Quartet
More Flash Fiction
I. I know exactly how to commit the perfect crime
And I know who to murder, although I’ve never met him. I got the idea when I came to fix his fridge-freezer once.
He lives Chatham-Le-Bois, in a fairly posh cottage with open spaces on either side, but works in London. Alone. So his house is unattended for long periods at a time. Anybody can walk in and out without attracting attention. Best of all, the keys of the property are kept in a locked case, and he told me the code when I went to do the job.
Working on the faulty machine, I couldn’t help noticing that in small plastic boxes, there were frozen fungi, each carrying a label: Chantrels, New Forest Oct. 22, Ceps (Boletus) Ashridge Sep.21 etc… Like me, the man was a mycologist. A mushroom collector. That was in fact the only thing we had in common, as I too am one.
I opened the boxes, and in spite of the frost I could recognise Chantrels, Ceps, Oyster, field mushrooms etc. They were slightly cooked before freezing.
I finished the job and left. It was on my way home that the idea occurred to me. I know exactly where to find the deadly Amanita Phalloides, the death-cap, in this season. One head of it and it’s curtains!
And the plan formed itself in my head. I’d process a mixture of shop-bought shrooms with a couple of death cap heads, put this in a similar box to his, make my way to Le-Bois, watch him get on the train, wend my way to his cottage, take the labelled lid and close the box I had prepared with this, and arrivederci. Or rather never arrivederci.
What can go wrong?
II. Please No Chocolate
I usually sit one metre from the cash machine outside the Bank of Scotland. That’s Marios’ orders. I have no choice, I must do what he says. Although he is my cousin, he treats me the same as everybody else. You make the people using the machine feel guilty so they can part with some cash. When they give you pennies, he says, nod you head, say thank you, but put on an air of disappointment. Make those rich bastards taking out big pound notes feel mean, so next time they’ll know to give silver.
In any case, whatever I earn he takes two-thirds. I allow you to keep one-third, he says happily. In think he expects me to give him a medal. Nine out of ten people don’t even look at you when you say “Hiya”, to them as they pass. It costs nothing to say “Hiya” back, but we are dirt to them.
In winter it is difficult to get up in the morning.
‘Ama,’ he screams at me, ‘it is when it is cold and windy and rainy that you need to be out there, to make those sons of bitches feel guilty.’
If you’re late, he fines you. That’s one thing he is generous with, fines. And slaps and knocks on the head with his knuckle. He once tried to strangle me.
Christmas is usually a lucrative period for us, but that Thursday, although it was windy and cold, and the snow was one foot deep, the takings were awful, because the few people about could not be bothered to take a coin from their warm pockets. So I went home with eighty-five pence. A record low. But one good Samaritan had given me a packet of Galaxy chocolate, which I had gobbled up to keep warm.
Marios flew into a rage when I handed over my takings. He took out his calculator, and said that his share had come to 56.66 pence, but he would only charge me 56 because he wasn’t a mean bastard as I tell everybody, and he handed over 19 pence to me. But he immediately started hitting me on the head, shouting that I was a thief, that I should try harder. To make him stop I told him about the Galaxy. He grabbed my hand and snatched
the nineteen pence he had put there, looked at me, and came out with:
‘A packet of Galaxy, that’s £1.50. So, that’s eighty-one p you owe me on that. I’ll charge you tomorrow.’
‘M-marios,’ I whispered, ‘only cost 65 p.’ But he did not hear
III. The Contract Killer
He had already placed a bottle of gin, tonic, glasses and an ice-bucket on the small table himself, seeing that he was alone in his fortress home. At great expense he had chosen the best security available. He did not believe in bodyguards, because who could you trust? He had just poured the gin in
the glass, and was about to drop an ice cube in it when he heard a rustle. His first reaction was to dismiss this as hysteria, for who would have been able to break in here? Then suddenly before he had reached the ice bucket, there, large as life was the hired killer. The man looking at him with a grin on his face had been sent to kill him. He had always known that Novotnik wanted him dead. He knew that now there was no escape. Novotnik would only send the best. He put both his hands up and waved them playfully.
-I give up. You win. Novotnik?
-Da.
-Look, I promise you I am not gonna do anything desperate_
-Not much point, is there?
-Quite. So grab yourself a chair and let’s have a gin and tonic together like the civilised men we are.
The killer sat and he poured the drinks. Suddenly Out he asked, ‘Out of curiosity, how much is he paying you?’ He was shocked when he heard. ‘Fifty grand? Is that what he thinks I’m worth? Is that what he thinks you’re worth? he’s a mean bugger, Novotnik, he lacks class.’ The visitor shrugged.
-I’ve got some Baltic herring somewhere, he said.
Together they went inside and he found it, and came back by the poolside, and pulled the fish with their own fingers and committed them into their mouths whole.
He was surprised to find that he was not afraid of death. With a professional killer, it would be done efficiently and quickly. A good way to go.
-I was thinking of something_’ he began, but stopped.
-What?
-No, forget it, I don’t want to insult you.
-No, tell me, I am not easily insulted.
-Well … you’re a professional killer, right? The man shrugged and nodded.
-You kill for money? The man shrugged and nodded again.
-If Novotnik pays you fifty grand to kill me, would you kill him for one hundred grand if I hire you?
-Yes, why not? But before he said anything, the hired killer shook his head.
-Sorry, gospodin, I must stop you. Had you asked me first, I’d have been happy to oblige, but a contract is a contract. It’s a question of honour.
-So, nothing doing?
-I didn’t say that. I fulfil Novotnik’s contract first, but I’d be happy to hundred shoot Novotnik for you, payment in advance.
IV. Andy Murray’s Fault
Friends had introduced them, thinking they were made for each other. They went on a blind date to the best Indian restaurant in Edinburgh, according to a write-up in the Metro, the Bombay Bicycle Club. The food was as good as the reviews promised, the Cobra beer was perfect. They talked films. Yes, they were both regular visitors to the Filmhouse in Lothian Road. And had both loved The Breadwinner, the film in which a little Afghani girl cuts her hair and passes for a boy in order to earn a living for her family after dad was taken in by the Taliban. Mountain walks was another of their common passion. They had both read and enjoyed Ali Smith. Probably the best living British author they agreed. I will definitely ask her out again, he was thinking. No, he was no great football fan. He watched a little bit of tennis. She was also a moderate fan. How do you like Andy then? she asked. Oh, Murray? Not much, I can’t abide his tantrums on court. He noticed the she demurred.
When he asked if he could see her again, perhaps in a week’s time, she said she was washing her hair.
