Crime

This week we’ve got a piece of crime flash fiction, with a nice bottle of wine, some chicken… and murder. Enjoy!

---

“The way I see it,” James tossed his apple core over the hedge into the next field, “it’s not murder if no one notices.”

I watched the town in the distance, all red roofs and sleepy chimney smoke from here. James would be a dangerous man to let loose on a town like that.

“I’m sure murder is always murder,” I said. He was trying to shock me. He loved to flaunt his big city cynicism when he came to visit.

“Not at all,” he swigged at the wine bottle, although I had brought glasses. “If you die in the middle of the night of a heart attack, but the doctor doesn’t check, then you’ve died in your sleep. Isn’t that the way everyone wants to go?”

“I’d rather go to France,” I said, but he ignored the hint.

“If you see a bird lying on the ground with a broken neck near a window, you think the poor thing killed itself, not that someone came around and killed it.”

“It would still be murder. Or cruelty to animals, or whatever.”

“In theory, yes, but it would be chalked up as an accident.”

“Do you think we could change the subject?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course,” said James. “I didn’t mean to go on. You know what I’m like.”

I did. At least, I felt I did now.

I knew he liked to talk and had all sorts of opinions, but usually I liked to listen. The village was boring, and I was flattered that he would come and talk to me – he was so intelligent – and then bed me – he was so handsome – but it only occurred to me now that he barely noticed me. He talked to me and bedded me for his own amusement.

Otherwise, he’d have known that I can’t stand any talk of animal cruelty. I could probably have stood the wine bottle up and he’d have talked to that.

I could have saved myself washing the glasses. I could have spent the day watching telly with Charles, my poor dumb husband, who I had killed in order to be with this arrogant fool.

Still, if he didn’t listen to me, I listened to him. It wouldn’t be murder if no one thought it so.

At least, I wouldn’t be the murderer.

“Shall we?” asked James, ready for the second part of our tryst, now that the talking was over.

“In a minute,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d run back to mine to get me a jumper, would you? Don’t worry, Charles won’t see you. Oh, and a proper knife to deal with the chicken. The big one on the draining board. You might need to wash it first.”

“Sure.”

I watched him disappear down the hill to the village and tidied away all the evidence of our picnic, including the apple core in the next field. I thought about poor birds breaking their necks on windows, so I’d sound upset when I put the call through to the police.

---

In this piece of sneaky flash fiction we learn that our mothers – who told us to make sure we always had clean underwear on – were right. Enjoy!

---

“Roll up, roll up!” said the barker at the fair. And people did.

The governor sat in the bucket seat under the July sun, ready to be dumped into the tub of water for charity.

“Just a dollar,” said the barker. The line snaked around the rest of the stalls past the tea tent, the fortuneteller’s purple-curtained tent, all the way to the entrance.

Mrs Crenshaw dumped him into the water on her first shot. He struggled out, puffing and laughing insincerely. Mr Baker dumped him in again. There was no laughter as he climbed back into the chair.

“It’s for charity,” the barker reassured him. The Barker would hand people the balls used to hit the target, which sent the governor into the tub. And Miss Blakely, who was taking the money, would discreetly hand him a small stack of bills to tuck away.

The governor lived in a nice house, with servants, and twice as many cars as he needed. If he got dumped in the water a few times, it was just payback.

When he wasn’t able to climb out any more, they left the body to float in the tub.

“I think Mrs Crenshaw caught by surprise with that first shot,” said the barker. The people left in line, who hadn’t had a go, nodded angrily. They’d been looking forward to dumping the governor.

“Well – and remember it’s for charity – if Mrs Crenshaw would get in that bucket seat, then we could keep the fun going. What do you say, folks?” The people roared their approval, and Mrs Crenshaw was forced into the bucket seat in her underwear.

After an hour or so, it was Mr Baker’s turn.

There wasn’t much of a line left, so the barker called young Timmy Alan from the line, to make sure people kept paying their dollar – it was for charity – and he disappeared around the back with Miss Blakely.

They commandeered the governor’s silver Mercedes. The barker packed his and Miss Blakely’s belongings into the trunk.

The dunk tank was doing fine as they drove out of town.

---

My short story collection, People Skins, Volume I is out now. To celebrate, I’ve teamed up with 23 other writers to bring you the Flashes of Fear book bundle. Get TWO DOZEN free books, including People Skins by clicking on the picture above or here!

If that sounds like it’s just too many books, then stick around for this week’s piece of thrilling flash fiction, instead. Enjoy!

---

He didn’t want me to kill the main character, a rising criminal lawyer called Kate Field, who was clearly an idealised version of myself.

“There’s been too much killing already,” he said. “And no one seems to have profited from it.”

There it was. He knew how much of the story was real, and how much was fictional. And how much I’d have to pay to keep him quiet. His own story for the creative writing class featured a superficially charming Talented Mr Ripley type who knew how to get away with anything.

The rest of the class liked my story, however: Kate kills her abusive spouse, and hangs the murder on the suspect of another crime. He accepts the punishment as there isn’t enough proof to convict him for the crime he did commit, which he regrets.

“Let’s move on to your piece, Brian,” said the teacher. “Have you made any changes since the last feedback round?”

“I’ve polished the language, and considered the rest of the points,” said Brian, which meant *no.*

He’d been bringing the same story to class for months: a man blackmails another writer with a story about what that writer has done with her husband’s body.

“He still gets away with it, at the end?” asked the teacher.

“Oh, yes,” said Brian. “It’s the perfect crime.”

“Famous last words,” I murmured.

“Brian has dropped out of class,” said the teacher the following week. There was a half-hearted mumble from the students. I joined in, then pulled out a brand-new story to be critiqued.

---

Hi all,

this week we’re off to the hospital for a check up. I hope everything’s okay…

---

If only there was an on/off switch for life. Reset the system when there’s a problem, or switch off until the bad is over.
A life-support system or something is beeping from one of the other rooms, nurses’ chatter, footsteps. Otherwise the hospital is as silent as the grave.
That’s not an appropriate metaphor.

I’d love to pull some of these tubes out of Henry, without the staff interfering, or Beth and Kyle noticing.

They’re both asleep, one in each arm. Kyle’s foot twitches as he dreams. I like to think he’s dreaming about soccer, but who knows? It would scare them if mummy unplugged daddy’s life support machine. They’re scarred enough already, and I can’t get near any of those buttons without waking them. There should be an app for my phone, that’s what I need.

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry,” says a nurse behind me. I didn’t hear her coming, although her shoes squeak when she walks out again. I must’ve fallen asleep. Beth and Kyle are awake now, too and look terrified.
“She was just trying to be nice,” I say. “The nurse is wrong.”

I need to do it before the next nurse checks.
“Go on,” I tell the children. “Hug daddy goodbye.” His breath is laboured as I put my four-year-old and six-year-old on his chest. They automatically put their hands around his neck, like he likes to be hugged. “That’s it. Harder, so he can feel it before he slips away.”
The machine starts to beep and flash.
“Harder.”

---

This one was supposed to be funny when I started writing it. Weird.

Hi all, here’s a super short piece of crime fiction for you. Enjoy!

---

The little pond out back kept him going, when things got him down. The goldfish needed him, pushing their way through the covering of lily pads which hid them from the birds and the midday sun. He kept the grass around it as short as a military haircut, so he could see any cats sneaking up on them.

The clear brown-tinged water was how he felt, the darting goldfish resembled his thoughts. Winters were hard. The fish were trapped – but safe – under the layer of ice on the pond. Cats and birds couldn’t get them, and they’d swim back up to him in spring. It was still company when he looked out the kitchen window; the pond thinking its own thoughts under the placid surface. He sat outside on those winter days that the weather permitted it. Staring at the hole in the ground, a permanent shout of surprise filled with water.

The fish were big in spring; they had found plenty to eat under the ice. In fact, they had nibbled away at the sheeting that kept the water in.

The water looked dirtier than usual. Something white shone through from beneath.

He set poison at the edge of his property until he could fix it. As well as the birds and the cats, he’d need to keep the dogs out now, too.

---

Außerdem: Herzlichen Glückwunsch und alles Gute wünsche ich Superfan Siggi! Prost!

Hi all, it’s back to school for this week’s piece of crime flash fiction. Surely someone must have learned something…

Enjoy!

---

The jerry can of petrol, half charred at the edge of the football field, was the first clue. The remains of the school – and the headmaster, bound to his chair in the office – was the next. A tragedy (but everyone was relieved their children hadn’t been there when the fire started).

When the police couldn’t identify a motive or a suspect, the relief was leavened with a black forbidden feeling. It wasn’t one of the children? Not their child, obviously, but perhaps someone he knew, or his friends knew. There had plenty of troublemakers at the school, and the principal had been strict. There was seldom a day without detention. Had he been too strict? Had he perhaps been cruel? Had he, whisper it, been … bad?

Troublemakers were brought in to answer questions about detention. Investigators spoke to students and colleagues at schools he’d previously worked at, but there was no hint that anything untoward might have happened. No hint of why or who had burned the school down.

The school was rebuilt. Detentions were rare under the new headmistress. And the troublemakers returned, uninterested in careers, happy to get a job at the local garage or working on one of the building sites. Or for the fire brigade.

---

See you next week. Don’t be tardy!