal people?’
‘It’s important to look after your body, it—’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, the body’s a temple, meditation, yoga, rah rah goody two shoes. Is that why he’s never done anything like this? Martin? Because it’s all incense and tantric sex round here?’
‘Actually, tantra isn’t what most people think, it—’
‘Oh shut up, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t come here for a lecture. I don’t want spiritual guidance, I just want some bloody sympathy from my bloody sister, who’s supposed to be on my bloody side.’
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand, then remove the tea and tip it down the sink. Then I take a bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of the cupboard. I don’t usually encourage drinking, but part of the point of rules is knowing when you need to break them.
I splash a small measure into my mug and a larger one into Aileen’s. She downs it in one swallow, coughs and hands it back. I refill it without comment.
‘I envy you,’ she says. ‘You know that, right? Of course you do. Everyone knows that.’
‘Envy is a very destructive emotion,’ I start, before remembering the part about no lectures and shutting my mouth. After all, who am I to judge?
‘Where did I go so wrong?’ Aileen asks. ‘My husband cheats on me, my son does drugs, my fifteen-year-old daughter is pregnant. I work fifty hours a week and still get passed over whenever there’s a promotion. I’m at Mum’s beck and call whenever she even thinks about snapping her figures, and still she treats me like I’m something she stepped in. That’s me. That’s my life.’
She tak
es another mouthful of her drink. ‘And then there’s you. Martin worships the ground you walk on, your kids don’t so much as smoke and Mum acts like you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread even though you don’t do a quarter of the running around for her that I do. You work in bloody Starbucks, for Christ’s sake, which should be a joke, but you act like you’re happy. How does that work, Laurel? Is it really all this transcendental hippie bullshit you go in for, or were you just the lucky one born with the fairy fucking godmother? How come it’s all so fucking easy for you?’
She pushes her mug towards me for another refill. I oblige.
I feel bad for her, I really do. But she’s wrong. It isn’t easy. You have to work at this stuff. You have to study positive psychology, Buddhism and happiness theory, read personal development blogs, undertake regular self-reflection and maintain an attitude of mindful awareness. You have to meditate daily, get plenty of physical exercise, implement GTD systems and keep a gratitude journal. You have to cultivate optimism, equanimity, kindness and curiosity.
And the most important attribute of all, emotional resilience. That’s what really pushes you up a rung on the spiritual development ladder. It means that when things go wrong, you cope. You face the reality of a situation with an attitude of loving acceptance, and don’t waste time or mental energy on regret or wishful thinking. You deal with any problems with grace, learning what you can and moving on.
My sister wouldn’t believe me if I told her I envy her, but it’s true. She was right about everything she said earlier: I am very happily married, my kids are polite and well-adjusted, I enjoy my stress-free job and while I’m not rich, I don’t have any money worries, either. My life is pretty much perfect.
And that’s where the problem lies. Perfection isn’t a good thing—it just means you’ve got nowhere else to go. How am I supposed to grow as a person, to develop resilience and move towards enlightenment, if nothing ever goes wrong?
Aileen finishes her drink, curses me some more and disappears into the bathroom. While she’s gone I refill her mug and dissolve a few tablespoons of soluble paracetamol and some of Mum’s sleeping pills into the bourbon. It’ll taste a little gritty, but I don’t think she’ll notice now. I crush a few more and slip them into the bottle for good measure.
I’ll sit and listen patiently while my sister drinks and bitches for a while longer, then I’ll pop round to old Mrs Hegarty’s at number seventeen, make sure she’s doing okay in the cold weather and see if she wants any shopping. I’ll tell her all about how nice it’s going to be to have my sister staying with me for a few days and how I hope I can help her patch things up with Roy.
And then, when I think I’ve left it long enough, I’ll go home and call an ambulance.
Bereavement is one of the most difficult things a person can go through, and it’s even harder for the relatives of suicides. It’ll be tough for all of us, but especially for me. Not only will I have to deal with my own personal grief for the loss of a beloved sister, but I’ll have to hold my family together, help Roy manage his sense of guilt and take on a couple of wayward, damaged teenagers.
It’s going to be a long, difficult undertaking, but I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from the experience.
Aileen comes back and sits down heavily. I put a box of tissues and the Jack Daniel’s bottle in front of her and pat her hand. She gives me a wavering, grateful smile.
I can feel myself becoming a better person already.
Today, the Part of Hannah Will Be Played by Summer Glau
ON THE TV, the underdog always wins in the end. The tiny blonde cheerleader turns out to be a superhero, the waif-like ballerina is really a killing machine, the wimpy weakling just needs to find the right karate or boxing teacher in order to take his rightful place as champion of the world.
But there’s TV, and then there’s real life. Hannah never used to be able to work out the difference, although she’s a lot better at it now. She knows that she’s not really going to grow up to have superpowers.
Hannah’s mum doesn’t have any special powers either. The men who broke into their house must know that too, because although she’s tiny and blonde, they don’t seem to be afraid of her.
While they’re busy with her mum, Hannah crawls out of her hiding place and sneaks into the kitchen. She knows where the big knives are kept, even though she’s not normally allowed to touch them.
It’s harder to fight back if you’re not very tall, but not impossible. Hannah knows a sharp knife sliced across the back of the knees quickly brings a larger opponent down to size. She saw it on the TV.
Bring it On
EXCITEMENT AND ANXIETY feel almost identical to the body, so you might as well tell your brain it’s the former and just say, ‘Bring it on.’
Nifty little observation, that. Insightful. It’s not mine, of course—I totally cribbed it from Emily, who’s a dab hand at the whole philosophy thing.
But even though it might not be my own original thought, that doesn’t mean I can’t make good use of it. I don’t get out that much so I’m excited about most things I come across, anyway.
So here we are, wherever here is. JoJo got us into this mess, as per usual, because she can’t resist mouthing off. And then when it all starts going south, where is she? Nowhere to be seen, also as per usual.
Emily said the ogre freaking out in the bedroom is JoJo’s boyfriend, in which case her taste has got even worse lately. You ask me, I think he’s more likely her pimp, but I wouldn’t tell Em that. She’s a bit sheltered in that department. She loves her books and all that stuff, but she’s not so keen on the physical side.
I don’t know what JoJo said to piss him off this bad, although having had the treat of seeing him naked, I can probably guess. She’s insulted his manly pride, and someone’s got to pay for that.
Emily’s pretty good at talking our way out of tricky situations, but she doesn’t like it when things get lairy. So it’s down to me. I don’t have Em’s way with words, but I do have a knife, and a complete lack of anything resembling a conscience.
He’s a big bloke, JoJo’s boyfriend, but I have the element of surprise. He’s only ever met her, and won’t have a clue about the rest of us. Actually, I’m not even sure JoJo knows about the rest of us, but that’s a conversation for Emily to organise. My job’s right here, right now. It’s to get us out of here in one piece. Relatively speaking, of course.
I test the edge of the knife. Nice and sharp. Em’s trying to say something about consequences and all that shit, but I don’t care about anything like that. I’m just looking forward to a workout.
Bring it on.
Grandpa
‘GRANDPA,’ TOMMY SAID, ‘have you got a name? Other than Grandpa, I mean. Danny at school said that’s not actually a name.’
The old man smiled. ‘It’s Frank, lad. Grandpa’s a title, but it’s a special one.’
‘Oh. Only Danny said that his dad said that his dad—’ Tommy paused, making sure those words had lined up straight without falling over, then continued, ‘knew you when you were at school... no, not school, somewhere else... I don’t remember where now, but he said everyone there called you Shiv, and I said that was a funny sort of name, and he said a shiv was a kind of knife, and that you—’
‘Well,’ Grandpa said, ruffling Tommy’s hair, ‘that’s the trouble with little boys, they’ve got dirt and marbles and comic books where their brains ought to be. Pay no mind to silly names, lad. I’m Grandpa Frank and that’s all you need to know. Now, it’s too nice a day to spend cooped up indoors, so why don’t we head on outside? You can take your new bike, show old Grandpa how well you can ride it. And maybe while we’re out, you can show me where this Danny kid lives.’
Communication Skills
‘DO YOU STILL hear the voices?’ Dr Rushbrook asked.
I shook my head. ‘No. Not any more.’
He looked at me long and hard, but finally he gave a single small nod and made a mark on the not
epad lying open on his desk.
He didn’t look like he believed me, but I was telling him the truth. I really didn’t hear voices anymore. Not human voices saying human words, anyway.
I’d grown far beyond that. What I heard now was so much more subtle and beautiful; the world spoke to me not in the ugly sounds of speech but in the shapes of barren branches against a winter sky, in the intricate symphony of birdsong, in the fractal patterns of clouds. Nature told me in Her own language what She wanted me to do.
All things had their time, their season. All creatures, too. I understood that, now. I understood so much. All things had to die so that they could be reborn into beauty.
Dr Rushbrook finished with his notebook and started writing on something else. It looked like a prescription pad.
Dr Rushbook didn’t understand how the world worked. He wanted to blind and deafen me with his noxious chemicals, make me as isolated and alienated as he was.
Dr Rushbrook was not beautiful.
A light breeze whistled through the office window behind him. It played along the ends of his fine, grey hair. And as it moved, it told me what I needed to do.
Like a Boss
I SAT DOWN at the desk, moved the bottle of Jack to the left hand side and the phone to the right, then leaned back in the chair. It already felt like home.
But I couldn’t even think about relaxing, not yet. I had work to do.
We were in the middle of putting together a critical deal, a sensitive negotiation, and Desi had to go and drop dead. A massive heart attack and that was it, the show was over before his ass hit the floor. On the plus side, it left yours truly stepping up to the plate. On the minus, nobody seemed to know what the hell they were supposed to be doing and nothing was where it ought to be. Not the ledgers, not the guns, not the money.
Shallow Cuts: Crime Flash Fiction Page 1