The going rate

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Darren Mulhall’s last day would be short.

The daylight part began with his awakening to the sound of a door chime. Pieces soon began to fall into place. He was in Martin’s house, in Martin’s bed. Martin’s wife Bernie was no longer beside him, however.

He remembered vodka, and lager, and a bit of hash that Bernie had found in one of Martin’s toolboxes after his arrest. It was gone three o’clock when he had finished with Bernie. They had done pretty well everything. He remembered her complaining she didn’t want to do it anymore. Well, that only egged him on, and sore or not, she looked happy enough with the proceedings. Of course she could have been faking it. Big surprise, there. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it, and she was a bit afraid of him, after all. He didn’t mind that one bit.

His mouth was cracked and furry, and his eyes felt like they had been shoved back hard into his head. He rubbed the hardened goop from the edges of his eyes, and he tried to swallow. There was light on the curtains. He found the alarm: nearly ten o’clock? Jesus. He lay still, listening. There were footsteps coming up the stairs now. He kicked away the sheet and the eiderdown. The chill air washed over him, and he rolled sideways to reach under the bed for the pistol. He was on his feet when Bernadette came in the door. She was breathing hard. She wasn’t even trying to hold her dressing gown closed. Her mouth hung open and for several moments she stood still, her chest heaving so much the shadow between her breasts seemed to have a life of its own.

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