Bad Samaritan by Michael J. Malone

but a service would do for now, thanks. Jim nodded as if he actually gave a shit.
    â€˜Where’s your brother today?’ he asked.
    â€˜How should I know, I’m no his keeper.’
    Interesting , thought Jim. A crack appears in the twin unity .
    â€˜He likes to go for a swim in the afternoon,’ the older man said in an apologetic tone. ‘He’s the fit one. I cannae be arsed with all that exercise. How bored must you be to go up and down the same space in a pool for forty minutes? Better going for a walk or something. Get some fresh air in your lungs, eh? Rather than some chlorinated water that some wee brat has pissed in.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, just put your tool bag on the floor there.’ He pointed to a space in front of the sink. ‘And I’ll make you a wee cup of tea before you get started.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Jim, putting his bag down and having a seat at the table.
    â€˜The boiler is a good twenty years old,’ said Ken. ‘I ’d get the gas company in to do a service, but they charge you silly money. You sure Father won’t mind you doing work for members of the congregation?’
    â€˜No need to tell him,’ said Jim. ‘What I do in my own time is nobody’s business but mine.’
    â€˜Good man,’ said Ken. ‘Last time I had the gas man in he kept telling me I needed the radiators drained and a completely new boiler. He kept going on that I should really get a new heating system. But that would cost me a bloody fortune. So, a wee service from your good self will be sufficient as far as I’m concerned.’
    â€˜Aye,’ said Jim, using as even a tone as he could manage while imagining his hands round the old man’s throat. Thankfully there was silence while Ken filled the kettle and waited for it to boil, allowing Jim to drift away into thoughts of his real purpose here.
    Death.
    It had been a year since the nun. A year of working that memory. A memory of diminishing returns.
    At first, reliving it had been enough. The rip in the fabric of life and the continual ache it left in him was assuaged for a time, but the urge to harm was creeping up on him. Fast.
    From the moment he met the twins he knew one of them would be his next victim. Twins. Why didn’t it occur to him before? And the request to service the boiler had given him the perfect excuse.
    A report in the newspaper had given him the method.
    A couple were found dead in their bed. Carbon monoxide poisoning. A faulty boiler was to blame. The paper went on to say that carbon monoxide, nicknamed the silent killer, killed on average one person per week in the UK. Mainly down to a fault in the central heating boiler. This is a gas that is odourless and tasteless. A gas that the human blood cells pick up on all too easily and which within a very short space of time can lead to coma and death.
    Jim stood up. ‘Actually, Ken, I’m not too bothered about a cuppa. Why don’t you just see to yourself and I’ll crack on with the boiler.’
    â€˜Aye, sure,’ said Ken while pouring boiling water into a mug. He added a spoonful of dried coffee and then some milk. He then picked up the mug, sipped at it and turned and rested his back against the worktop.
    â€˜Do you mind?’ Jim said wearing his best apologetic expression. ‘I hate when folk stand over me while I’m working. Daft, I know.’
    â€˜Och, no worries, mate,’ said Ken. ‘I’ll just go an’ watch some crap TV. That Kyle fella makes my blood boil. Love watching him.’
    * * *
    Jim took the cover off the appliance. Cleaned a few pipes with a rag and looked to where he could cause the most damage. Then he wasted some more time, banged on a few pipes with his screwdriver and then eventually replaced the cover.
    He needed to be sure the levels of carbon monoxide generated after his “service” were enough to kill. At lower levels they