The 27th Mar 2010 WriteOnSite Winning Entry
They all had remarkable faces, forgettable and unforgettable at the same time. In the end, they each had the same face. Her face. It was always her face.
He drove along the deserted street, occupied only by stray lonesome women looking for love. He chose her because she looked nice; a pretty smile and not so yellow teeth. Perhaps this one didn’t smoke. He hoped not.
‘Hi hunny.’ She leant a bulging bosom against his open window frame and revealed a tempting cleavage. Her stale perfume filled the car, enticing him and he imagined his head buried deep in her soft breasts, suckling the pig.
‘Hiya.’ A dry nervous cough caught in the back of his throat.
‘Watcha after hun?’ She licked her red lips.
Flash! The image. Her image.
‘What’s on offer?’
‘Only me,’ she grinned, wriggling her arse.
As she leant away from the window he felt a pulse beating in the space where his collarbones came together. It felt like his first time. Every time was like his first time. He caught a glimpse of her red stiletto heels as she paraded up and down the pavement for him.
She was the one.
Flash! He saw her again.
‘Get in,’ he croaked, leaning over to fling the passenger door open.
Once her deft fingers had finished, his skilful hands were put to use. Job done, he wished he’d picked an ugly one; one who had deserved it.
Dumping her body under the derelict viaduct, he was careful to destroy the evidence. He took his trophy, discarding the other, flinging it on top of her inert body. The red stiletto took its place amongst his other mementos. He would remember her with a fond smile, just as he did his mother.
*
The soft ring of the telephone woke Celia. She knew it would be for him. It always was when it rang at dawn.
Shaking him awake, she said, ‘Tom? Darling? It’s for you.’
As he took the call, she rose to make him breakfast. He would need it, this early in the morning.
‘Another one,’ he yawned, scratching the front of his boxers as he entered the kitchen.
‘Thought so. Would you like sandwiches?’
‘No.’
‘A flask?’
‘No!’
Her eyes filled as she looked away.
‘Sorry, I’m just tired,’ he apologised, patting her shoulder. ‘I’ll sort myself out later.’
‘It’s okay, pet. I’ll see you sometime tonight then shall I? Don’t forget ... we’ve got the Parsons for dinner.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He kicked the chair leg.
‘It’s okay, I’ll cancel.’ She knew his stress and knew it wasn’t her fault but it still hurt. ‘I’ll tell them you’ve got another big job on.’
An occupational hazard, she called it, rearranging their calendar. It came with being married to a workaholic. ‘Better than an alcoholic,’ she would laugh to her friends when she attended yet another function on her own. Accustomed to the lack of affection, she excused him, indulged him and blamed his upbringing. As a Scenes of Crimes Officer she had supported him through college. He completed his criminology with psychology degree and was now Chief Crime Scene Investigator. She couldn’t help but be impressed. The money was good too. It was a price worth paying and who was perfect?
He kissed her on the cheek before he left. She smiled, inhaling his fresh scent; recent shower and Christmas after shave. It disguised the smell of dead bodies, he once said.
‘Don’t wait up. It might be a long one,’ he said.
‘Same M.O.?’ She liked to use his language.
‘Yes. Another prostitute. Under the viaduct,’
‘Shoe missing?’
‘I assume so.’ Irritated, he added a ‘tut’.
‘That’ll take it to seven?’ she pushed on.
But he was gone.
Bored, she set about clearing the cellar, a de-cluttering task she’d been putting off. An hour later she was covered in light, silky cobwebs. With dusty hair and dirty hands, she kept digging. Then she found something she wasn’t looking for.
At the bottom of the alcove behind the chest freezer and stacked on top of each other were shoe boxes. Stretching down, Celia lifted them up. She opened the lids.
She shook as she counted the shoes. Seven stilettos. All red.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.