All stories

Roscoff looked around the cabin, taking in the scene. To another less seasoned eye things might have seemed unremarkable. That is to say, not suspicious. The cabin was in fact utterly remarkable. A luxury cabin in a high spec ocean going yacht with gilt mirrors and a tiger skin rug being amongst the more understated items of décor. It was the kind of showy overstated display that immediately got Roscoff on edge, however, all that aside there appeared on the face of things to be nothing out of place.

“Not much to see here Gov” said his baby faced sergeant.

“Look again Evans” barked Roscoff “Look closely and tell me what you see”

Evans dutifully looked around again. “I can’t bloody see anything” he thought to himself, “just that miserable old fucker in his cheap suit and Millets anorak”. The cushions were in place, nothing smashed or upturned, there was just a little bit of milk on the coffee table next to the red velveteen slippers placed there. A’h hang on, that looks a bit odd!

“Gov, why would there be slippers on the table? This place is pristine, no one puts slippers on the table! And the milk, it hasn’t been cleaned up!”

“There we go Evans. Jars doesn’t it? Do you know what it makes me think Evans?”

Evans knew this wasn’t rhetorical and that an answer would be required “No Gov, what does it make you think?”

“Makes me think things have occurred here “

The owner of the boat was a fat bellied business man called Jameson, a good deal of his business was on the dodgy side of legit and another good deal of it was downright vicious. His operation succeeded by having a few well-placed coppers in his pocket at any given time. Roscoff had been one of them for some time. He was a gambler and couldn’t fund his habit on a police salary. Jameson offered a nice supplement and occasional useful intel, for a nod and a wink here and there.

The tables turned when DS Judy Mulberry was shot on an early morning raid about a month ago. It was in one of Jameson’s seedier properties, there should only have been a few dozy street girls and some punters there but instead there were gangsters with guns. Roscoff blamed Jameson.

Jameson’s body had floated on shore early this morning, hence their visit to his boat.

“What else do you see Evans?”

Evans tried really hard.

“Look man, look”.

Evans took a hard gulp, and taking his life in his hands said “Nothing, Sir, I can’t see anything!”

“Correct Evans, well done! There is nothing else, now go and get the SOCO in here”

With Evans gone Roscoff bent down and picked up the tie pin that he had hidden under the sole of his shoe. His Rotary Club tie pin, the one with the bent clasp. He placed it in his pocket and looked around one last time. His eyes rested briefly on the slippers and milk, enjoying the still life that they presented. “I would call that Red Herring!” he chuckled.

She needed a cigarette. Never smoked in her life, but right then she needed to hold a cigarette between her finger and thumb and sit there with it unlit because she couldn’t meet its tip with the lighter’s trembling flame. She needed brandy, many of them, and she needed these people in this dockside café to look her and somehow understand just a little of the trauma that had come her way. They were noisy and happy, dressed in their bright pattern shirts and flapping shorts, most of them in sandals or flip flops, one guy even in slippers.

Jesus Christ, rape, that’s what it would have been. Oh, she might have been willing, no, that was wrong. She might have acquiesced, but God knows, rape it would have been all the same.

And Jason, sitting there smirking in the captain’s cabin, telling her it wasn’t a big deal, telling her she had one special skill so why the hell not use it? Not as if the guy’s that overweight.

This made Dani smile, just a little bit. Still think that, do you, baby?

She stirred her coffee, building it to a lazy whirlpool, then in with milk, drop by drop, taking comfort as the spots swirled from white into brown.

A sudden yell made Dani spill milk across the saucer and the tabletop. The café was still, heads turning this way and that. Another single shout, and then, a moment later, a whole host of yells. The noise was coming from a decrepit patrol boat moored on the other side of the backwater. One of the tourists suggested that someone must have found a dollar and the whole café erupted in laughter.

Dani smiled, just a little. Not a dollar. Someone found a whole purse of coins.

The café began to settle, then someone pointed.

A man was on the roof of the patrol boat. He was bare chested, shuffling on his hands and knees, grasping at the trousers around his thighs. The diners cheered as he made it to the safety of the other side, but now groaned as he went down the metal steps into the waiting arms of a pair of uniformed border guards. Another cheer rose as the man slipped free – minus his trousers - and scrambled back up to the roof.

All the shakes were gone from Dani’s fingers. She held a packet of sugar between finger and thumb then flicked it twice with a finger of her other hand. Never had sugar in coffee before this day either. She stirred as the café rose in cheers. He was in the water!

It was less than one hundred metres across the backwater, and he only had to make it over the invisible line that marked the border over which the border boats from each country were not supposed to cross. Even Jason with his doggy paddle should be up to that.

Dani sipped her coffee, smiling all the while. She did not join the diners who charged for the dockside to greet this escaping hero. Let her last and final memory of Jason be that look on his face when the captain of the boat told him it was a deal, and then ordered Dani ashore.

To whoever finds this note,

I washed up on this Godforsaken shore some three days ago with few memories of what happened that dreadful night and fewer resources to help my survival. Aside from this pen and paper, a few tins of meat paste and one of Millicent’s slippers there’s very little to go on. In truth, I am astonished to have held out this long.

I’ve tried to embody the spirit of those heroes from the great stories; Scott, Shackleton, Cooke, in an effort to keep going. Stiff upper lip and all that. After all, there’s no use crying over spilt milk, and I’m here now and must try to make the best of it. But it is so dreadfully lonely and there’s so little food that it’s hard to keep one’s spirits up.

I write in the hope that one day a passing ship will find this, but, with no clue as to my coordinates and no food to get me past this next week, chances of salvation are slim. The only thing that may survive is my story.

I’ve built a driftwood shelter on the beach. It’s not much but it keeps the sun and the worst of the wildlife off. I’ve rationed the meat paste and bulked it out with some of the black, flaccid seaweed from the beach. It’s truly vile, but necessarily nourishing.

That night! That terrible night! The storm flew up from nowhere and we were playthings of the seas, tossed relentlessly on the desperate, raging waves. My only thought was for survival. In these scenarios, it’s every man for himself. I ran to the deck, leaving Millicent and the ladies panicking below, a wadge of cash in my pocket. I knew the way to the Mate’s heart.

I found him unlashing the lifeboats, preparing for the worst and I bellowed my proposition in his ear. On seeing the cash the man’s eyes widened and I thought I had him. I thrust the money at him and darted into the uncovered lifeboat, certain, now, of my place among the saved.

But the wretch flung the notes back at me and I watched them flutter away into the storm, his eyes filled with fury. He grabbed my lapels and, with his seaman’s strength, plunged me into the broiling seas below. I remembered nothing more until I awoke here three days ago.

later

A boat on the horizon! I screamed and to my utter delight they set a course in my direction. They are nearly here and I see it is a pleasure party on a day trip. The women are wearing bright, pretty dresses and the men are puffing cigars. They may have food aboard…

It is the blasted Mate! He, Millicent and three others from the bloody liner, sipping cocktails and having the time of their lives. I can hear them laughing - they’re singing for Chrissakes! Have I been left here on purpose? Bastards. Can I submit to this indignity? This outright mockery? When I’m aboard I’ll furnish them a piece of my mind. I won’t stand for this!

The dinghy has gone. They drew close enough to hear my bellow of rage, then turned and sailed away again. I am alone again with only the tinned meat for company

The first woman I ever killed was Clara. I remember her name because I kept confusing her with my cousin, whose name is Claire. Although they couldn’t look more different. My cousin is ugly as sin.

Clara was peppered with freckles and had long, wavy red hair. She was small—about 5 feet flat and 90 pounds—and strong for her size. She clearly worked out because she fought like hell. And I’m not a small man.

The first kill is always messy. You don’t got your bearings yet. No real plan. It’s just lust and death.

I’m still not sure, all these years and women later, if I meant to kill Clara. I wanted to kill her, sure, but I was so scared to choke her that I froze. I mean, I’d choked women before, but not to the point of death. This was a different feeling. Weird thoughts interrupted the final pressure I needed to apply to her throat to finish the job.

Should I clean up the spilt milk in Clara’s kitchen?

What about that house slipper she threw at me and smacked me in the face? Does it have my DNA on it?

And should I have taken the bribe she offered? Money for her life? I could certainly use the money.

Fuck it, I finally said, I want to watch the light go out of her eyes.

I applied my thumbs to her throat and listened to Clara gurgle her last breath and watched with sick fascination as her eyes widened and dimmed, thick and dull, in and out.

Afterward, I celebrated by enjoying that old staple of mine, pickled herring. So good after a night of sex and death!

I picked Clara because of her looks, yes, but she was also convenient. I live next to a large drainage ditch. The city dug it out in the summer of 2008 after the entire neighborhood flooded due to Hurricane Ike. That ditch runs right down the length of Clara’s backyard and through mine—a thousand yards, door to door—before heading a half mile to the bird lady’s house and beyond.

I knew I’d need a fast escape route and the ditch covered that. It also concealed my identity well, as it’s pitch black out here in rural southeast Texas. The distance between homes helps as well. I don’t have a neighbor within a hundred yards of me. The biggest worry are the mosquitoes, not nosy neighbors.

Still, when I left Clara’s place, hard and huffing loudly, I wondered if I’d left my DNA everywhere. I cleaned the best I could and kept my gloves on the entire time. Slogging through the ditch on my return home, I chided myself for not shaving my pubic hair before going to Clara’s home. What if I left one on her body somewhere? So many unanswered questions, that first time, it was hard to bask in the afterglow of my first kill.

But I’m a quick learner. And after six months, and no suspects, I was off killing again. I decided the bird lady would be my next victim. And this time, I’d be better prepared.

Melys ducked under the fist, bringing her wrinkled elbow up with the force of her whole body. She felt the satisfying crack as Geraldine’s nose exploded. Geraldine gasped in shock and as she did Melys kicked her full force in the stomach, one slipper spinning off her foot into the depths. Geraldine stumbled backwards and in Melys’s eyes the scene slowed to a halt; Geraldine frozen in time on a knife edge of expiration, one arm flailing in the air like a scarf caught in the wind, a look of horror and relief in her eyes.

It had begun three weeks earlier and it hadn’t started well. Melys had been planning the cruise for so long now. A bit of peace and quiet and a chance to escape for a while. But then Gearlidne had showed up next door, grumbling and moaning about the temperature, the food, the music, the staff, the stupid boy who dropped her suitcase. Melys had paid an extortionate amount extra for a sea view and hadn't factored in dealing with as her grandson would have put it; a total fuckwit. At breakfast on the very first day Melys had spilt her cereal when Geraldine, slammed her bag down on the table with a cry of, “No bloody weetabix left is there. Bloody foreigners never give you a decent breakfast.”

Melys had looked bashful as she unsuccessfully hid her own bowl of Weetabix. From then on everything was Melys’s fault. There were no deckchairs by the pool. A queue for the cinema. Wherever she was Geraldine was behind her moaning.

Melys had even tried persuading a ‘Guest Satisfaction Manager’ as they called them, to move her room, by giving him a whole list of written complaints, with a £50 note rolled up in it. Unsatisfyingly the situation was badly managed and the idiot returned the note along with the list, to Geraldine by mistake.

All she had wanted was to get away, to forget everything that had happened, surely she deserved that. But that bitch was ruining it. She hadn’t buried her husband for this. She hadn’t sat through that inquest, those accusations of murder, just to be tortured in a whole new way.

Well she wasn't going to take it. It would be a mercy. Geraldine was nothing but a bitter fallen lemon. And after all, she was good at mercy. It was what Harold had wanted at the end. And now he was gone, and soon Geraldine would be too. The opportunity came when she found herself grabbing a towel from the rack next to the pool, on the top deck of the ship. Her arm was almost wrenched out of its socket, and she span around to find Geraldine barking at her, “That’s my bloody towel you old hag”.

“I had this first Geraldine, so leave it be.”

“Oh you did, did you? Like everything else huh? Always first for precious little Melys. Well not today.”

That was followed by flailing fists and feet as the old warhorse charged. One of the lifeboats was being serviced and foolishly someone had left a gate open. Somehow Melys had spun Geraldine around and that was when she saw her opening. Ducking under a wild swinging left arm.

In that look Geraldine gave her, one arm outstretched, reaching, she finally understood. All that pain, that bitterness washed over her; Geraldine was drowning in it. She had fallen overboard a longtime ago, and no one had ever tried to save her…

Melys threw herself forward as, too late, Geraldine slipped backwards off the edge.