CRACK

Max glimpsed his own reflection in a shop window. He felt in his raincoat pocket for his train ticket.
Hey! That guy in the window wasn‘t wearing a raincoat!

And, his reflection had a flower on his lapel. Max checked his own lapel to confirm what he already knew - he wasn’t wearing one. He looked back along the street. It was deserted.

The face of his doppelganger stared into his through the window of the train as it moved away from the platform. Max had always been confident, optimistic, on a continuous burn of achievement, but this frightened him.
When Max left the station at his destination Doppelganger was across the road looking directly at him with a superior, detached stare. He saw his double a number of times over the next few days; in the supermarket - on the golf course - across the street - and each time close enough for Max to see that look, that questioning gaze.
Getting on a bus he looked back as it moved away and there he was, his other self, looking into Max’s eyes. Max had got into the habit of looking around, checking for his stalker, but he hadn’t noticed him; it was as if he’d been standing right behind him all the while.

Max got nervous and phoned in sick. Unable to relax, he paced and kept looking out of the window. His wife Laura nagged him in a concerned way. He was reluctant to confide in her, so after a few days he went back to work.
On the first day back to work doppelganger was there on the station platform. Max watched him. Doppelganger played with the hair behind his right ear, curling his hair around his finger - just as he, Max himself, was in the habit of doing.
On the way home he saw him through the window of the connecting door, sitting in the next carriage. He gave Max a grin this time.

Max took another few days off. He kept in touch with the office by phone and e-mail but he’d lost his zest - all his experience and knowledge deserted him. His colleagues worried, but they rang Laura, instead of Max.
When indoors he peered out of the window and worried about unfamiliar parked cars.
He decided to break out and walked to the station to get a train into town. He stopped occasionally to check up and down the quiet cherry blossomed avenues. He scanned around him at the station - peered onto the platform before he reached the top step.
Waiting for the train he thought about Laura - remembered her quizzical look as if she feared something - how she had hugged him tighter.
He heard the rumble and clatter of the approaching train and moved forward. He heard his own voice behind him, felt a hand on his back and was propelled forward. Twisting as he fell, he saw his own face giving him a disdainful look.

published online at Col Bury's Thrillers Chillers n killers and in Daily Flash Anthology [Pill Hill]

A RUSH TO KILL

Kate is on the edge of the platform. One quick push and it would be done. Easy! Suicide of hard working civil servant. Rafferty would create a suitable background - pressure of work, family problems, a hitherto unknown history of scarcely believable perversions - to make sure that the stench of it would expunge the truth.

Kate King looked ordinary, but she was employed by the department because she was extraordinary, her delicate demeanour concealing a tough single mindedness.
Rafferty was the department’s man who ‘dealt’ with problem people. This was a rush job. He had tried to refuse, but was briefed that Kate had been cooperating and assisting terrorists for years and had to go. Today.

Rafferty was the one in the dept. working against the system, and this was a perfect way out. He could take early retirement.

For this reason he accepted a job he would normally have refused. Rush jobs were sloppy, unprofessional. Rafferty’s jobs went unnoticed, as mysterious disappearances, suicides, DIY accidents, a grotesque disease, or the result of some bizarre sexual practice that went wrong.

He had no compunction about executing a woman. Anyhow, this nasty business is no place for a bloody woman.

The train rattles and rumbles in and everyone moves forward expectantly. A woman slides a huge suitcase in front of him and he misses the opportunity to give Kate that push. He swears.

He drives to Kate’s home. It’s already getting messy. Kate would have to change trains at least twice. He knew the layout of the house. He made it his business to familiarise himself with the homes his colleagues lived in; he knew their habits, their hobbies, and their routines, all their private, conscience piercing, indulgences.

There is an unused alcove covered by a curtain behind the high backed chair. Rafferty waits. In addition to a variety of innocent everyday things he could use as a lethal weapon, he has pistols, carefully chosen. One of them is a Rafferty designed special of limited power. He would shoot Kate through the back of the chair. The bullet would come to rest inside her skull. There would be no messy wallpaper. No messing about with knives, or struggling with cords. She wasn’t very big, but he knew from experience that the condemned struggle violently.

A grating, squeaking noise. Kate’s key in the door. Normally sure footed he’s uneasy - troubled with a feeling of worry. It was this rush-hurry - rush-hurry. It should have been planned and perfected.

Kate behaves as predicted. The kettle boils. The spoon kisses the cup with a tinkle as she swirls the sugar in the cup.

She enters her study and settles in her chair. He could smell her now, like a beast of prey at the moment of a kill.

He levels his weapon at the calculated point on the back of the chair. The chair swivels round. Rafferty drops to the floor. There is a small, neat hole in his forehead.




published on Col Bury's THRILLERS KILLERS n CHILLERS and Daily Flash Anthology [PillHill]

fog

The fog is close today. It used to be real fog - the morning sun would burn it away and you could watch the valleys steaming. This fog is different; a friendly lilac colour and has filled the valleys and creeps higher and higher. Something is wrong, but they didn’t tell us. The screens they installed are white and silent and the speaking people gone. Before we moved further up the hills travellers through the village spoke of catastrophe. We cannot go any higher. Some brave souls took their families and ventured down the valley to investigate. That was long ago

The children have never seen the sun. Or a cloud. The sky is a vague whiteness. Sounds of animal life have disappeared. The cicadas were the last to go - as if the Earth’s clock had stopped. And the lilac euthanasia creeps closer each day. There is a strange contentment, and nobody talks about it. Even the children are silent - I used to worry about what to tell them.

The enchantingly hued vapour is around our feet as we gather in the church. The English Father says everything will be ok. We let him think we believe him.