Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller by Anthony O'Brien

The bell chimes
with the flick of Jeff’s wrist. He patiently waits; Eve casually looks around
at the pictures displayed on the wall. The flamboyant architecture of the
French Quarter, a white horse and royal carriage, the bronze equestrian statue
of General Andrew Jackson, and a steamboat on the Mississippi River. A
flamboyant elderly lady wearing a fluorescent pink blazer swans in from the
door at the back of the office. Eve notes her bleached white face contrasts
sharply with her deep red lipstick and her black painted eyebrows. For some
reason best left to herself, she wears a leopard skin western style hat, and
her grey curls protrude from the side. She’s the original pink lady.
    “Hi! Thank y’all for callin’
at the Pink Lady. What can I do for y’all?”
    “Hi. I'd like two single
rooms please.”
    “Jeff.”
    “Yes?”
    “Make it a double.”
    “You sure?” Jeff can see Eve
flush around her chest and neck.
    “I’ll feel safer.”
    “A double it is.”
    The pink lady gives Jeff a
knowing smile; a look of 'it’s your lucky night tonight', and he knows it.
    “One hundred and twenty nine
dollars a night. No smoking and no pets; parking is free, and keep the noise
down. You’re in apartment forty eight.”
    The pink lady takes Jeff’s card
details and hands the room keys over.
    “Thank you.”
    “Enjoy your stay.”

 
    The allocated parking space
now hosts yet another rental car, one of an endless stream of vehicles that
have waited outside this brash pink motel. Eve loves the anticipation she feels
whilst opening the door. She may be a strong independent woman, but at times
like this, her guard slips, and like a child she can’t hold back the
excitement.
    “Wow! Look at this.”
    They are greeted with a
suite channeling the vibe of the sixties. The walls are a light pink, and a
matching circular pink rug sits on top of the hard-wearing grey carpet. There’s
a wonderful curved crimson couch with black upholstery. A chrome stem curves
from behind the couch, and supports, like fruit from a branch, three golden
spotlights. On the wall is a contemporary monochrome New Orleans print in a red
frame.
    “She likes her pink, doesn’t
she?”
    “Works for me.”
    They walk through to the
en-suite bedroom. A large double bed takes center stage, whilst opposite stands
an oval mirror. Eve opens the wardrobe doors; pink again, broken up with
crimson that matches the curtain valance.
    “Perfect.”
    “Ticks the right boxes?”
    “All of them.” This includes
Jeff, but she isn’t going to reveal this just yet. ”So what’s the plan?”
    “We’re officially tourists
tonight; I thought we could hit the French Quarter and worry about work in the
morning.”
    “Cool, I’ll shower first.”
    “Okay.” Jeff stands
motionless with a smile.
    “Well go on.”
    “What?”
    “Get out of here while I get
ready.”
    “Oh, sorry.”
    Jeff walks through to the
living room and sits down, resting his head on the back of the couch. He closes
his eyes. In the bedroom, flattered by Jeff’s reluctance to leave the room, Eve
smiles to herself as she hangs her clothes in the wardrobe. She places red lace
panties and matching bra on the bed, alongside her black lace long-sleeve
keyhole dress. If nothing else she’s going to keep Jeff on his toes tonight;
secretly, she enjoys all the attention. As Eve steps into the shower and water
flows over her body, Jeff drifts into a deep sleep.  
    He is stepping out of
darkness onto a curb, looking up at an old wooden townhouse. It’s painted in an
Italianate palette of browns, greys and blues. Now, as with all the other
houses on the block, it's decaying like autumn leaves. A small path leads up to
the house; old timber steps that strain underfoot take him to the door. Jeff’s
hand reaches out and he pulls the knocker back, rapping three times. The door
slowly creaks open.  
    From the shadows a small
hunched lady steps forward. She has white curly hair, and wears a