I have recently found myself questioning things, and wondering why I have not been writing as much as I used to. I guess work has sort of taken over, something I promised myself I wouldn't let happen. But, thankfully I have found myself having a bit more spare time lately, so I dug out this old story. I wrote it back in 2019 when I was going through the excitement of self publishing Dryad on Amazon (I was writing flash fiction by giving myself 1hr and 1000 words). I think at the time I didn't put it on here as it wasn't 'Sci-fi' enough, but I always felt it was an opener to something weird and wonderful. Anyway - it inspired me, and I spent a furious ten days smashing down words and loved where it took me. I've now finished editing and revising and have put it out there, a new book, The Unravelling of Lizzie Mayhew - on amazon, and will see what reaction it gets. The beauty of the amazon platform is its so flexible, so I'll see what comes back adjust if necessary. Anyway -it's been a while, so if anyone's still reading - enjoy!
It was the Logo that drew her eye, the stupid duck flapping in a pond. Brimton bloody Post Office she thought. The glow of her phone was almost matched by the red tip of the cigarette as she took a long, deep drag. She read on despite the dark memories threatening to flood her mind.
“Last Saturday around midnight a person was seen acting suspiciously near the Sail and Anchor, they got into a small van and drove away at speed. Half an hour later witnesses reported hearing gun fire. The post office on Thurston Lane was broken in to and the post van was found to have been shot several times. No details have been given about what was taken and police urge any witnesses to come forward. Residents of Brimton village are asked to take care…”
Sacred Heart was only five miles from Brimton and she was a regular at the Sail and Anchor. “He’ll be so mad, I’ll have to be more careful.” she muttered, twisting her foot on the stub leaving a sooty smear on the steps while she tried to remember last Saturday. She had left the pub at two? Hadn’t she? Bloody Roger and those lock-ins.
She gazed into the darkness, across the car park. Pools of dirty orange light illuminated her old fiesta, cracked tarmac, and the medical waste skips. Beyond the meagre lights and the fence, the Brimton woods glowered back, dark with foreboding. Old memories threatened to draw a veil of darkness.
Vulnerability prickled at her as she climbed the steps taking the last three too quickly. She almost slipped as her spine tingled, sure she was about to be grabbed by some malevolent presence. Something touched her hand! Two short pulses, vibrations sent a shockwave of adrenaline electrifying her limbs accelerating her through the fire escape.
She shoved the door firmly closed and looked at her phone, just a text, “For fucksake.” she whispered. It was all so long ago but that Logo had haunted her ever since she was young, too firmly embedded by what had happened there, it put her on edge. She pushed herself off from the door and grasped the handles of the trolley, time for the job she’d been dreading. The Major’s room. His family had been there all day saying goodbye. She felt cheated, not being with him at the end.
It was the smell she noticed most of all. The musty, comforting smell of the old man with his old fashioned soap and medicated shampoo was gone. Strange she thought, the first thing to change when a person died was the smell of their room. She knew better than anyone as it was her who did the intimate jobs, stripped down the beds, scrubbed the bathrooms and cleared out the unwanted things. Life left and with it the aroma. More like animals than we care to think she mused, then tried to shut off her mind from the memories, his warm smile, cheery greetings and the conspiratorial winks behind the doctor’s back.
A hot tear came to her eye and her throat chocked with sudden dryness, a kick to the gut as she looked at his old tattered chair and she remembered that little shit of a grandson sat there with his stupid face in his phone and feet up on the Major’s spotless bed. He’d insistent on making it himself every day, said she deserved the break as he poured them tea.
She gritted her teeth and began to strip the bed, heaved off the duvet and jumped as a loud thunk startled her. She peered low under the bed and barely visible was a small lump. She pulled out a velvet drawstring bag, something heavy inside. She’d never seen it before but the crafty old bugger must have had it hidden away. She smiled glancing at the floral patterns on the old tea set. Hefting the bag she rubbed the soft material, it felt thick and luxurious. Suddenly concerned she’d be caught she scurried to the door, locked it, and sat down easing the drawstrings open. She reached in and felt something cold and metallic, a recognisable shape began to form in her mind, even so she gasped when she realised she was holding a gun.
Recoiling she threw it onto the bed and stood up, there was something else in the bag, a small folded piece of paper drifted to the crumpled bed. After a brief pause, almost reverently she opened it up, a note!
“Dearest Lizzie, if you’re reading this I’m gone and you’ve found my secret. Be a jolly good sport and get rid of it for me?” he writes - wrote she corrected her thoughts - like he spoke. “Chuck it in a sewer or the biohazard skips with my old undies, that would be marvellous. I don’t want you to think ill of me, and you can’t can you? It's rude to think ill of the dead.”
“Speak” she said, “its rude to speak ill of the dead you silly old bugger.” she whispered to the emptiness.
“I’ve been on one last mission, take a look in the bottom of my wardrobe you’ll find a small gift. What happened to you, well it wasn’t right, someone should have listened. I’m sorry I didn’t know you back then. Good luck to you girl and thank you for the kindness you showed me. Keep your nose clean, that’s an order!”
The stupid joke. Intrigue got the better of her, before the tears could come she opened the wardrobe, tipped out his old shoes and slippers, all empty. A small scratch in the wood drew her eye, the bottom of the wardrobe was false. She eased up the board and gasped, six neatly stacked bundles of cash filled the space. Each held together with a paper band stamped with the logo that drew her eye, the stupid duck flapping in a pond.
“Thank you.” She whispered, as the tears came.
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