and Bin Breath and Legs and Panda Eyes and The Princess could see me
now! Nobody would believe it. I didn’t even believe it.
My throat felt like a boa constrictor had slithered around
it and was tightening its grip. I grabbed at my neck and sucked in all the air
I could. My chest felt like there was a vending machine on it, pinning me down.
And my arms and legs felt like they were made of water, shaking.
I had to run. That was all there was to it. I couldn’t do
anything else. What was I going to do? Move the body. I wasn’t some
expert serial killer in one of those American TV shows. I was a squeak-squeak
office mouse. I still couldn’t believe that it was I who had done this. Kirsty
Dunn is a timid, frightened little thing. That’s what people say, I’m sure. She
means well, but she’s too shy . Not too shy to stab a man to death,
apparently.
I had decided that running was my only option, but that
wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Standing, for a start, was now a titanic struggle.
I planted my feet and tried to rise, but my knees buckled and I slammed back
down. I tried again and again and, finally, I was on my feet. How long it had
been, I was clueless. It felt like a long, long time. But in reality it was
probably only five minutes since I’d entered the underpass.
I looked down at Rat and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
Then I made toward the streetlamps, the proverbial
end-of-tunnel light, though I doubted there would be any salvation. Only police
inquiries, DNA swabs, a nice, tight cell, and then prison. But I couldn’t do
anything else. One last night, I thought. One last night in my own home with my
cats and freedom. I took it (literally) one step at a time, concentrating on
moving my legs, lest they go all watery again. I must’ve looked absurd, like a
puppet operated by a blind man.
I was almost at the end of the underpass when he walked out.
“What’s your plan, then, leave the body? Doesn’t seem very
smart to me.”
He was tall, around six feet four inches, with smooth black
skin and dark, close-cropped hair. He had the shadow of a beard on his strong
face, and his eyes were so dark they were almost the same color as his skin. He
wore a green t-shirt, tight-fitting, that showed his well-defined muscles, and
cargo trousers.
He walked confidently into the underpass, coming right by
me, and looked quizzically at the body. “Don’t feel bad,” he said casually.
“They were going to hurt you. No harm done.”
“No harm…” I echoed. Then: “Are you police?”
“God no,” he said. His voice was deep with confident, almost
arrogant undertones, as if everything was a joke that existed only for his
amusement.
“Who are you then?”
He didn’t respond for a long time. His eyes were fixated on
the pooling blood as it molded into the crevices in the pavement. Finally, he
looked up at me. “A fellow traveler, like you. Someone just marking time.”
“Are you…” I stopped as a sob rose in my throat. I
swallowed. “Are you going to call the police?”
“Why would I do that?” he said, as if the very idea was
beyond ridiculous.
I nodded down at Rat, but I couldn’t look at him, so I kept
my eyes on the man. There was a small smile on his lips as he stared back at
me. “Oh, him,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I don’t need to worry.” I said it numbly, everything numb,
even my own words. Some distant part of me thought: Squeak-squeak,
stab-stab. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“What? Why?”
He was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Because—” He
closed his mouth. Slowly, a smile lifted it. “You should never let blood
spoil.” His muscles tensed slightly as he said this, and I found myself tracing
them with my eyes.
This comment was so surreal it forced me back into reality.
Suddenly, everything seemed real, and it was only now I realized how dreamlike
it had seemed before. I took a deep breath and looked
now! Nobody would believe it. I didn’t even believe it.
My throat felt like a boa constrictor had slithered around
it and was tightening its grip. I grabbed at my neck and sucked in all the air
I could. My chest felt like there was a vending machine on it, pinning me down.
And my arms and legs felt like they were made of water, shaking.
I had to run. That was all there was to it. I couldn’t do
anything else. What was I going to do? Move the body. I wasn’t some
expert serial killer in one of those American TV shows. I was a squeak-squeak
office mouse. I still couldn’t believe that it was I who had done this. Kirsty
Dunn is a timid, frightened little thing. That’s what people say, I’m sure. She
means well, but she’s too shy . Not too shy to stab a man to death,
apparently.
I had decided that running was my only option, but that
wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Standing, for a start, was now a titanic struggle.
I planted my feet and tried to rise, but my knees buckled and I slammed back
down. I tried again and again and, finally, I was on my feet. How long it had
been, I was clueless. It felt like a long, long time. But in reality it was
probably only five minutes since I’d entered the underpass.
I looked down at Rat and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
Then I made toward the streetlamps, the proverbial
end-of-tunnel light, though I doubted there would be any salvation. Only police
inquiries, DNA swabs, a nice, tight cell, and then prison. But I couldn’t do
anything else. One last night, I thought. One last night in my own home with my
cats and freedom. I took it (literally) one step at a time, concentrating on
moving my legs, lest they go all watery again. I must’ve looked absurd, like a
puppet operated by a blind man.
I was almost at the end of the underpass when he walked out.
“What’s your plan, then, leave the body? Doesn’t seem very
smart to me.”
He was tall, around six feet four inches, with smooth black
skin and dark, close-cropped hair. He had the shadow of a beard on his strong
face, and his eyes were so dark they were almost the same color as his skin. He
wore a green t-shirt, tight-fitting, that showed his well-defined muscles, and
cargo trousers.
He walked confidently into the underpass, coming right by
me, and looked quizzically at the body. “Don’t feel bad,” he said casually.
“They were going to hurt you. No harm done.”
“No harm…” I echoed. Then: “Are you police?”
“God no,” he said. His voice was deep with confident, almost
arrogant undertones, as if everything was a joke that existed only for his
amusement.
“Who are you then?”
He didn’t respond for a long time. His eyes were fixated on
the pooling blood as it molded into the crevices in the pavement. Finally, he
looked up at me. “A fellow traveler, like you. Someone just marking time.”
“Are you…” I stopped as a sob rose in my throat. I
swallowed. “Are you going to call the police?”
“Why would I do that?” he said, as if the very idea was
beyond ridiculous.
I nodded down at Rat, but I couldn’t look at him, so I kept
my eyes on the man. There was a small smile on his lips as he stared back at
me. “Oh, him,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I don’t need to worry.” I said it numbly, everything numb,
even my own words. Some distant part of me thought: Squeak-squeak,
stab-stab. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“What? Why?”
He was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Because—” He
closed his mouth. Slowly, a smile lifted it. “You should never let blood
spoil.” His muscles tensed slightly as he said this, and I found myself tracing
them with my eyes.
This comment was so surreal it forced me back into reality.
Suddenly, everything seemed real, and it was only now I realized how dreamlike
it had seemed before. I took a deep breath and looked
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