by Simon Wood
Get real! You know what he is, so do you think he’ll take a chance?
To Pamela’s surprise, however, she now heard more footfalls, and these were receding along the corridor towards the counter.
He’s only going to check that no one’s come in. To make sure there are no witnesses.
Pamela didn’t wait to hear more. She tottered out into the corridor, and without even looking behind her, stumbled towards the Stock Room. If she could get the window open, she could shout for help to the Mothers & Babies Club. Someone would hear her.
But only when she jumped up onto the stool and saw the row of flat nail-heads along the bottom of the frame did she realize the futility of that ambition. She grabbed the hammer from the windowsill and tried to claw the offending articles loose. Splinters and paint-chips flew as she inexpertly rent at the wood, so consumed with panic that she didn’t hear the door swing open again.
She didn’t even realize he was there until she sensed that he was right at her back.
‘Pamela, I don’t know what you think you’re doing…’ He chuckled as he leaned past, reaching to take the hammer off her. ‘But that’s not going to help you…’
With a shriek, she spun around, swinging the tool as hard as she could, cracking it against his left temple with such force that she felt something give.
‘…your…with your running…costs…’ His words came out a burble, as he staggered backwards, mouth fixed in a surprised grin, blood swimming in a crimson torrent down his left cheek. A second of apparent stupefaction passed before he crashed sideways onto the small table, upending his open sports bag, its contents cascading to the floor.
Pamela was initially frozen, peering down confusedly at his prone figure, and the chaos of pens, notebooks, and other paperwork now heaped all over him.
‘Mr.…Mr. Kyper?’ She climbed warily down, her whole body shaking.
He didn’t respond.
He’s not going to, is he? He’s going to play dead until you’re within reach.
But he didn’t look as if he was playing. Even the pool of blood on the carpet tiles looked to be congealing. She couldn’t see any sign of breathing.
He couldn’t be? Surely not…?
Best if he is.
Her gaze fell on his left hand, in which his mobile phone was cradled. Though…now that she looked more closely, it wasn’t a phone.
She risked leaning down further, and a thrill of shock went through her as she recognized a Dictaphone. She knew that because Mr. Bagwell, who she’d worked for in Manchester, had used one. Kyper hadn’t been talking to an accomplice, but to himself.
Keeping a record of his misdeeds.
That’s a serial killer. Aren’t they notorious for collecting trophies?
Pamela’s first emotion after that was strained relief. If she’d really hurt him badly, it wouldn’t matter, because here was the proof of what he was. She turned to his spilled paperwork for further evidence. She picked up a notebook and flipped it open.
And had to make a double-take.
MY OTHER SELF
A crime thriller
by Alan Kyper
She didn’t bother reading through the scribbled paragraphs underneath. An acidic sensation ate through her as she grabbed up more notebooks and opened those, seeing more chapter headings, more hand-written notes, instructions in the margins, like: ‘For monologue, chap 3, use dictaphone.’ Frantic, she snatched a sheet of paper, and saw that it was a printed email, from someone called Mervin…who was literary agent.
‘Thanks, Merv,’ Kyper had written in an earlier missive, copied in at the bottom. ‘I’ve moved up to Manchester for the duration of this investigation. Need to know what it’s like in a town where a real killer’s on the loose. Hopefully, will give my new novel the authenticity the others have lacked. May get his one published…’
The next thing Pamela knew, she was stumbling down the corridor, hyperventilating.
She had to get to her phone, but not to call the police this time. To call an ambulance. No sooner had she lurched to the counter, though, than a figure loomed on the other side.
A large, burly figure, with a beetroot complexion.
Pamela was stricken dumb with shock—until she recognized Mr. Ogilvy.
She might have felt terrible, but he didn’t look great, himself. He was bug-eyed, sweating, his grizzled cheeks tinged crimson.
‘Thank God you’re still open,’ he panted. ‘I need to reclaim one of those books I dropped off this morning. It’s an old family Bible and it’s of great personal value. I brought it along by accident. So, do you mind if I go and get it back…?’
‘I, erm…’
Pamela couldn’t reply, her mouth was too dry, though he seemed to take this as a ‘yes’, thanking her and striding into the Library.
Out of the frying pan, eh?
Pamela shuddered uncontrollably, fresh sweat streaming as she lumbered to the arched window to watch him.
What a give-away that pencil is, eh?
It was inserted behind his ear. She knew that lots of working men did that, but to then come charging back here, anxious to retrieve a family Bible…?
The Bible really gets people running around in a lather, these days, doesn’t it?
This was Mr. Ogilvy, she tried to tell herself.
The same guy who earlier today was interested to learn that you were alone here?
But we know him…
You’ve only known him the last four months. Which is roughly the time of…
Pamela tried not to listen, but as she watched the big Scot mooching along the shelves, she reached slowly for her coat. It was impossible to think of him as anything other than a nice man.
They’re always plausible, remember?
That didn’t matter. When he found that Bible, it would be okay.
And when he doesn’t find it, the book he’s really looking for—because it’s back there in the toilets, you dope—what do you think will happen then?
‘It’s not Mr. Ogilvy,’ she chuntered. ‘It can’t be.’
Let’s hope your instinct’s working better now than it was with poor Kyper.
Pamela almost sobbed aloud. Kyper was still lying back there. But she couldn’t do anything to help him. She suddenly couldn’t do anything at all…just stand here, frozen, watching, waiting…
Waiting for the inevitable? How about that wood-stain under Ogilvy’s fingernails? Oh, you’re on form today, darling.
Coat now on but still semi-petrified, Pamela continued to watch the man. At any second, she expected to see him glance round, realize that she was about to flee, and come bounding across the Library. But he didn’t. He still seemed keen to locate his missing book.
Wouldn’t you, if it could put you away for thirty years.
There was no argument. Pamela would have to chance the streets outside, even though full darkness had now fallen. But still she couldn’t move—until, by what seemed like a miracle of timing, the headlights of Gerald’s Merc slid to a halt at the end of the path.
It broke the spell.
Thanks to God flooded out of her in a wail, as she grabbed her bag from the counter, threw the hatch open and rushed for the glass door, stepping outside, pulling it closed behind her, and firmly locking it.
She backed away down the path, her attention focused on the building. There was still no visible movement. Ogilvy was doubtless searching in vain for the book that would condemn him. While Kyper…poor Alan Kyper…
Despair welled up as Pamela recalled the writer’s lifeless body. She didn’t know whether they’d go easy on her due to these unique circumstances. Though if that young man was dead, she’d never be able to forgive herself. She opened the passenger door and flopped into the passenger seat, tears streaming down her face as the truth of her own ineptitude swept over her. Predictably, there was a sigh from the driver’s seat.
‘Can we just drive.’ Pamela’s tea
r-blurred vision remained on the building. ‘Just get us away from here…there’s a phone call I have to make. It’s very urgent.’
They pulled from the curb as she rooted in her bag—where, rather than her own personals, she found three hefty textbooks. The first, The Enlightenment, fell open in her lap. Streetlight and shadow flickered kaleidoscopically over the first page, where a beautifully handwritten note read:
To my darling Sarah
In recognition of her great achievement.
Hope you enjoy Manchester Uni.
XXX Grandma
She’d picked up the wrong cloth bag from the counter. But that name—Sarah?
Sarah Galloway? The Manchester University student who’d…
‘You didn’t need to bring those back. They were a gift.’
Pamela looked slowly, disbelievingly around.
The truth was, she ought to have realized straight away that she wasn’t in Gerald’s Mercedes. It smelled smoky and dank, and it had got here several minutes earlier than usual. But she still hadn’t expected that husky young man in denims, the one with the longish hair and moustache.
‘We were trying to do some good,’ he said, as he drove them at great speed through the night.
‘We?’ she whispered.
He didn’t reply. But someone else did. Someone lurking behind the shabby curtain that separated them from the transit van’s rear. Whoever it was, he chuckled, before dragging her backwards into that dark, foul space.
I told you there were two of them.
Pamela shrieked.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Back to TOC
Half Inch
Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Pinch…as in to Steal
Jay Stringer
“How would you do it?” Megan said, letting him see the smile.
Jimmy Finch met her eyes, “This place?”
She bent down and sucked iced latte up through the straw, “Uh huh.”
Jimmy took a look around the diner, pretending like he hadn’t already done it.
The diner was wide, split into two sections, with the kitchen through a hatch at the back, behind the counter. The cash register was in the center of the room, on a wooden stand, like a lectern. There were eight customers, including Jimmy and Megan. Three couples, and two people on their own.
Nobody was reading a newspaper. That was the biggest change from when Jimmy started out. There would always be a couple people reading newspapers. Now it’s all cell phones. Everyone has a camera, and a way to call the cops.
“Well, there’s only two servers working. One for that side, one for this side. They keep meeting in the middle, at the register, to talk. They’ve looked over our way a bunch of times, so they think we’re on a date.”
“Really?” Megan turned now to look at them, seeing them standing together. Her voice rose, just a little. “That’s what they think?”
“Sure. Young attractive woman like you, flirting with an older guy like me.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“The problem here is, their attention is already on us. I mean, they’ve been aware of us since we came in, they’ve talked about us a bunch. If I was to try anything in here, they’d notice me sooner than anyone else, more likely to stop it. Plus, they’d remember me to the cops, describe me, you. We’d get caught too easy.”
“Okay,” Megan’s tone was colder now, the playfulness gone. “Obviously, I don’t mean how would you do it right now, in this meeting. But if this was one of your jobs, you walk in for the first time, how would you do it?”
Jimmy leaned back in his seat, looked Megan up and down. This Hollywood producer with an option out on his story. No, not producer. He couldn’t remember what. She’d told him her job title a bunch of times, and it had the word producer in it, but he wasn’t sure she had any actual responsibility.
“You’re looking for the ending to the movie.”
Megan leaned forward, “Of course I am, we got nothing right now.”
Jimmy put his hand on the manuscript between them, his autobiography, Pinch: The Story of the Joke Bandit. Optioned before publication. “I robbed two hundred and thirty-seven places. At least one in every state. All but one of them unarmed, walking out with money without ever pointing a gun. Only served time for one of them, you can’t find a story?”
“It’s not the story that’s the problem, it’s the ending. Every writer we get on this tanks, tells us the same thing, there’s no ending. Your book gives us you, but that’s not enough. We know your past, we know the jobs you did, we know the prison stuff, but then you get out and…what? Where do we roll credits?”
“You want me to pull another job.”
“It would give us an ending.”
“But I’ve gone straight, so you’re stuck.”
“Maybe you don’t need to actually do the job, maybe you’re just thinking about it. That could be the scene. Yeah, I can see it.” She shuffled into the middle of the booth, directly across from him, putting her hands up on either side of her face, making an imaginary camera lens. “You’re in a diner, like this one, or a different one. We make it look just typical of all the places you robbed earlier in the film.”
“This place is pretty typical.”
“Right, so you’re sitting here, and we’ve had the build-up of you going straight. How you’ve come out of prison a changed man, but we also show that you’re tempted, that you can’t just switch off who you are. Then someone says to you, how would you do it?”
“Who?”
“In the scene? I don’t know. Doesn’t matter yet, we’ll think of somebody.”
“So it could be in the middle of a date?”
“We are not on a date.”
“No, but in the movie.”
“So this person, okay, let’s say it’s a date. Maybe, what’s the name of that woman on your last job, the one made you carry the gun?”
“Lisa.”
“So, maybe it’s Lisa.”
“She’s dead.”
“Sure, but she doesn’t need to be. Not for the story. It could be the two of you talking. That’s how we frame it. That’s how we frame the whole thing, we start on this scene, the two of you meeting up after years apart, start talking, then we flash back into your life, and we show that Lisa’s always been the temptation, right? Then at the end, we cut back to this scene, and maybe she doesn’t say how would you do it, maybe it’s more like she says, so, are you ready? Then we close in on your face, like this.” She moves her hands in closer. “Let the audience see you thinking about it, just long enough, then cut to black.”
“That’s your idea for the ending?”
“I think it could be pretty cool, arty like, you know? People love that.”
“They don’t actually see me doing the job, though?”
“Don’t need to. They know you’re going to. Or maybe some think you don’t. They can decide for themselves, like that spinning top thing in the dream movie.”
“I hated that.”
“Point is, we’ve given them an ending to the story.”
“Why can’t this be the ending? Just sitting here talking, on a date.”
“We’re not—”
“Or the real ending. You’ve got the book. Can’t we just end where the book does?”
“You walking out of prison? Terrible ending. What’s the structure there? What’s the punch? What are we asking the audience to take away?”
“I’m not asking them to take anything away, that’s the truth of it, that’s where my story ends.”
“Unless…” Megan was back into pitch mode again. “Unless we see you walking out, you’ve just had some exchange with the warden where he says, see you soon and you say no, you’re done, you’re going straight. Then we see you walk out, right, and…we hear a car coming…and then we see Lisa pull up in front of you. She smiles, just smiles, but we know what it means, and then we see you
smile, fade to black. Or better, cut to black. Instant.”
“Feels a bit too much like a crime movie.”
“We’re making a crime movie.”
“They’re always fake. You’re just making the same thing over and over. If that’s all you wanted to do, why not just go do that, you didn’t need my book.”
“No, we wanted your book, we wanted you, your story. That’s what the viewer wants, too. Real life, you know?
“But you want to change it.”
“Movies have certain rules, like a language, a different language. We need to hit certain beats, because that’s what people expect.”
“Like this thing you’ve got for Lisa. ‘She represents the temptation’.” Jimmy made air quotes. “Like I need temptation. Or the last writer you hooked me up with, said he wanted to get to the heart of my story, and I said, well, here’s the book. And he goes, no, I want to know why you did it, why you decided to rob those places.”
Megan looked down at her notes on the table, and Jimmy guessed that was the next item on the agenda.
“You need to make some big scene in the movie about me being tempted, or something that makes me commit the crime, you want me to rationalize it. You want to know why I robbed places?”
Megan’s face lit up. “Yeah.”
“Because I’m a criminal, and good at it. Lisa didn’t tempt me into anything. It was a job. She knew I didn’t use guns, but offered me more money, and I said yes. That’s not temptation, it’s a job offer.”
“So money was the temptation.”
“Is money the temptation for what you do? We need to try and figure out the deep motivation for why you’re in this job.”
“I love working on movies.”
“There you go. We both like what we do.”
“What you did. Now that you’re straight. What are you planning to do? Maybe we can work that into the movie, like a redemption arc?”
Jimmy wasn’t paying attention. He was busy watching a new customer. Small and wiry, wearing an army castoff jacket. One of those German ones with the flag still on the sleeve. He’d been seated over this side, a few booths over. Jimmy had watched as the guy scoped the place out, the same way he did.
