The Grey Dawn Caper

It lay there on the bed, a note carved in blood. I didn't need to read it, I knew what it said. Instead I walked purposefully to the bedroom curtain, tore it open, and there she was, two floors below me. Flash of cherry blossom lipstick, smeared across her cheek, her hand pressed against the rear windscreen of the black car, palm towards me, the life lines indistinguishable. Then the engine was gunned, and the car tore away, the tailpipe spewing exhaust which merged with the gray morning fog. She was gone and that was that. I let the curtain fall back down, smothering the outline of my own palm left on the cold hard window pane.

The Finest of Species

She was the finest of species. A magnificent find. Too rare even for a zoo. I kept her in the front room. I admitted no guests, such were the precautions. Food was optimum, the finest caviar, the purest of oils and sweet meats. A delicate combination of yoghurt and medicinal herbs. I cried for an entire day when the mutation took hold. Her disposition changed, became frightful. The last night I awoke just after midnight. She had gnawed through the wall of the bed chamber. Her bite, a pure anaesthetic, meant I came to consciousness when it was already too late - she had entered through my trachea and moved swiftly until wholly feasting on the jugular. As I faded I dreamt of angels and dead branches in snow.

Two No Trumps

The tea tasted acrid. Mr Jengles smiled, 'Do take another sip. Really draw it down.'
'You've poisoned it,' I replied.
'But of course,' said Jengles. 'It's time you were removed.'
He was right. I gulped it down, my Adam's Apple bobbing. I smiled back at him, my teeth stained with blood.
'I think I want to kiss you,' I told him. Mr Jengles looked alarmed, his manacles quivered.
'But... the poison...'
'Exactly. My disappearance is a trump, it takes one equal with it.'
'And that equal is...'
'Exactly.' His eyes were clenched tight as I spat the stagnant blood in his face. He died a minute later. I'd swapped his antidote for spider venom the evening before as he played Bridge on the upper deck.

The Italian Fruit Addler

The phone rang. El Chico, my Mexican contact. He had news. There'd been a fly-over the night before, two of the boys had been pinched, and the third was halfway across the border by now, heading to a hook-up with his family. They'd left a semi-circle of lemons around the body. Lemons without skins, perfectly peeled, freshly preserved. It had the locals spooked.

Priorities

I couldn't remember when I had last shaved. Looking in the mirror, I barely recognised myself. My eyes were dark, sunken rings. My skin was dry and aged. My stubble was flecked with gray. My work had cost me so much. So much more than I realised.

My family had become ghosts - swathing in and out of focus, they mouthed silent words at me. I stood at the kitchen counter, scoffing burnt toast, talking via video conference with the Board of Directors. They were all wearing spotless white Keffiyehs with black bands.

The next day I awoke before dawn. I lathered my face and shaved myself clean. I dressed in my best suit and matching blue tie. I kissed my wife, her body warm and kind, and then left the house as the sun was cresting the rooftops of the nearby houses.

I walked briskly, whistling, swinging my umbrella. My mobile rang away in my pocket, but I never once made the effort to answer it.

I took the express lift up to the top floor - the electronic lift numbers whizzed by in a blur. Every wall in my office was made of polished glass. I could see the harbour and the neon street lights far below. The first commuters were bustling down the wet oily pavements.

The glass gave way with the second swing of my leather and chrome chair and I let the momentum of it carry me out. I watched the myriad glass shards suspended about me and I watched how my chair did was buffeted in the air currents as I hurtled down.

I hoped that the news of my death wouldn't upset company productivity in the long term.

Third-World Country

The delivery van had one unusual aspect – that of a small-scale satellite dish. I watched as it tracked my movements. I’d take three steps forward and it would rotate and adjust its telemetry accordingly. I moved backwards, it followed. I crept towards a tree and hid myself behind its meagre foliage. The dish followed. I furtively slid beneath a vacant park bench – I watched in awe as the dish locked in my position by lowering its y-axis. I was apprehended not three minutes later. The border police had been onto me for sometime – they’d picked up Franco, my border compadre on a trumped-up weapons smuggling charge – and I didn’t stand a chance with the grenades and light-arms bag I was carrying.