She saw his back freeze, go rigid – she smirked again before delivering her final words, and the last he would ever hear. “Your words I believe, Mr. Hardy?” the bonnet whooshed downwards, and connected with the back of his skull, making a sickening crack.
Crystal was going to leave him like that: compact. Instead, she got in the car, let the handbrake down and pointed the wheels to the verge of the cliff. Jumping into Donald’s jeep she bulldozed the Nissan off the side of the crag. It only had a small drop, but it was enough to get it to burst into flames. The loss of the car was no big deal – it was stolen. She would use Donald’s jeep to get her so far home then dispose of that too.
* * * *
Crystal shuffled her feet. His wrath was about to be released now they were behind closed doors. The performance had gone pretty well so she had thought. However, as Harry always pointed out: “You’re a stupid blonde bitch, with big tits, that knows nothing.” He’d been humiliated by the show they had performed on the Phoenix’s stage two nights ago. It was a shitty, small time theatre in the town of Ton-Pentre in South Wales. His fury could be justified though. The Monday morning papers had torn their act apart (even though their show had been a sell-out).
Now, eyeballing each other in the large kitchen mirror, just behind the breakfast bench, she could feel Harry’s rage building in his glare; it was coming.
“Well don’t just fucking stand there like a mannequin woman, go get me my cigars and whiskey.”
Crystal tottered off into the poky living room to the mini-bar, which adorned the corner of the room. She took the whiskey from off the middle shelf. She had a big, six-foot figure, with curves to match. On retrieving the ‘fire water’ she picked up the leather bound cigar case that lay on top of the polished oak bar.
Harry’s voice boomed again. “For fuck sake woman, where in the hell have you gone for ’em cigars and whiskey? Timbuk-fucking-tu?” Crystal answered back in a weak and cracked voice that just about stretched from the bar into the kitchen.
“I... I’m coming Harry. Plea…please don’t yell at me.”
As Harry was about to speak again, his ‘glamorous assistant’ walked back into the kitchen. She held in her hands what he had demanded: “If I want to fucking yell, I’ll fucking yell! Now give me the damn Scotch and smokes, before I whack you one, bitch.”
She placed the cigars and bottle down in front of Harry. Turning to go to the sink to fetch a glass, she was stopped in her tracks by his hand, grabbing her firm buttocks through the tight outfit – it was Crystal’s garb from their sketch. Tart and vicar – they always ended on that one. She let out a yelp.
“What an arse you got on you Crystal, baby, nice and ample.” God, she hated the way he brought the routine home with him – but that was Harry for you – perverted.
Crystal smirked, fighting back another squeal of delight, before she allowed herself to speak again. “Thank you, Harry.” It came out in a shy, schoolgirl’s whisper as she glided away from him. At the sink she swished out a tumbler with cold water. As much as she feared him at times, she could never leave him. She turned to him,
“I love you Harry, you know that, don’t you?”
He looked at her with unsure eyes, “Of course I do. Now bring me that glass.”
She set it down in front of him and poured from the bottle. The disgusting odour of the whiskey stuffed her nostrils, bringing tears to her eyes. Once the glass was full, she took a cigar from the case, popped it in his mouth and lit it for him.
She sat down behind him, and again they looked at each other in the mirror. His next words tore through her like a sleet shower.
“I want you to kill the fuckers. I want them to endure as much pain and torture as you can dish. “Will you do that for me? Will you take out revenge for me? Put an end to them who have done you and me wrong? Show me that you love me, and do it.”
How could she refuse? At the end of the day, she knew he was right: she did love
him, more than anyone or anything in the world. Crystal was not at all surprised how easy the words spilled from her mouth, even though his words had slightly jarred her at first.
“Yes, Harry, of course I will.” And at the end of the day, if she got caught Crystal was more than prepared to stand up in court and tell them all that it was a crime committed for love.
Not only was she prepared to do it for love, but the judges’ bad mouthing had also pissed her off – therefore, she listened to Harry’s plan of how to seek revenge for the critics’ ugly words.
Harry wanted Walter Dipkiss punished last, whilst Cynthia Holden was to be the first of the three, leaving Donald Hardy second. Cynthia and Donald were rather special: they worked for the most hallowed critical entertainment magazine in the South Wales area. Nevertheless, Walter was the real special one: working for a haughty newspaper based in Cardiff.
* * * *
Crystal looked at her blood-spattered face in the mirror, her red lipstick smudged. Mascara ran down her face, intertwining with blood; her mouth twisted into a smirk. Small specks of blood from her third and final victim clung to her bleached blonde hair. The V cut of her spangled dress exposed her heaving, blooded breasts. They had been the trap for her prey. She gave them a slight wobble now in the mirror, just to see how Walter would have seen them. Her grin died.
Mr. Walter Dipkiss: the biggest asshole out of the three bastard judges, Crystal thought to herself. The grin returning and revealing miniscule flecks of blood on her otherwise perfect teeth. How had he described the show again, she thought, whilst placing one blood-stained hand to her chin: “Ah yes,” she proclaimed, cheerily: “It was a lurid, disgusting and disturbing act. The worst I have ever, ever, had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. It was plain awfulness that matched her ridiculous dress which barely held her all in.”
“You weren’t saying that tonight though, Mr. Dipkiss were you, hmm?” She spat at her reflection. “No, it was take it off, take it all off.” Crystal lifted the vodka bottle from the sink to her lips, took a mouthful and spat it across the mirror. It exploded onto the glass and frothed slightly due to her saliva. The clear liquid slithered down the glass, disjointing her face for a moment.
Harry was in the kitchen, barking for his whiskey and cigars. She couldn’t go to him just yet, not in her state: she needed to calm herself and get cleaned up. No doubt he would love to see the blood though, and run his tongue through it, whilst grabbing her buttocks for good measures; God, how that randy sod loves to grope me, she thought. She called out to him in a shaky voice: “In a moment, my love.” Crystal could hear him through the bathroom door, ranting about her not coming at once, and something that she could not quite make out. She didn’t care if she had to take a beating off Harry for not obeying his orders: after all, the murders had all been for him.
Now, where was I, she thought to herself – “Ah, yes…Walter.”
* * * *
“How in the hell did you get in here, Miss Sanders?” His jowls wobbled as he spoke. “If you don’t leave this instant, I shall be forced to call the police.”
She’d been waiting for him on his sofa in the dark. Now, sitting there with one leg crossed over the other, her dress began to ride up her thighs revealing stocking tops and a garter.
His lips started to dry; beads of sweat began to glisten on his brow.
“I don’t think you will be calling anyone, Walter, do you?”
Placing one hand on her knee, she used the other to beckon him to the couch. She leaned forward slightly, giving Dipkiss an eyeful of her cleavage. “Come on Walter, I only want to be friends – don’t you?”
His eyes drifted down her curvy body, then back upwards, finally coming to rest on her bust. “That’s it Walter, come closer – why don’t you place your head to rest right by here.” She said to him in a soothing, flirtatious voice, whilst indicating her chest. “You’d like that?”
“I thought you would have been most upset with the way we treated your Phoenix performance.
”
“Oh, Walter, I didn’t come here to talk shop with you. I came here to have some fun – I even brought some bubbly with me. It’s by the kitchen sink.”
Stopping halfway to her, something dawned on him. “Did you hear about, Miss Holden and Mr. Hardy?”
“Yes Walter, I did.”
“And you had nothing to do with any of it?”
She could see the distrust in his pale blue eyes. Had he not been such a pervy old bastard (she had thought at the time) he may have survived the ordeal.
“Walter, I swear to you. I had nothing to do with it. I am an entertainer, not a psycho.”
His tension seemed to loosen somewhat: his shoulders relaxed, and that look of mistrust seemed to vanish. “In that case, I think I will go and pour us a glass of bubbly each.” God, how easy he had been to snare.
“Why don’t you come and have a little play first, you know you want to Walter, baby.”
He didn’t need asking twice – he was a man after all. He was soon across the space between them, and down on his knees. She could feel his glasses digging into her breasts. This excited her. With her one hand Crystal raked through his silvery hair (fuck, how old is he, she thought to herself) whilst keeping his face in her human pillows. He was grunting with joyful nuzzling. Her free hand crept from behind a cushion which was close to her side.
Crystal brought the knife out and up fast, plunging it down into his back. He tried to free himself. But his aged body was no match for her agility. She forced his head tighter into her, pushing the last of his breath out. Crystal could feel hot blood piss out of his mouth, splattering her flesh.
His body jolted as though electricity skipped through him. She had the urge to pull the knife out of his back and stab again. But she left it there, savouring the taste of knowing that her cleavage would finish the old critic off.
She didn’t bother reminding Dipshit (as she liked to call him) of the vile words he had written about her and Harry’s act. His gasping and spluttering was giving her too much satisfaction.
Once he had stopped bucking, Crystal unglued his face from her, looked down at him and smiled.
* * * *
Her face was no longer caked in blood and make-up. The gore in her hair had also been swished out; it now hung from her head like rats’ tails; the vodka bottle almost empty. The sink was full of pink-coloured water. The tap still running had small splash marks of pink on them also. Cotton buds littered the marble sides of the sink.
She stood there naked (the dress now peeled from her body), looking herself in the eye; a wry smile on her face. The thrill of the killing had taken her to heights Harry had never managed.
Her black jeans, top, red dress, stockings and brunette wig all lay on the carpeted floor by her side, ready to be handed to the eager fire that she had stoked up ready. Also, recently added to the clothes to feel the searing heat of the fire was a spangled, black cocktail dress and stockings. The garter she had worn she would keep as a souvenir.
Harry was still shouting at her to come out to the kitchen. She knew what he wanted. He wanted all the gory details.
But, before going out there and telling Harry, she first wanted some time to reflect on the killings.
“Give a girl five minutes Harry, will ya? I’ll be out as soon as I am done.” She checked the door was bolted. Harry didn’t like lip off her. At the thought of that, her hands went to her neck…
Knowing the door was closed and locked tight, she turned back to the mirror, and let her mind drift. Ahh yes, they had truly been three magnificent kills, she thought to herself. But she knew that she couldn’t stay here dreaming about her recent activities, for now it was time to pack, and leave for the next town.
Unlocking the bathroom door, Crystal stepped out into the heated living room with the bundle of clothes tight to her chest. She didn’t waste any time as she strode straight over to the leaping flames, tossing the tainted garments into the roasting heat. She stood there, watching the fire devour her attire and stroke her naked flesh. She held herself in those hot moments, transfixed by the flames crackling fiery secrets to one another. But then her peace was broken by Harry: “Crystal, Crystal, Crystal! For fuck sake get out here! We got to leave before sunrise.”
“OK Harry,” she replied in a lazy, dream-like voice.
“Well come on then.” His tone was worsening as he waited.
Pulling herself away from the fireplace, satisfied the clothes were nothing more than a heap of ash, she made her way out to Harry, who sat at the kitchen table.
“Ohh, Harry,” she groaned with despair, before continuing: “You can’t wear that vicar’s costume to leave in.”
“Well, I dare say you can leave with your knockers hanging out like that. Planning on putting any clothes on are we, Crystal my dear?”
“I shall be putting clothes on as soon as I have seen to you first.” She knew that he would like the sound of that.
Stepping closer to Harry’s tiny wooden frame she lifted him from his highchair and put him next to his box. His small wooden face consisted of red rosy cheeks and two beady looking eyes as black as the ace of spades. He wore a tiny crisp white shirt, with a small black jacket; a dog-collar around his minuscule neck.
“Let me have a feel Crystal, before you put me back in my box. It could be a while before I come out again.”
She obliged of course, as she always did; his hands as rough as ever. She would need to sand them before long she thought, as she put him in his box and locked it.
Crystal loaded her van with the trunk that held Harry and the rest of the props and costumes for their ventriloquist show. When she was done, Crystal drove away from the small flat they had been renting in Llwynypia. It was a mere stone’s throw away from the Phoenix theatre where they had been torn apart by the three deceased judges.
This was not the only midnight flit Crystal and Harry had done – many, many more had been before this night. And now, it was on to the next town or village in South Wales. Who knows, maybe to a town or village near you?
* * * *
She looked over at Harry in the passenger seat – his tiny wooden frame dressed in a cowboy outfit. The Stetson on his head cast a dark shadow across his face, his lips were pulled into a tight smile and his beady eyes were focusing on the book in front of him. He didn’t move, nor did he look over at Crystal as she eyed him.
Nothing or no-one would ever come between her and Harry. Not a judge or slut like the one back at the petrol station. And if they tried, they’d be wiped from the face of the earth. Killing was becoming second nature to Crystal.
Her and Harry had been together for far too long now for anything to come between them. He’d saved her. Made her whole. She could still remember the day she’d bought him from Khan, the tattooist in Cardiff, so many years ago. She’d only gone to Khan for a tattoo after graduating from Newport University. A medium size drawing of a pair of theatre masks on her left shoulder; one smiling, one crying. A symbol which represented what she loved doing in life – performing.
It had meant to help cheer her up, because her acting and performing career hadn’t gone to how she had planned after graduating. It had depressed her, getting doors closed on her all the time – then Khan and Harry came into her life. When she’d walked into that tattoo shop a little over ten years ago, she’d got more than she’s bargained for. For Khan was more than just a tattooist, and Crystal could still recall a few tales she’d heard about him and his work which had drawn her to his shop in the first place.
CANVAS
Sid got up from the couch, placed his Corona bottle on the coffee table in front of him, and left for the bathroom; he could hardly contain his excitement as he walked through the tiny living room. It was now time to remove the bandage.
Two hours the small Taiwanese fella had told Sid - two hours, then “remove, and clean well.” He’d been watching the clock ever since he’d got back from the weird, yet wonderful Glaring Graffiti.
T
he parlour was a one in a million find. Sid stumbled across it whilst doing some shopping in Cardiff earlier in the day. The little studio was tucked away down a weakly lit side street, just within his view. Sid had toyed with the idea of getting his skin inked many times in the past, but his mother had always been dead against it, saying - “it’s a sin to paint the skin.” He used to get that shit all the time off her, but now he was twenty-three, had his own flat and did what he wanted to do. So he’d gone for it, there and then.
The outside of the place looked fucking scary Sid thought. You couldn’t see in through the glass: two black, backdrops blocked the view of the two large glass windows either side of the entrance. The name Glaring Graffiti appeared to have been hand painted onto the windowpanes in oriental-style writing - with dragons and demon-style faces intertwining with etching of the words. Skeletal vapour burped from the drains, and cast the shop in a sort of lost-ship-at-sea-effect. Nothing moved in the alleyway, no noises could be heard - just Sid’s rhythmic heartbeat. Yet, in the silence life was but a stones throw away from where he stood. Beyond the foot of the passageway, life could be seen passing by in a coloured world - which was by far brighter than the black and white he stood in.
Just as he finally found enough courage to go in to the shop and go through with it, a husky looking fella walked out of the place. His head shaved clean, his face chiselled, and his torso bare except for a tight leather waistcoat. His semi-naked chest exposed a gory bandage on his right pec. He gave Sid a don’t-fuck-with-me-look.
Entering the parlour, the design he wanted leapt out at him; he’d always been a fan of the reptile kingdom and found the perfect image.
The brightly coloured snake - which looked like a Boa to him - stood out from all the other designs of snakes shown on the laminated card: black and white shaded Cobras, Rattlers flecked with vivid paint, and a nest of Vipers mixed with Adders.
White Walls and Straitjackets Page 5