by Stuart Keane
“I wasn’t asking you, sir.” She said it vehemently, as if all men were absolute scum and she was the only cure. Her eyes bored into him menacingly, silently warning him to remove himself from the situation. He held both palms up in surrender. Blondie looked down and whispered. “You okay, ma’am?”
“I sure am.”
Greg heard a wet punch and a short gargle. From his angle, he didn’t see the Stanley knife slip from Jessica’s pocket. He didn’t see the wicked silver blade swish in the air and puncture Blondie’s jugular with one swift jab. He didn’t see the first splatter of blood as it sprayed the carpet in the darkness.
Jessica stood up a foot away from the woman and stabbed the blade into Blondie five times; short sharp bursts of energy that left ragged, vicious gashes in the woman’s abdomen. Her clothing sliced apart effortlessly, her flesh shredded deep. Blood sluiced down her podgy stomach and pants, pattering rapidly on her shoes. The first impact was solid; the fifth was soggy and wet. Jessica moved the woman back a few feet and let her fall into a seat sideways. She landed in an aisle seat, leaning across both chairs. Jessica walked back to her seat and sat down.
Greg watched her return, his face pale, sweat sliding down his temples. Fear boiled in his stomach and he had the tickling urge to pee. “What the fuck!”
“You just killed an innocent woman. Catch.”
She tossed an object at him. Greg instantly knew what it was, but in an effort to defend himself, he held his hands up regardless. The Stanley blade, now tucked away in its green, plastic safety handle, slapped his fingers. After a small juggle, he caught the weapon and held it firmly in his hands.
Both of which were coated in dark, slippery blood.
He looked down in disgust, his hands sliding and slithering on the blood-soaked device, leaving his fingerprints and DNA on the weapon. He groaned, feeling the intense nausea within. His temples throbbed painfully, and his tongue resembled the Sahara.
Getting a grip and keeping his hands in one place, securing the weapon, he looked up.
Jessica waved her hands at him. He didn’t see pale flesh or fingertips or nail varnish; he saw black fluffy material with silver and gold flecks in the weaving. He saw gloves, not fingers, dark wool. He’d noticed them before, in passing anyway, but now it actually meant something.
Gloves.
Gloves meant no fingerprints on the weapon.
No fingerprints bar his own.
She smiled. “I guess you’re a murderer now. That’s some intense research, author man.”
Greg balked, tears in his eyes. “What did you do?”
Jessica giggled. “I just got sixty percent. See what happens when you fuck me about?”
EIGHT
“Sixty percent is impossible,” Greg said, the breath knocked out of him. His lungs were pumping relentlessly, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. “It won’t happen. It can’t.”
Jessica shook her head gently. “I feel we’re going around in circles about this negotiation. You don’t get a say anymore. Not since three minutes ago, not after becoming a murder suspect.”
Greg said nothing. He glanced down at the slick knife in his hand, wary, his red-streaked fingers curled around it, trembling. He saw a mass of fingerprints along the plastic, a smattering of lines and coils and smudged indentations. He turned it over in his hand, reluctant to put it down, yet it burned his palm; he ached to dispose of the weapon, a weapon that made him look as guilty as sin. He eyed the now-empty coach once more, panic brewing in his flip-flopping stomach.
“It’ll never stick,” he said.
“I think it will,” she retorted, smugly.
“The camera at the front of the coach will have caught it all. And the one at the back.” Greg pointed in both directions. “Every detail will be on those tapes. Digital images and videos sent directly to a server at their HQ. No way of disposing of the evidence. Evidence that shows you killed her, not me.”
Jessica said nothing. Greg felt a smile appearing on his face, but resisted. He’d been upended too many times already.
Jessica turned to him and grimaced. “Nice try. Those cameras are fake.”
“Nope. Those cameras are a legal requirement. All National Express coaches have them.”
“True, all National Express coaches do have them. But this isn’t a National Express coach. Not yet. The driver was telling me as I boarded. Something about obtaining a new fleet and getting them prepared for changeover.”
Greg remembered the conversation in the rain earlier. The silver greyhound stencils on the exterior. His initial worry about boarding the wrong coach. The man’s explanation. He felt his stomach drop and his guts lurch, all in one unbalanced motion.
Fuck, he thought.
“If this were a proper National Express coach, there would be a small monitor on the other side, above the door, so the driver can keep an eye on things behind him without distraction. I don’t see one, do you?” It was Jessica’s turn to point. She laughed.
Greg said nothing.
“Never mind, eh? You can sue National Express for the inconvenience from the comfort of your prison cell. Well, unless you give me sixty percent. But then, they might still find the body before you make that choice. You have a decision to make. I wouldn’t hang around if I were you.”
Greg knew she was right. Realisation dawned on him as she uttered the words. One more passenger was due to board at some point in the next few hours. When they did, the risk of discovering the dead body was great. A rolling lottery, literally, as the wayward coach silently knocked the minutes off.
Greg glanced at his watch. 11:08.
Shit.
“Tick tock, Gregory.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate.”
“And I don’t think you’ll honour your word. Even if I give you sixty percent, you could turn me in at any time. I don’t know you from Adam, or Eve, or the next con artist.”
Jessica giggled. “Turn you in? Would I do that?”
Greg said nothing. He chewed his bottom lip, the anger knotting his jaw once more. Silence spoke volumes.
Jessica leaned forward. “Need I remind you that time is ticking away right now. Somewhere on this journey, it could be now or in an hour or right at the end of the drive, someone is going to board this coach and see the body. When they do, it’s curtains for you. Now, you have to ask yourself, will you take the risk? Do you give up sixty percent or go to prison? I think it’s a simple choice.”
She sat back, her point made.
Greg rolled his tongue over his teeth. “Do you have any concept of how royalties on my books work?”
Jessica smiled. “I do. I won’t budge. Sixty percent or you can add daily anal rape to your morning activity list.”
“No publisher in the world pays sixty percent. No one. Even the greats like King or Koontz don’t get that much, last I checked. So, how about I give you sixty percent of my earnings?”
Jessica pursed her lips. Nodded. “Go on.”
“I earn thirty-three percent. You can have sixty percent of that. It doesn’t sound like much, in the grand scheme of things, but my last advance was two hundred grand, so it gives you an idea of sales predictions and estimated profit.”
Jessica watched intently, her eyes on his. Her tongue flicked out and licked her bottom lip. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”
Greg sighed. “It’s the best I can do, with the logistics of my publishing deal.”
“I only wish your fellow author friends were so giving.”
“How do you mean?”
“John Easton and Kevin Page. I tried this same stunt with them a while ago. Had it all planned out, but it went to shit, both times. Both men refused to buckle, same situation as you. I met them on an empty coach and wanted them to write a book about me. Didn’t happen, no matter what I tried. So I killed them.”
Greg said nothing. The blood flushed from his face. “What?�
��
“Yeah, well. You … how do they say it, acquiesced quite nicely? Compared to those jerks, you were a saint. Do you know Page refused to buckle despite me threatening his wife and kid? Amazing. Such a fucking prick. Those pictures I showed you earlier? The kid. The guy actually gave him up for a lousy fucking book. Some people, eh?”
Greg felt his stomach lurch. He processed the information. His brain was on fire. He coughed, holding a balled fist to his dry mouth. After a moment, he felt a question pinging around his skull. Despite the news, he couldn’t help but ask it. The urgency to complete the sequence was too strong, primitive, and essential. “What about the women in those photos? The sister and wife I don’t have?”
“The sister was Easton’s girlfriend. He cried like a baby when I showed him, but again, his career was too much. He said, and I quote, ‘I can get another one, I’m a fucking author’. Then proceeded to insult me. Shame, he had spirit. He would have gone far in this business.”
Greg laughed nervously. “I don’t believe you.”
“Good. The less you believe the better. I don’t think Easton believed me either when I said I would kill him, but there you go. I hassled him for that book to no end, but not once did he cave. He thought he was all high and mighty with his stupid blond hair and crappy beard. He’s probably looking up from the fires of Hell right now, wondering how his fat arse ended up dissolving in a broken bathtub in Brixton.”
Greg covered his mouth with his hand, breathing into his palm. “And are you going to kill me?”
Jessica shook her head. “Not if you give me sixty percent. I thought you were paying attention.”
Greg ran his hands through his hair. He glanced out of the window, aching to taste the fresh, chilled air. The street lights were becoming less frequent now, the windows showed nothing but sheer darkness beyond. His eyes adjusted to the dim scene and recognised the cat’s eyes on the road.
“You were paying attention, right?” Jessica asked.
Greg nodded. “So how do we do this?”
“I think a contract is good and binding, don’t you?” Jessica unzipped her jacket and reached into her inside pocket, gently removing a curled piece of paper. Despite the thick material on her fingers, she grasped it confidently, not dropping it. Greg noticed her cleavage was on display behind a low-cut shirt. He turned his eyes away.
“Here you go. All you have to do is sign.”
Greg nodded, said nothing. He turned to the window again.
The coach started to slow for a roundabout. In the distant sky, Greg noticed a cloud of blue hue, a flat expanse that streaked across the black like highlights in a woman’s hair. The glow was reminiscent of bright neon, possibly from a cinema or a bowling alley. As the coach pulled through and continued its journey, a mass of shadowy trees dipped and vanished, revealing the large entrance to a cinema adorned with huge blue neon lights, adjacent to a homely restaurant labelled Gary’s Grill. The establishment sat in the shadow of a vast plastic steak, all yellow lights and white trim and red grooves. It stood high above the entrance, both an eyesore and a statement of intent. Greg thought back to the diner earlier that evening. Wondered if he would ever go back.
Go back.
Earlier that evening. A series of events.
The early phone call. The diner. The journey. Jessica. The timing.
A series of events that seemed all too … simple. Too convenient.
And now: The revelation of John and Kevin’s unknown deaths.
The events. His knowledge of the industry.
Jessica’s extensive knowledge of the industry, information that went against her stifling request for an impossible sixty percent. It wasn’t a stupid amount – it was a sensible amount considering the circumstances. Circumstances that suddenly fell into place like a simple puzzle.
Especially in the wake of his projected death.
Clever woman, he thought. However, you played your hand too early.
Either way, Greg would die if he signed the contract. Unless…
Then, he smiled, a realisation dawning on him.
He looked at Jessica, who held the contract out to him. A simple piece of paper that could get him killed.
It all made sense now.
“I can’t sign that,” he said, flatly.
Jessica looked down, a look of disbelief and fury on her face. She snorted. “Why not?”
“I’m legally bound not to. I need to run any contracts by my solicitor before I sign them. It’s in my publishing contract. Besides, you said fifty percent before, and sixty percent will be a share of my thirty-three percent. We need that in writing.”
“That’s all covered in the contract –”
“And I don’t believe it. We only agreed on this a few minutes ago. I’m sorry, Jessica. I won’t be signing it. Kill me or attack me, or whatever, it won’t change a thing. If you want me to write a book about you, we have to process it through the proper channels.” He paused for effect, waited three seconds. “Including my agent.”
Jessica said nothing.
Greg turned back to the window, his body warm with fear and achievement. He hoped his gamble would work. He hoped to God that he was right about this, that the defiance would pay off, and he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. Something about the events didn’t seem right to him, but it also made a lot of sense.
What did he have to lose, in his current position?
Please let it work.
He looked at Jessica, his face confident yet serious. Turned back to the window.
“Okay,” she said.
He closed his eyes and cheered in his mind’s eye. He gave it a minute before turning to face her. “Okay?”
Jessica nodded. “Okay.”
Greg grinned, his teeth on display. “Excellent. I can get my solicitor to draw up a contract when I get to Sheffield. Doing it properly will be the best way.” He watched her eyes, watched for a hint of reaction in the gloom. “My agent will preside over it and we can do business.”
If she takes this, her psychosis is off the charts.
There’s no way I’m signing anything she puts in front of me.
Not a chance in Hell, bitch.
Jessica smirked. “Want to shake on it?”
Greg pursed his lips. Checkmate. “Sure.”
They shook hands.
Then, Jessica head-butted him full in the face.
NINE
The white-hot pain slammed through Greg’s skull, stunning him. An intense wave of nausea overcame him, made him gag. He flopped back in his chair and slid down a fraction, his back hitting the edge of his seat. Flashes of whiteness reverberated around his brain, making his eyes close. A throbbing pulse of agony exploded in the middle of his face and he realised his nose was broken. Blood began to dribble down his chin, soaking his lips. He tasted strong, metallic copper.
“Did that hurt?” Jessica mocked him.
Greg said nothing.
Jessica straightened up and slid sideways from her chair. Stood and watched him for a moment, ambling in the aisle. A menacing smirk crossed her pale face. Idle in the dim cabin, gloved hands atop the seats, she looked like a demon of the night, her face skewed and distorted into a vicious snarl by the shadows and random flickering streetlamps. Her eyes were pools of darkness, solid ovals of unlimited blackness. Her mouth seemed to crawl up the sides of her face, to her ears, spreading wide and high, as if her cheeks were split completely.
She laughed. It echoed around the bus, pounding his ears.
Greg shook his head. Just a side effect of the head-butt. This isn’t really happening.
Jessica leaned in. “Do you take me for a fucking fool?”
In one hand, she held the contract, a dull white rectangle in the darkness, its corners crumpled and bent. She tore it in half and tossed it in Greg’s face. Jessica was left with a fountain pen in her right hand. She gripped it and smirked. “When did you know?”
Greg shook his head. “Huh?”
Jessi
ca sighed. “When did you know?”
Greg grinned, holding onto his chair. He spat a wad of blood at her, missing her by inches. She didn’t move, didn’t attempt to avoid the liquid projectile.
He laughed. “I always knew,” he lied. In fact, her confrontation confirmed his inner suspicions. He’d known for a mere eight seconds, her response all the answer he needed.
Jessica seemed to growl, a guttural sign of dissatisfaction. “Smart,” she said. “I should have expected it from you. You really do cherish your career, don’t you?”
Greg nodded. “It’s over, Jessica.”
“We’ll see about that.” With that, she turned and walked down the aisle.
Greg pulled himself out of the foot well and knelt on the chair, horror striking through his veins. His temple pounded like a bull hammer on sheet metal. He groaned loudly, sagging a little. His eyes watched her glide down the aisle effortlessly, almost silently, as if the darkness was propelling her along. He steadied himself on the back of the chair in front, watching.
Just in time to see her reach the driver.
All seemed fine.
Then she stabbed the driver in the face with the pen. A high-pitched squeal sounded as the driver threw his hands into the air, defending himself. The wheel spun out of control. He saw the man’s eyeball emerge from its socket, dangling from the optic nerves, skewered on the pen. Jessica flicked the pen away from her, splattering the gooey, deflated orb against the large windscreen with a soggy squelch. The torn nerves slapped the glass like spaghetti. Blood spurted in a crimson arc, spattering Jessica.
She continued her assault.
The sharp nib tore into his hands and face without mercy, puncturing the flesh several times. Spurts of dark liquid sprayed onto the glass partition as the man collapsed in his seat, succumbing to the attack. Bright blood splashed the dashboard before him, covering the blinking lights with a syrupy red coating. Jessica wailed on the driver, relentless, undaunted.
Until the coach began to veer off the road.
Greg dropped groggily into his seat and located the seatbelt. He fumbled with the two ends, unable to connect them across his waist, before realising one was tied back, too short. There was a two-inch gap between the taut straps.
