Author: Matt Shaw
Date: 2011-11-26 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Contemporary; Crime
Description: Before you can have your 'Happy Ever After' you need to find The One. In Susie, Peter thought he had found his perfect lady. The woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with... He just needed to convince her to feel the same - and if that meant kidnapping her then so be it. Told through the point of view of the two characters living this story - immerse yourself in Matt Shaw's prequel to 'Happy Ever After' and learn the truth about what happened to Young Susie... But remember..... Good. Sense. Of. Humour. Essential.
Publisher: Matt Shaw Publications

G.S.O.H ESSENTIAL

For Anne

Hopefully they’ll have Kindle up in Heaven.

If not, I’ll bring one with me when I come and visit x x x

* * * * *

A Big thank you to Julie Shaw for proof-reading and editing

An even bigger thank you to Nick Steinbuch for allowing the use of his artwork for my front cover.

You can see more of his work at www.photogenick.nl
or contact him at nick@photogenick.nl

© Matt Shaw

The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

INTRODUCTION

My hair is still wet but not enough to cause it to drip down my neck; good enough for me. It’s combed back but will flop forward when it dries. Both styles suit me.

I think the wet look goes better with my suit; black Armani. Class. Expensive. Obviously expensive.

Sort of.

A cheap Armani knock off purchased from a dodgy backstreet market years ago.

Looks genuine though.

Most people can’t tell the difference.

A slight shave earlier - barely touched the surface of my facial hair; a nice amount of stubble I reckon. Rugged. Not too tatty. Manly. I couldn’t do a full shave; I always seem to get a rash and, even so, I don’t want to look too try-hard.

Nothing screams desperation more than a perfect shave.

Desperate for the job.

Desperate for the look of approval on the First Date.

Desperate to impress the in-laws.

Desperate to look good in the eyes of our Lord...

Besides, my razor is blunt.

Mental note to self - pick up new razor blades.

Scratch that - get new razor.

Normally it is cheaper to get a new razor than to buy the blades and you normally get a handful of blades free with a new razor too. A bargain.

Look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves. I can’t remember who said that to me years ago but it stuck in my mind.

Aftershave. Hugo Boss. Soul. My favourite. One of them at least. There’s a few scents that suit me. This is the one for tonight, though. A bit on my wrists and a bit lightly misted onto my stubble. Not too much, just a couple of squirts.

Aftershave can give a good first impression but too much can give the opposite effect.

Two squirts.

Just right.

A quick swirl around my mouth with the Listerine before I step into my polished shoes that wait for me in the bedroom.

Good dress sense, clean hair, nice aroma and fresh breath. Clearly a guy who knows how to look after himself.

A final check in the bedroom mirror confirms I’m ready.

In record time too.

Good going but I can still beat that time. I can still get ready faster.

Regardless, I’m ready.

Ready for my monthly food shop.

G.S.O.H

ESSENTIAL

1

BEFORE YOU CAN HAVE YOUR HAPPY EVER AFTER you need to find true love; easier said than done. I know the rules for finding this true love but I struggle to use them to my advantage.

A lot of singles use the internet to find their perfect partner but the idea turns me off. It’s still early days but I’ve never been desperate enough to go to the hassle of filling in a profile in the vain hope that Miss Right will pick me out of all the other thousands looking for love (or just a fuck).

Even if it did come down to it – I’d worry that the person I was meeting wasn’t who they said they were; the whole exchange of messages as we bond with each other being nothing more than a long series of lies hiding the ‘ugly’, ‘fat’ truth. The internet is nothing more than a smoke shield for paedophiles and monsters. I am not a monster. Nor do children ‘float my boat’.

Meanwhile, other people go from nightclub to nightclub hoping to find their perfect partner. I’ve never agreed with finding love in a nightclub. Experience tells me, well – my friends tell me at least, that it’s more about finding a quick bunk up in the dirty toilets or back alleys with strangers who have consumed too much alcohol. Fun, for a while, but would you really want that person to be in your life on a daily basis?

Not me.

They’re impure.

They’re ruined before they’ve started.

For me, it’s all about the supermarkets.

You walk around the stores and they’re crammed with ladies. More ladies than men and that is a fact. As they pass, holding onto their trolleys, you can clearly see any rings that may or may not be on their fingers too – saving you the embarrassment of discovering they are engaged or married after you’ve gone to the hassle of speaking to them.

And don’t forget the trolleys they are pushing. A quick glance in the trolley clearly shows whether they are shopping for one or a family – helping you rule out the possibility of wasting your time again. When you do find a lady you like the look of, you just need to follow her around for a bit. It’s never long before they need help fetching something from a shelf that’s too high for their dainty little frames and, if they don’t need help with anything, you can ensure you’re standing behind them at the check-out – giving you plenty more opportunities to initiate a conversation before you part ways.

My favourite conversation opener comes after they put the little plastic stand behind their shopping, allowing you to start loading your goods onto the conveyor belt.

“Thank you,” I said to my potential Miss Right as she placed the stand at the end of her shopping – allowing me to load the microwave meals onto the belt.

She smiled at me.

Manners cost nothing – and that’s why I thanked her for separating our shopping with the stand. I had already decided further conversation would be pointless when I clocked the toddler’s outfit that hung from the back of her trolley, as she passed me in the vegetable aisle.

First I noticed her beauty. Second I noticed her trolley was near empty. Third, with a bitter feeling of disappointment, I noticed the outfit.

When I first noticed her beauty – I imagined what it would be like to walk down the road with her. I pictured the jealous looks from other males; I had something they could only dream about possessing.

When I noticed the empty trolley – I imagined many nights of dining out; romantic, candle-lit meals – gradually going to the finest restaurants when I could trust she wouldn’t waste any of the food.

And then, when I noticed the toddler’s outfit, I imagined what her head would look like on a stake.

“It’s busy in here tonight, isn’t it?” she asked as we stood at the checkout.

“It sure is,” I replied, not wishing to be rude.

Yes, for me, it’s all about the supermarkets – this supermarket especially. I like this store with its friendly staff, nice layout which helps to prevent me from wasting precious time hunting for the items I am after, reasonable prices and, more importantly, an adequate “own brand”.

Whilst looking for Miss Right, I don’t want to waste the good food. Not to begin with; not on the first few dates. Not until I know she is the one - having said that I don’t want to give her stomach gripes by dishing up some disgusting, cheap alternative.

This supermarket’s own brand at least tastes a little like the real branded goods they are attempting to substitute. I remember trying this alternate brand, once, that looked like cat food even before you emptied it onto the plate. My then-date didn’t finish her meal; complaining that the mere sight of it put her off. I couldn’t argue with her, as much as I hate people wasting their food. It did look disgusting. Even so, I didn’t offer her a pudding.

You don’t get pudding until the main meal is finished.

The goods on the conveyor belt move towards the cashier’s scanner as the lady in front of me packs the last of her own loaded bags into her trolley and walks off.

“You must eat hundreds of these,” said the pretty cashier as she scanned through the first of the own-brand microwave meals.

This particular store’s own brand is somewhere between “too cheap” and “too expensive” – just right. It looks good, it smells good. It’s the perfect substitute to serve up until you know they’re the one and then, when you’re confident they are, and they’re already thinking you’re Mr Perfect – you surprise them further by getting out the good food.

The Birdseye Turkey Roast.

Tonight is date number two.

She hasn’t earned Captain Birdseye yet.

Soon, I hope, although truth be told, I don’t hold out much hope.

I found her on the internet… managed to entice her out on a date without even needing to set up a proper profile.

2

SEVEN FIFTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-THREE SECONDS. I can’t go in yet; we agreed eight o’clock. I don’t want to appear too keen. According to some random dating sites I found, ideally I should knock on her door about ten minutes late.

‘Fashionably-late’ I think they call it.

I wonder, at what point does ‘fashionably-late’ just become downright rude and insensitive to peoples’ schedules.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m not sitting in the car for another twelve minutes – it’s cold and I’m hungry. Just a couple more minutes and then I’ll go up and press the doorbell. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with just being ‘on time’. If anything, I think it’s more polite and helps to set me apart from other men – the ones who go around believing they are the alpha males.

“Peter? Is that you?”

I look out of the car window – she’s stood in the doorway waving at me. I wonder how long she’s been there for. I wave back and smile. Do I still wait the final minute, I wonder.

“Are you coming in?”

I guess not.

She walks down from her porch, towards the car – beaming me a smile that makes me forget about the awkwardness of the first date. She’s prettier than I remember. A split second’s moment of weakness makes me question whether I purchased the right brand of meal or not. Maybe she is worth the Captain.

I climb out of the car.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

I can’t think of a lie.

“We said eight. It’s not quite eight yet.”

She laughed.

“Did you get the take-away?” she asked, peering into my car.

“Take-away?”

“The food, you said you’d bring some food.”

“It’s in the boot,” I walk to the boot and pull two carrier bags of shopping from it.

“Well, come on in, it’s freezing out here!”

She leads the way to the comfort of her house.

“What did you get?” she asked.

I presume she is talking about the food, “Some microwave meals.”

She laughed as she stepped into her house before turning and holding the door open for me, “Microwave meals?”

“Microwave meals,” I repeat.

Peter - the broken record.

She laughed again, “Really? Microwave meals?”

I held the bags up so she could see I was being serious. My heart skipped a beat as I realised that, maybe, she might not have a microwave. Impossible. Everyone has a microwave.

“Oh, okay,” she says. “Microwave meals it is. To be honest, I’m glad you didn’t get us a curry, I had a terrible feeling you’d bring curries.”

“I don’t eat curry.”

Dirty food.

I don’t eat the edges of any meat product. The edges, to me, are the dirty bits. I don’t eat things that I don’t perceive as being fresh, like packet sandwiches. If I am to eat a sandwich, I need to see it prepared in front of me - partly to ensure the ingredients used are fresh and edible but also to ensure there aren’t any foreign entities put in by bored workers in the sandwich shops.

I believe curry is made, mostly, from edges that no one else eats. I believe the ingredients aren’t as fresh as they should be. I believe curry to be the dirtiest of foods.

She took the bags from me and lead the way to the kitchen, “Where are the boxes?” she asked as she peered into the carrier.

“I left them at home.”

“Home? How will we know how to cook them?”

“I think I can remember how to cook them...”

“Why on Earth did you leave the packaging at home?”

“I didn’t want to clog your bin up with the boxes. They’re quite bulky.”

I also didn’t want her to see it was the cheap brand.

She laughed again, “Has anyone ever said you’re not right in the head?”

I smiled at her.

“Once or twice,” I replied.

“Well, after you,” she said as she pointed to the microwave in the corner of the room. I took the bag from her clammy hands and approached the microwave.

“Didn’t you want to sit and have a drink first?” I asked.

That was how the dates normally went; enter the house, sit down, have a drink and a bit of a chat, get to know each other and then continue the chat whilst eating our dinner. I often found that starting with dinner, before getting into the swing of conversation and the awkward first few minutes of getting to know each other, lead to more silences or pointless small talk.

“Sure,” she said as she walked through to the lounge. There was no invitation to follow but I let her lead the way regardless. She sat down on the sofa in the corner of the shoddily decorated room and beckoned for me to join her by patting the empty space next to her.

I chose the chair opposite. A slightly disappointed look falls upon her face.

“How’s your day been?” I asked, not really interested but trying to get start some sort of conversation that will hopefully form into something more worthwhile.

“It was okay,” she replied.

And, just like that, my dreams of an intellectual exchange were dashed.

“So why did you bring microwave meals, anyway? I have to confess I was expecting something a little... well... a little more take-away based,” she asked.

A fair question, I suppose.

“Have you ever been on a date, which involved food, where the meals cost loads but you were too nervous to eat anything?” I asked. I’m not nervous, but in my dating days, I’ve found that some girls like to see a new age man - a guy with a sensitive side and yet who knows how to act like a man when the time is needed.

“You’re nervous? That’s so sweet.”

See.

I hope you’re writing down these hints and tips I’m giving you.

Peter - the Romantic.

She continued, “You don’t have anything to be nervous about.” With that, she got up and walked over to my seat and sat upon my lap. “I’ll look after you.”

I went to open my mouth but didn’t get the chance to say what I wanted to say before she was kissing me, her tongue deep in my mouth in an action that can only be described as ‘just like a washing machine’.

I’m glad I had that mint before I came out.

And yet, I wish she had taken the time to have one.

Thankfully, she stopped, “Are you still nervous?”

Nervous - no. Feeling slightly sick - yes.

“That was a nice surprise.”

Peter - the fucking liar.

“We could always skip the main meal and go straight to dessert,” she suggested. A suggestion, I won’t lie, that repulsed me. I didn’t even have to cook her The Captain and, yet, here she was offering me her cunt. I wonder, if it’s that easy, how many other people have had the same opportunity.

This isn’t the girl for me.

“Okay,” I said as she leaned in to kiss me again.

The plan was - get upstairs, fuck her, fake an orgasm and get the hell out. I reckon I can get that done quicker than I can prepare the microwave meal (and wolf it down) and, as she started to unbutton my shirt, my mind wondered to the decorating duties that waited for me at home - especially now I knew I’d be home in time to carry them on tonight.

* * * * *

Never be nasty to someone you’re dating (in the beginning).

You may think they aren’t the one for you but, if you’re unlucky, they could be the only one you are able to hook as you cast your rod into the sea trying to snare that perfect fish. If you’re nasty to them, they won’t want to see you again leaving you without options for future, shall we say, liaisons.

I left that date with a soft kiss on her cheek and she’s probably sat at home now wondering when my next text will call out from her mobile phone.

The poor girl has a bit of a wait.

That’s not to say the text will never get to her - it’s just I want to see if I can do any better first. If I’m desperate, it’s always nice to have a safety net, no matter how flawed they are.

Flip side of the coin is, if you do find someone else - someone to replace them - by all means, get them out of your life as quickly as you possibly can - for two reasons - the first being you don’t want them in the background potentially getting in the way of your new love and secondly, I’m not a monster, it’s not fair to lead them on when you know, deep down, that you don’t want to be with them in that way.

So follow the golden rules;

1. Use them until you find someone else.

2. Find someone else and then send a ‘it’s not you, it’s me‘ text message.

3. Change your number if necessary.

4. Repeat as above until you find your perfect lady (or man - I’m not here to judge).

I ignore my mobile phone vibrating through another text message as I continue to paint the lounge wall a nice, bright white colour. I want this house to look perfect by the time my girlfriend moves in with me; absolutely perfect.

A mirror to the life that we’ll lead.

A smile creeps across my face as I allow my mind to start thinking of all the things that could be, between myself and my new partner.

I can’t wait to meet her.

Another text message snaps me from my thoughts of happiness. Another text message! I laugh as I pull my phone from my pocket; she is a keen girl. I like the keen-ness, it means there is more chance of them being likely to stand by you, through good times and bad times. When a girl is happy to see you it’s nice but you still have to work hard to keep her happy. When she starts off being keen, with text messages and phone calls and such like, you can relax a little - you already have her. You don’t have to work as hard.

I press the enter key on my mobile phone, unlocking it and illuminating the screen and the latest message that’s waiting for me.

“I had a nice time 2nite but dont think we are going to go anywhere. Sorry.”

Hmmm.

I flick through to the second message:

“U left your microwave meals here, did u want 2 collect them?”

Not quite sure how to reply to that. I would have collected them if they were The Captain but, as it is, I think I’ll let her keep them.

Looks like I need to go shopping again...

3

I used to be happy.

I used to live life to the full.

I used to be with someone - someone who I shared everything with.

Someone that I loved dearly.

But things change.

We changed.

She changed.

I changed. I can’t tell you what I changed into but I don’t like it. I don’t like who I have become. I don’t like who she turned me into.

She.

Her.

The one time love of my life. Things started off brilliantly between us - always laughing, always joking and having fun. She made me so happy and, for a time, I thought I made her happy. I was wrong, though. I didn’t make her happy. I couldn’t have. If I did she wouldn’t have done what she did and I wouldn’t be alone now yearning for the laughter that we once shared.

I hate her.

I hate her and yet she’s with me on all the dates I go on. In my mind I’m always comparing the new ladies to her. Are they as funny as she was? Are they as pretty? Then, when I finally do meet a lady that I like, she’s in my mind again - will this new lady cheat and trample on my feelings like my last?

I can’t have that happen again.

I won’t allow it to. This time I’m going to be sure that we are meant to be together. I’m going to be one hundred percent sure of their feelings and then stop any outside interferences from getting between us; the perfect couple.

I just didn’t realise I’d have to meet so many women to find the perfect one for me and I’m starting to feel like a lost cause now - there are no women out there to whom I am suited. Who knows - maybe I’d be better off alone.

No.

I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to live in isolation. I want to find my princess. I want to find the love of my life. The Real love of my life. Not some whore playing make-believe, like my ex. I want it for real. I can’t stand the idea of not finding her.

I can stand the idea, even less, of finding her and losing her again but that won’t happen this time. I’m putting things in place to stop that from happening again; putting things in place to keep us together - forever.

Not that it matters. I sit back, in front of my computer screen, with my emails loaded up. See, it doesn’t matter what I put in place to keep us together - they’ll be no ‘us’ if I don’t get any replies from the various dating websites I’ve allowed my incomplete profile to remain on. Maybe I should fill in it properly?

I tried to keep my profile fun, light-hearted and informative - enough information and jokes to try and snare the sort of woman I could love... not that I’m fussy. I like most women.

As long as they have a pulse, I’m good.

Good sense of humour is essential, though. She must be able to make me laugh and to laugh at my jokes. Look at me being picky. Look at me with my empty inbox - maybe I should add photographs and fill in the rest of the boxes that I couldn’t be bothered with. After all, I’ve filled in some of the boxes so maybe I’ve already crossed over to the ‘desperate’ territory which I was trying to avoid by only semi-filling it in...

I turn my computer off .

Is there even any point in continuing with the house, I wonder.

I’ve been told, before, that you only find love when you stop looking for it. All the time you seek it, it remains elusive but I don’t believe that. How can you find it when you’re not looking for it? Surely, if you’re not looking, you miss all opportunities that may be presented. I’ll keep looking.

Mental Note to self - look into the dating sites with the monthly subscriptions. Maybe I’ll have more luck on those ones? Maybe I only get bad luck, and meet the wrong women, because I’m only half-heartedly using the free sites.

Maybe.

I’ll think about it.

* * * * *

“Did you need any bags?” asked the pretty cashier.

“Yes, please.”

I needed bags, I just didn’t need any of the shopping that I was gearing up to bag and pay for. I only needed a pint of milk. A pint of milk and then I saw her. The cashier lady - sitting at her till, smiling the most beautiful smile to all of the customers who I watched her serve.

She passed me a handful of bags from underneath the till, where they’re kept.

“Thank you. I always seem to forget them.”

She smiled, “Not just you. Weren’t you just in here the other day buying all this stuff?” she said as she started scanning my groceries.

I was. Yesterday, in fact.

“That was for my mum,” I lied.

“Sweet.”

Her smile was sweet.

I didn’t want all of this stuff and it’ll probably go to ruin but, if I had just bought the milk, I’d already be on my way out of the door. One item doesn’t give you enough time to strike up conversation - let alone ask someone out on a date. I wish it did though because this is going to cost me a small fortune.

The cashier continued, “Do you often do your mum’s shopping for her?”

I could tell the truth but, then, that doesn’t paint a very good picture so I choose to further my lies, “Only ever since my dad died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as she scanned through another microwave meal.

“Cancer, we knew it was coming. In the end it was a blessing. But my mum just isn’t the most agile of people so I do what I can to make things easier for her.” I flash one of my ‘charming-guy’ smiles as I pack the microwave meal into a new bag and she smiles back.

I love that smile.

I want her.

“I’m here once a week, normally, but I don’t remember seeing you,” I said.

“I’ve been here for about a month - normally work in the mornings.”

Mental Note to self - start shopping in the mornings.

“Ah, I’m more of a night-time shopper.”

If you come shopping in the daytime you only get to see the mother’s - out shopping whilst their kids are at school because they know they won’t be able to get the required peace with their offspring running around the aisles. If they’re not mothers, they’re unemployed. I’d like my girl to be earning - not spending my money. On rare occasions you’ll meet a woman who is just on a day off but, they’re few and far between during the daytime.

Evening’s are definitely better for single ladies.

“I prefer working through the daytime,” said the cashier as she neared the end of my shopping. “I like having my evenings free.”

“I expect your boyfriend would prefer you to be free in the evenings too,” I said with a smile on my face.

“I’ll let you know when I get one.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” I sound shocked on purpose.

“Not for about three weeks now,” she sounded disappointed.

Three weeks, that’s good. She’ll be looking for a rebound. She’ll be easy prey.

“That will be forty-three pounds, please,” she continued.

I pulled my wallet from my left hand pocket and fished the credit card from within.

“Well, my hours have changed at work now so maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” I said as I put my pin into the card machine.

“Maybe.” She smiled a coy little smile.

Like I said, easy prey.

She handed me the receipt for the shopping and I slipped it into my wallet along with my credit card.

“Thank you,” I said. I looked down to her name tag, “Susie.”

She smiled again, “Have a nice evening.”

“You too,” I said as I walked away with my shopping.

A successful trip and, after going back to my car, I drive home in good spirits. It’s nice. I haven’t felt like this for a while now - for as long as I can remember, in fact. The other dates, they were okay to start with, but I didn’t feel for them as I feel for this girl already. Dare I say it but I feel happy at the prospect of our future together. That and the fact the house is coming along nicely, with most of the needed items purchased.

She won’t be hard to get either. Susie.

Her being single, a pretty girl like that, well that’s just fate. That’s a sign we are meant to be together. I can’t wait. And to think, all this time, she was right under my nose.

Two days.

Two days and then I’ll go back to the supermarket to see her. I want to go tomorrow but don’t want to come across as a stalker. I don’t want to ruin this one.

Don’t want to fuck it up.

I think I could love her.

4

“For you or your mum?” she asked, looking at the long line of food that was placed on her conveyor belt.

“My mum’s neighbour,” I used to be rubbish at lying but now it seems as though it’s second nature. Sometimes, I enjoy the lie too. I spin a line even when I don’t really have to - curious as to see how far I can take it with the listener still believing me.

“Ever thought of getting a job with us?” she asked as she started scanning through the products. No microwave meals this time - this time I’ve gone for more ‘normal’ food so she doesn’t get suspicious.

“A job?”

“A delivery driver, you obviously enjoy taking people their shopping.”

“Ah.” A joke. A token gesture laugh. Not too over the top - just enough to make her feel appreciated. “It seems word has got out and now all of her friends want me to pick bits up for them too. I don’t mind, makes me feel like I am doing something worthwhile.”

“I think it’s sweet. I wish I had someone to do my shopping for me. The last thing I want to do, after a day sitting here, is to do my shopping!”

Ah, a way in.

“Well, write up a list and I’ll do it for you if you want. I do everyone else’s - one more list won’t hurt.”

She laughed. “It’s okay. I’ll struggle on.”

“If you ever change your mind, I feel like I’m here as much as you.”

Close. A shame.

“Did you want any help packing?” asked another employee. He came out of nowhere but must have noticed that, although Susie has been scanning through the items, I’ve been too busy chatting and hardly packed anything - all the goods starting to back up.

I flash him a look, annoyed that he dared interrupt Susie and I.

“I’m fine, thank you. I have a particular way of doing it.”

He doesn’t reply, he slinks back from where ever he first originally sprung from.

“I’ll let you catch up for a bit,” said Susie.

In contrast to the look I gave the lad, I flash her a smile.

I wonder, did she see the look I gave him. I should learn to hide my moods better. It’s not his fault. He didn’t deserve any rudeness, he was just doing his job. I hope she didn’t see it.

“Thank you,” I say as I start packing the groceries into the flimsy bags provided, once more, by Susie.

She’s still smiling, I don’t think she noticed the look.

Good.

She turns away and continues to scan through the items, slower this time.

Just ask her out, be direct. Stop playing games. You’ll never find love if you don’t chase it. It’s easier for women - they always have the power seat. They get to sit and wait. Sit and wait for us men to approach them. They definitely have it easy. The worst that happens, from a woman’s point of view, is no one approaches them.

The rejection they face isn’t as obvious as the rejection we face as they turn us down. Even so, if you don’t ask - you’ll never know.

* * * * *

“SUSIE!” shouted my friend, Jackie, as she came into the canteen area. “Well?”

“Well what?” I asked as she sat opposite me with her packed lunch. I avoided eye-contact and nibbled the corner of my cucumber sandwich. I knew what she was referring to.

“Who was he? Don’t think I didn’t see you.” She tilted her head until she could get eye contact with me. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Ssh.”

“No! What was all that about? Who is he?”

I laughed again, “He’s a customer...”

“Oh, come on!”

“He’s a regular, he’s in here every other day - does shopping for his family.”

“Susie! Tell me the truth!” she gave me a playful slap on the arm.

I’m not sure what to tell her. He is just a customer. He’s just a customer that gave me his mobile number....

She continued, “He passed his number to you, didn’t he?”

... which Jackie obviously saw.

“Are you going to call him?” she continued.

“I’m not sure yet,” I said truthfully. I’d been single for a while now and did feel lonely but I still miss him - my Samuel - even though he used to treat me like dirt, there was something about him, something that I struggled to let go of.

“If you’re not, can I have his number? It would be a shame to waste it!” she laughed.

“How is Ryan?” I asked her.

“He’s fine.”

Ryan was Jackie’s partner but sometimes she’d forget this as her wandering eye was quick to latch onto any poor unsuspecting fella who she liked the look of.

“What have you got to lose?” she asked, moving on a bit too quickly from the conversation about her own love life. She took a mouthful from her sandwich, some paste -filled mess that I couldn’t work out but stank to high heaven. Crab paste, maybe. She stopped chewing and looked at me hard, “You’re not still thinking about Sam are you?”

I just looked at her. A look that said it all - yes, I was.

“He’s an asshole,” she said through a mouthful of mushed up mess. “Look at how he treats you... what is it with him?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. Not a lie.

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not for a while.”

“How long’s a while?” she continued, refusing to let go.

“A couple of months.”

“So you left him because you knew things weren’t right, finally met someone else, he came back on the scene promising you he had changed and offered you everything you had wanted. You left the new bloke to go back with him and then....”

“He vanished again.”

“He’s an asshole,” she repeated. “Where’s your mobile?”

“In my locker.”

“Get it. Call him.”

“Sam?”

“No, the man you’re not telling me about! Call him.”

“And say what?”

“That you’d like to go out with him.”

“But I’m not sure that -”

“He was nice looking, he was interested.... what have you got to lose?”

I didn’t answer. I had nothing to lose. He was nice looking. He was interested.

“Get your phone,” continued Jackie. “Strike whilst the iron is hot.”

She didn’t wait for me to argue with her or give her any excuses, she simply stood up and ventured over to the side of the canteen where all the lockers stood in a long line, she twisted the handle but, of course, it’s locked.

“Come on,” she said. “Worst case scenario, you don’t click, never see him again and sit about pining after that asshole. Best case scenario - you’re married with kids before you know it.”

“Kids?” I protested. I don’t think I’m quite ready for kids yet. I know my mum and dad definitely don’t think I’m ready for them just yet; not their special little girl.

“Susie, come on, you’re being silly. Call him.”

“I don’t like talking on the phone, though.”

“Text him then! You’re forever texting people. I’m sure he won’t care how the message comes through to him!”

I stood up and walked over to Jackie. A few seconds later and I was unlocking my locker door and fishing my mobile from the bag that hung on the door.

“I’m not sure.” I repeated.

“Do it. Nothing to lose.” She also repeated.

She was right, of course, I don’t have anything to lose. I could meet him, have a drink and leave if I didn’t like him. He did seem nice, though, but then - when trying to impress you - they all seem nice. It’s only when you get to know them that you realise the truth.

Men are assholes.

Sam was nice to begin with and look how he turned out.

I pulled the receipt, with Peter’s scrawled down mobile number, from the pocket on the front of my blouse where I had stashed it.

“You really think he looked nice?” I asked.

“I mean it, Susie, if you’re not going to use it - I will.”

I knew she wasn’t joking and navigated to the message section of my phone.

This is it.

I stopped.

What do I say?

Jackie looked at me, “What are you waiting for?”

Do I introduce myself first or do I just blurt out that I’d like to go for a drink. Perhaps sign my name at the end of it. I can’t remember - did I even tell him my name? What if there are loads of people out there with his number? What if I’m one of many that he’s waiting for a text from? How do I not come across as desperate in the text? Should I even text? Maybe a phone call is better? No, I’d sound nervous on the phone and only end up making an idiot of myself. Definitely text him....

“Did you want me to text him for you?” asked Jackie - obviously sensing my apprehension.

I smiled at her and she took the phone from my nervous grip.

“Should I just tell him to meet you about the back for a quick suck and fuck?” she asked with an evil glint in her eye.

“Don’t you dare!”

The problem with Jackie is, I wouldn’t have put it past her.

5

I’m not sure why I was so nervous about texting him. He gave me his number, after all. He wanted me to text him. He wanted me to get in touch. I’m so used to disappointment, after Sam, that I guess I just always seem to expect it now.

I didn’t always used to be a glass-half empty kind of girl but now I feel like it’s all I am. Who knows - maybe tonight is the night where all that will change.

I hope so.

I don’t like being negative all the time.

The last two days have flown by faster than usual. I’m not sure whether it’s because I have been so busy or because I’ve been so excited about this evening.

Please don’t let it be a disaster.

Please.

I look at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. I’m not normally vain but, have to say, looking good. It took me ages to decide what to wear but, in the end, I went with a simple black dress that stops just above the knees.

Classy.

Elegant.

Simple.

Not too short. Not too long.

Everything else in my wardrobe just made me look tarty - clothes that were once purchased just because Sam wanted me to wear them. He liked the tarty look. When we split up - the first thought I had was, at least I never have to wear those outfits again.

I really must give them away.

I wonder, would anyone even want them if they were hanging in a charity shop window? Perhaps I’ll just bin them.

I lean over to my bedside cabinet and take a small bottle of perfume from off the top. A couple of squirts into the air and I step into the nice smelling mist. I always find it too strong when sprayed directly onto my skin.

I put the bottle back where I found it and stop.

Am I over-dressed? He’s only coming around for a meal - his suggestion.

I wonder why he didn’t want to take me out somewhere nice, instead? Money, I guess. Or maybe he wants to impress me with his cooking skills. I was surprised when he said he’d cook for me around my house as opposed to his own home. God, imagine if he still lives with his mum. No, he can’t do. If he did - he wouldn’t have to keep coming in on separate shopping trips - he could do it all in one. Speaking of food and cooking... I best check on the chicken - it’s starting to smell done.

As I walk across the landing and down the stairs, towards the kitchen, I can’t help but worry slightly that I’ve ruined his ‘date’ idea by cooking for him instead. I didn’t even tell him I was going to do it. I just thought it made more sense to get the food ready before he got here so we could have more time relaxing.

It also meant we could eat at a sensible time.

What if he brings a take-away?

No.

He wouldn’t.

He said he’d make us a roast dinner. He seemed pretty sure of that. I’m sure he’ll be fine with what I’ve done for him. I’m sure he’ll think it a nice gesture.

I hope.

I don’t want to blow it at the first hurdle. I’ve had enough of being single. It would be nice to meet someone that genuinely liked me.

In the kitchen, I open the oven door and peer in - the chicken is looking perfect; dark brown skin - crispy. Just the way I like it. The potatoes that are sat in the same oil as the chicken, soaking up the chicken’s juices, are looking good too. I’ve always been good with roasting potatoes. I make it so they’re fluffy on the inside but nice and crunchy on the outside.

All thanks to adding flour to them when you first put them into the oven. First sprinkle a little bit of an oxo cube on them, for added flavour, and then some flour. I’m not sure where I first read to do that but I’ve been doing it ever since and they always come out perfect.

I turn the oven down a little bit as he isn’t due to arrive for another twenty minutes and I don’t want to be serving up a burnt offering. Not a good first impression. Although, having said that, at least he might actually volunteer to take me out for a meal next time.

Maybe I should turn the oven back up.

I laugh to myself as I pour a cheeky glass of white wine.

I’m not much of a drinker; just one glass to help with the apprehension I’m feeling in the pit of my stomach. Damn nerves always seem to get the better of me.

I look at the clock on the oven door - nineteen minutes to go.

* * * * *

Nineteen minutes to go. I know I should wait but I don’t want to. I’d been thinking of this moment since I received the text message from her; thinking of our meeting. I knew, when I saw her first, we were meant to be together and it was nice to see she wasted no time in messaging me after I gave her my number.

I turn the key in my car’s ignition, killing the engine in the process. No sense leaving the engine running whilst I wait, hopefully around the corner from her house. It’s a warm evening so I don’t need the heating to be running.

I’m anxious about tonight. Part of me wonders whether I should have brought something else to eat, instead of the usual microwave meal that I opt for. After all, she’s seen me buying the meals, she’s seen how much they cost - both varieties. I hope she doesn’t think I’m cheap.

No.

I’m sure she won’t.

To be extra sure, I left our meals in the boxes this time - so she can see that she gets the good stuff. She gets The Captain. Hopefully that will impress her. Hopefully.

I cast my eye to the clock on the car’s dashboard and give it a tap. Is it still working? The minute hand moves slightly. It’s working.

Stop being impatient.

Mind you, I like this girl. I could always go in early.

No.

Don’t appear too keen. Otherwise it gives them the power and it’s important to establish you’re the one in the power seat right from the get-go. I need to take charge and show her I’m the man. I’m the one wearing the trousers in this relationship.

Relationship.

Settle yourself.

It’s the first date.

I’m sure she could be the one but no sense getting ahead of myself otherwise there’s more potential to go in, like a bull in a china shop, and ruin it.

Over-confidence.

Cocky.

Unattractive.

Am I already these qualities? Will she not like me? Am I wasting my time? Perhaps, I fear, getting ahead of myself with thoughts of love and a future together with this girl.

Stop it.

She’ll like you.

She’ll like me.

Maybe I should go to the petrol station, down the road, and pick up some flowers. A token of my feelings towards her? Is that romantic? Do women still like that?

No.

It’s a first date.

Flowers on a first date is too soon. Too try hard. Flowers should be on a second or third date, at least. Besides, on a first date, you never know if you’re wasting your time as you haven’t met properly yet. A first date could be a massive waste of your time.

Buying flowers - well - that just means you’ve wasted your time and money if things don’t go well.

But I want them to go well.

It doesn’t have to be an expensive bunch of flowers. It could just be a small, token gesture bunch of flowers. Something little but sweet. Why am I being like this? I’m normally more calm and collected when I meet women. I normally feel more in control of my racing thoughts and worries.

Why is this girl different?

Is it the girl? Maybe I’m just tired of being alone now. Maybe I’m pinning all my hopes on this one girl so I can finally move on from my past.

No.

I’m not pinning anything on her. There’s something about her.

There’s something about her that I desperately want.

My racing mind distracted me, momentarily, from the time and when I next look there is only thirteen minutes left before I need to make my grand entrance. I can’t wait any longer. I need to see her. Without really thinking I fire the engine back to life by twisting the key in the ignition, where I left it previously, and my right foot presses down on the accelerator. If I drive slowly, I think, I can waste another couple of minutes before I get to her actual house - it should be on the right somewhere, with the odd numbers... number 11. Of course, as I continue to look, it would help if there were numbers on any of the houses.

I drive even slower as I continue to peer at the houses that I pass, trying to find a number on any of the doors or gates. You’d think at least one of the houses would offer a hint as to who lived the- ah ha, number 9. Her’s must be the next house...

I pull up to the kerb and kill the engine once more.

Still not quite time yet but I don’t care, as I open the car door and climb out - only leaning back in to grab the bag of shopping from the passenger side. With the food in hand, I stand up again and close the car door a little harder than actually necessary - give her some warning that I’m about to knock on her door, just in case she isn’t ready yet.

I approached the door with more confidence than I usually approach them with. I was still nervous about meeting her but, even so, at the same time I felt more positive than I had felt in a long time.

Me and Susie - this is fate.

* * * * *

I didn’t even hear a car pull up, just the slamming of a door.

I peered out of the lounge window to see if it was him but couldn’t make out who it was. If it is him - he’s early. Not that it matters, I was only pacing anyway and dinner’s nearly ready.

My heart’s beating heavy now as I squint to try and make out the stranger’s face in the darkness. Why couldn’t they park under a street lamp.

Oh crap.

It’s him.

He’s heading up the path towards my front door!

I ducked out of sight from the window so it wasn’t obvious that I was just stood there waiting for him. My heart skips a beat as there’s a knock at the front door.

Oh God.

A second knock echoes down the hallway before I ‘snap out of it’ and venture towards the door with unsteady legs. This is stupid. It’s been a while since I’ve dated but, even so, I shouldn’t be this nervous.

A tentative hand reaches out and twists the handle of the door open.

“Hi,” I said, trying not to sound nervous, as I pulled the door open - revealing Peter stood there; a carrier bag dangling from his hand.

“Sorry, I’m early,” he said.

“Not a problem, come in.”

He stepped in before I had even finished the sentence and instantly sniffed the air. He looked at me with a curious expression on his face.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I’m sorry - I have a confession to make,” I smiled at him as he took his jacket off and hung it on the bannister. He looked nice. A nice, crisp white shirt with black trousers. I didn’t feel overdressed.

“I just thought, with it being my house, it made more sense for me to cook for you. It’s still a roast.” I hoped telling him it was still a roast would take the sting off a little, in case he really had his heart set on cooking. I couldn’t read his expression.

“Er, well if that’s what you wanted to do... that’s fine with me. These will keep.” He put his carrier bag onto the floor, leaning them against the wall. I took the change to have a quick peak in - microwave meals. “Well, it’s definitely smelling nice.” A smile crept on his face.

“I think it’s just about ready.”

I turned and walked towards the kitchen, to start preparing dinner, sure that he’d follow with no invitation.

“Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

* * * * *

“Sure,” I said as I followed her into the kitchen.

I couldn’t believe she had cooked for me. No other woman, I had met for a date, before had offered to cook for me - let alone just go ahead and do it regardless of what my answer may have been. I knew this girl was going to be special.

“What can I get you?” she asked as she opened a cupboard filled with various bottles of drink. “I’ve got wine - you could have a couple if you’re driving, or I’ve got soft drinks; Coke, orange, lemonade...?”

“Water will be fine, please.”

She turned and looked at me. I’m not sure what the look meant so I simply smiled at her. She nodded and took a glass from the cupboard, by her knees, before filling it with water from the tap.

I’m a little disappointed she doesn’t have bottled water in the fridge.

We can change that.

When we live together.

“Here,” she said as she passed me the glass, spilling a little as it exchanged between our hands, “whoops - sorry.”

“No harm. Thank you.”

I took a sip from the glass and tried to hide my distaste. Definitely not nice bottled water kept in a fridge. Maybe we’ll even change it by the time we get to our second date.

“You don’t mind if I have some wine, do you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She was already sipping from a glass that was already to the side of the stove. I don’t mind. She seems happy enough so that’s fine by me. “Did you want to go through to the living room whilst I dish up?”

“Is there nothing I can do for you? Help you serve up?” I offered. I didn’t particularly want to wait in the other room by myself. Would prefer to help out - have a laugh, maybe, whilst in the process.

“No, I’m fine - but thank you.”

Oh.

“Okay,” I said. “Through here?” I pointed towards a door and she nodded.

“Make yourself at home,” she said.

I nodded a ‘thank you’ and walked through to the living room. A small room, modestly decorated with the minimum of furniture.

Good.

Not too much stuff to move into mine when we get to that stage.

A buzz from the corner of the room distracts me and I peek over to see what it was - her mobile phone. A text message. I wonder who it is. Hopefully she’ll turn it off when she comes through; leaving it on was probably a mistake on her part. Probably. I’ll let it slide this time. Mind you, she may have left it on in case I had some problems finding her - not that I would have; not with my Sat Nav system in the car.

In the corner of the room is a small dining room table. It looks a little out of place with the rest of her furniture but it’s nice enough. I smile. She’s even got to the bother of setting up candles.

They’re not lit.

Probably just not got around to it yet.

It will look nice when they are lit, though.

The door to the kitchen swings open and Susie walks in - both hands clutching our plates of dinner. She puts my plate down first and then her own, “Here we go....”

“It looks great,” I said.

It did look great. She obviously went to a lot of trouble; chicken, various vegetables, yorkshire puddings, some nice looking potatoes...

“Well hopefully it will taste as good as it looks.” She sat down as I took a seat opposite her. “Just leave what you don’t like.”

She picked up her knife and fork, which were situated either side of her table mat. My heart sank a little. The candles remained unlit. Maybe they were always there - just a romantic table decoration.

When I sort us dinner, I’ll make sure they’re lit.

Another buzz sounds off from the corner of the room startling us both.

Her mobile phone again.

“It went off earlier too,” I said trying to be helpful and ‘cool’ about it still being switched on, even though I had already turned my own phone off.

She stood up and walked over to where her mobile phone was, “It’s probably just my friend making sure that I’m okay.”

Understandable. She didn’t know me from Adam. It would make sense that someone she knew was local enough to check up on her - just in case I’m not who she thought I was. I watched as Susie looked at her text message and frowned.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

She closed the text box down and dropped her phone onto the sofa, “No. It was just my friend checking in.”

A lie.

I could always spot a lie. I’m not sure if my ability to do so was a gift or a curse. Sometimes I agree with the old saying, ‘ignorance is bliss’.

She came back over and sat opposite me.

“How is it?” she asked, nodding towards my dinner.

I scooped another piece of potato onto my fork, “It’s good, thank you.”

Not a lie.

The food was nice.

6

I can’t help but lay in my comfortable bed thinking about this evening. I enjoyed myself. I loved her company and felt a real connection between us but I just can’t help but feel annoyed by the constant interruptions from her mobile phone. I feel as though she isn’t telling me something; hiding a dirty little secret she believes may offend or upset me, perhaps.

I’m not stupid.

It wasn’t her friend.

Well, it wasn’t her friend checking up on her.

I could tell by her body language and the fact she never replied. If her friend really was checking up on her - surely she would have sent a ‘everything is okay’ text instead of ignoring the messages. Had I been sat at home, texting my friend to see if she was okay, and she didn’t reply - I wouldn’t have waited for more texts to be ignored; I would have got my coat and headed straight over to check she was okay.

So who was it.

I think she enjoyed my company. She was hard to read. One minute she was laughing at my jokes and then she’d look annoyed at her phone and her whole body language would change. It felt like a constant battle to keep her mind focused on me; focused on what I was saying and not what she was reading on her phone.

That damned mobile phone.

It was probably nothing for me to worry about but her quietness and lack of explanation made me feel as though I should be concerned. For all I know, it could have been something that the pair of us could have laughed about. But, no, now I just feel paranoid that I’m losing her before I’ve even won her.

I need to know what was on the phone.

I should have snuck a look when it first went off.

Why didn’t I?

I could have nipped in the bud there and then and stopped all of this worrying.

This potentially unnecessary worrying.

At the end of the evening, when I left, I asked her if I could see her again and she didn’t say ‘no’ - just that she was busy this week but would like to go out again. I would have preferred us to have set a date but, I guess, I can’t have everything my way. At least I could have been laying here thinking of whatever day I get to see her again. Instead, everything is up in the air as to what’s going on between us.

Yes she said she wants to see me again but when?

Did she purposefully not tell me a day - hoping that I’d lose interest and move onto someone else? Well, I won’t. I want her. I need her.

Maybe I should just text her that I’m thinking of her and looking forward to our next date - offer to take her out. Me offering to cook at her house - did she think that was cheap? Was that a bad move on my part for someone that I care more about than other women I’ve met up with.

Who was texting her all night?

* * * * *

I don’t know how Sam found out that I had a date.

I can only hazard a guess that Jackie must have told him. I did text her asking if she had said anything to him but she hasn’t replied yet. No surprise, she isn’t the most reliable for replying to text messages - not unless there is something for her to gain from it.

Even so - why did he text? It’s been ages since I’ve heard from him and now, just because he thinks there is someone else on the scene, he has decided I’m the right girl for him. He’s finally realised how badly he has been treating me because he believes he could be on the verge of losing me?

Ten text messages - each one begging for forgiveness and confessing his undying love for me. Each one sounding more and more desperate not to lose me. Each one trying to win me back. I know I should delete them but I can’t help but to re-read them as I lay in my bed.

This evening wasn’t bad but I know, already, that I don’t have a real connection with Peter. He’s nice enough but not someone I could settle down with in the future. A bit of fun, maybe.

I’m not sure.

I think he has a very serious side to him. There’s something there. I don’t think I’m ready for serious. Life is too short, I just want to have fun.

It was hard to picture us together.

Was that because of Sam’s messages, though? Would my thoughts of Peter been different had it not be for the text messages?

I know I should just delete them; delete the messages. I should tell Sam to get stuffed - he’s had more than one chance and, each time, he’s ruined it. I can’t though.

Why can’t I just tell him, once and for all? Get him out of my life finally. I know I should. Everyone has told me. They all say he’s no good. Deep down, I know they’re right too.

So why can’t I just tell him.

What is it about him?

Should I even reply to the text messages?

The texts. Does he mean it this time? Has he changed? He said it was a shame to waste all the years we shared together and he’s right - it is a shame.

My family won’t approve, if I decided to give him another go. They hate him. They watched how he treated me last time. They saw how hurt I was by his coldness. Even when I was ill, in hospital, he failed to show me any kind of warmth.

Why am I even thinking about seeing him again?

Surely I should have learnt by now.

Maybe seeing him one last time will help me move on. Perhaps, face to face, I’ll remember all the bad times and run from the room - wishing that he were dead. Maybe.

I pick my phone off the bedside cabinet and select Sam’s name from the message window. A quick scan of the previous messages and I’m still unsure of what to write in reply to them.

Don’t rush into it.

Put the phone down.

Let him sweat a little.

Let him think you’re having a nice date with someone new and exciting.

Don’t show him any signs that you care.

My fingers don’t listen to my brain’s advice as they type - ‘miss you 2 xxx’ in response to the last text he sent about not giving up on him and how much he is missing me.

Send?

Click.

Sent.

Idiot.

I turn my phone off - almost too scared for the reply that, in all likelihood, will follow. It will give me something to wake up to. Try and sleep now before I get myself further into a situation I struggle to control or get out of.

Sleep?

My brain is racing. It feels as though I’m having a million thoughts a second. There isn’t much chance of sleep tonight, I fear. I close my eyes anyway. Hopefully I’ll be able to drift off.

* * * * *

Can’t sleep.

I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder if she is still getting text messages from her mystery text partner or whether she is just busy frantically texting all the necessary replies back to whoever it was.

I text her ten minutes ago saying I had had a lovely night and hoped to do it again soon but haven’t heard anything back. When you don’t hear back - it’s always more of an insult when you know, for a fact, they don’t go anywhere without their mobile phone. Ten minutes is ample time for her to read what I said and send me a cheery reply.

A reply is all that I ask.

Just something to help me take the general feeling of unease away. Something along the lines of her having had a good night too and was also looking forward to seeing me again.

Something to make me feel loved.

The roast is repeating on me.

7

“Well I didn’t know he was going to start sending you texts!” said Jackie, not that it made it any better. She knew what sort of person Sam was and I was angry that she’d even get involved. It was none of her business. “Just ignore them, he’ll go away again. I just wanted to annoy him. I promise, ignore him and he’ll vanish back to where-ever he came from.”

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

There was an awkward pause between us.

“Tell me you didn’t reply.”

Another awkward pause.

“Why did you reply?” she continued.

“Why did you feel the need to say anything in the first instance?” I threw back in her face.

“I’m sorry. I’ve already told you - I just wanted to get a rise out of him. If anything, I thought he would text me back but I checked my phone all night and nothing. I just presumed he didn’t care. If anything, I was a little disappointed at the lack of a bite.”

“He kept texting. It wasn’t just one text. It was several throughout the evening. Peter kept looking at me and asking if everything was okay.”

“You were checking your phone whilst he was with you?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you know how rude that is?” she continued.

“It could have been important and, truth be told, I thought you might have checked up on me at some point in the evening,” I said. Not actually a lie; I was expecting a message from Jackie checking to see that I was alright. After all, it’s not every day you have a stranger around your house.

Jackie said, “I didn’t want to interrupt Love’s Young Dream, I thought you’d text me if there were any problems...”

“I’m sorry Mr Crazy Murderer Psycho, who I invited into my home, would you mind if I just sent my best friend a text before you continue stabbing and raping me?”

“Oh don’t be so melodramatic - so how did you leave it with him?”

“Who? Peter? I said that I’d be in touch...”

“No - how did you leave it with Sam?”

“I just left it, I turned my phone off.”

“Oh now you turn your phone off; if you turned your phone off when the date started...”

I shot Jackie a look - a look that screamed, ‘don’t you dare try and pin this on me’.

I hadn’t heard from Sam for months and, if it wasn’t for her text, he’d be none the wiser and I still wouldn’t be hearing from him now.

“Maybe you’re worrying for nothing? He’s probably given up by now. Turn your phone back on.”

I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to see the reply that I knew would have been waiting for me.

My brain was aching and I felt confused as to what I was feeling.

“Ignoring Samuel... how did it go last night?” asked Jackie; sensing my concern.

“Last night?”

* * * * *

It was a good evening.

It was a nice evening and, yet, no reply from her.

Nothing.

I know she would have read it by now. There is no way she wouldn’t have seen it. So why no reply? Could it be that I have already ruined things between us? No. It WAS a nice evening. I acted interested when she told me of her hobbies. I kept her smiling and laughing with me.

Unless... she was smiling and laughing at me?

No.

She wouldn’t.

She’s not the sort.

I know she likes me.

If not - why would she go to the trouble of cooking such a lovely meal?

She likes me alright.

I put the paint brush that I’m holding down on the sheeting I’ve laid in my hallway, to catch any accidental paint spillages whilst I decorate, and walk over to the bannister where I’ve left my mobile phone.

No paint on my hands. Good. Don’t need to get that on the phone. I touch the screen and it lights up. Good. The battery hasn’t died without me realising it. No. Not good. At least that would have explained the lack of communication.

Maybe something happened after I left.

Should I go round there? I could do. I know where she lives now.

No.

Don’t go anywhere.

If everything is okay - I’ll just look clingy.

Full signal too.

I open the empty text message section of my phone and dial my own number. ‘Test’ inputted into the message box. Send. The progress bar moves across the small screen almost instantly and my phone shakes in my anxious palm - the message tone alerting me as my own message lands in my inbox.

Then I’m being ignored.

For a moment I’m unsure of what to do. Do I need to find a new supermarket to shop at? Avoid seeing her to save myself further pain? No - I’m being silly. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. I’m sure she left last night with feelings just as strong as my own feelings for her.

This is destiny.

This was meant to be.

Maybe just one more text message.

One more text message to prove the other wasn’t a fluke.

Again - the message is almost instantaneous.

Damn it.

The thing is, I know this relationship is right. I know it’s meant to be. I know we’re going to make one of the best couples ever. I’m sure of it. I don’t understand why she doesn’t think the same - she can’t think the same.... if she did feel it, she would have sent me a text by now. She would have got in touch. I don’t want to give up on it yet. I should go to the supermarket.

Of course - the supermarket.

Maybe she’s working.

She’s working and can’t send a text. She isn’t allowed to have her phone on her in the working day.

But she could have sent me a text message last night.

Unless her phone died. It had been going off all night. Maybe the battery died. She charged the phone but didn’t turn it on until this morning.

She could have text this morning.

Unless she was running late.

Last night was a late one.

She probably overslept.

Yes.

That’s it. She overslept. She read my text message when she woke up and probably smiled. I can picture her smile now. A sweet smile. She would have wanted to reply but obviously couldn’t because of time being short.

That has to be it.

She’ll probably text at the end of her shift.

I can’t help but have a little laugh - she’s probably sat at her checkout now, stressing about not replying to my text message. She’s probably worried that I’m sat here getting angry with her because she hasn’t been able to reply to my text. She’s probably stressing that I’m losing interest in here because I fear she isn’t interested in me. She’s probably desperate to send that text message...

She’s silly.

I wouldn’t get stressed at her. I wouldn’t get angry. Not with her. She’s too perfect.

I put the phone down and smile.

She does love me.

I know it.

Perfect timing as my phone vibrates on the side and the alert sounds out; a text message. My heart skips a beat as I snatch the phone back up in my hand. I hope it’s her.

I smile.

It is.

“Good night. Thanks.”

I was hoping for more than that but it’s all positive. Nothing negative. She doesn’t say she doesn’t wish to see me again. See, she does love me. And, to think, I doubted her for a minute. I’m the fool.

I put the phone down again.

I’ll leave it a day before I reply so I don’t come across as too keen........

* * * * *

“Are you going to see him again?” asked Jackie.

She was referring to Peter. She had given up talking about Sam and so had I. We were just going around in circles - she was asking why I couldn’t walk away from him and I was angry at her for getting in touch with him in the first place. I was angry initially anyway - I had turned my phone on to two more messages; one was from Peter and one more from Sam asking to meet up with me.

Whilst Jackie was watching me, thinking I was replying to Peter, I was actually sending Sam a message - agreeing to meet up with him. One last meet.

“Well?” she continued as I read the text message that came through to my phone saying we’d meet tonight, after my shift.

I put my phone down onto the canteen table, upside down so it - if any more messages came through - they couldn’t be read by anyone else, and looked at Jackie, “I don’t know.”

“Wasn’t he very nice?”

“He was... fine.”

“Fine? You don’t sound very sure of yourself.”

He wasn’t Sam.

My Samuel. We have history together and it’s hard to ignore that. What if he has changed? What if we could make it work this time? Do I even want to try and make it work with him again? We’ll see, I guess.

“See him again,” she said.

Did she see me reply to Sam? Did she know I was planning on seeing him again?

“What?” I asked.

“See Peter again - maybe one evening wasn’t enough to form a proper opinion. Maybe he was nervous. Second date he may come out of his shell a little more...”

Maybe my first impressions were wrong of Peter - although gut feelings didn’t normally let me down. Maybe he was just shy. Maybe he’ll be different the next time we see each other - more like the man that I met at the checkout. Last night, it was as though something was bothering him. He just didn’t seem as charming as he first appeared when he came into the shop. But, then, maybe hearing from Sam just confused me and I, subconsciously, didn’t give Peter all of the attention he deserved.

Maybe I missed something.

Maybe.

I’ll see Sam later. See Sam one last time and get him out of my system once and for all and then worry about what I may or may not feel for Peter.

“I sent him a text thanking him for last night and that I had a nice evening,” I said to Jackie who was looking at me, waiting for an answer to her suggestion.

“Well there you go - see him again. I’m not saying you have to marry the guy but don’t give up on him just because you were distracted by your phone all night. Just, this time, turn you phone off when you’re with him! Give the poor guy a chance!”

I smiled at Jackie as though I was agreeing with everything she was saying - yet, all the time I was listening to her - I just kept thinking what a hypocrite she was; the sort of woman that left her mobile phone on, just in case a better offer was to come through during a date night. Before now she has asked me to call her, to get her out of a date, just so she could go straight into the arms of another man.

I don’t know how she does it.

8

I’m not clingy.

I need to come to the supermarket. I’ve run out of..... milk.

I’ve run out of milk.

I need milk.

Yes.

Milk.

I can’t help it if she happens to work in my local supermarket. It’s just one of those things; a coincidence. If I end up at her checkout - it’s not because I’m stalking her or seeing what she’s up to - it’s because it happens to be the checkout with the shortest queue.

Yes.

Definitely a coincidence.

I’m not clingy.

Even so, I can’t get out of my car. I’m dying to go in. I’m dying to see her... and get my milk. It just feels wrong. It feels as though I’m spying on her - seeing what she is up to.

I am.

No.

I’m not.

I’m here for milk. Just milk. Everything else is a coincidence.

I kill the car’s engine and pull the key from the ignition. I should just go home but I need to see her. The more I think about her text, the more it vexes me - the lack of kisses. A distinct lack of emotion and feeling. Why?

When I text her, I put kisses.

I wonder if she put kisses to whoever was texting her all night. Why couldn’t she have just left her phone off - would have stopped all this worrying.

I watch other customers walk into and out of the store.

It could be any one of them... the mystery texter. Sneaking in to see her whilst she is working, hoping to blend in with other customers so they can go unnoticed by her bosses. Unnoticed by... me.

I’ll go in.

I open the door and climb from the car, slamming the door shut before locking it with the key. I don’t even have to talk to her. She doesn’t even have to know I’m there. Hell, she probably isn’t even working. No guarantee she is working this shift; she could have had her hours changed again.

No guarantee at all.

I start walking towards the supermarket’s door and stop suddenly when I spot her leaving. I duck down behind my car. I don’t want her to see me. I don’t want to appear clingy or desperate.

Did she even see me?

I peer over the bonnet. She’s not looking over. She’s just stopped by the doors - what’s she doing? She’s looking from side to side - is she waiting for someone? The text pest. I knew something was up yesterday.

I fucking knew it.

I should just get in my car and drive off; drive off and never see her again. The cheating whore.

Stop it.

It could be entirely innocent.

Last night - the text messages could have been innocent.

One more peep.

She’s talking to someone. Who? A man. Dark hair, slim.

A weakling.

Bad complexion.

Dark, greasy hair.

He must be a stranger asking for directions, or something. She wouldn’t be interested in someone like that. He looks dirty; like he hasn’t bathed or washed since forever. Definitely someone lost, asking for directions. He’ll go soon.

I watch a little longer, from the safety of behind my car.

He isn’t going.

She leaned forward and kissed him in the cheek.

What the hell was that?

Look away. You don’t need to see this.

No.

They’re laughing now. Was it a funny kiss? Something funny to laugh about?

The runt is holding his hand out towards her and smiling. She is smiling back - who is he? I feel a stab in my chest as she takes his hand and he leads her across the car park towards what must be his car - a crappy little Ford Escort.

Last night - was she just playing with me?

Was she playing with my feelings?

Cunt.

The runt is a gentleman. He’s holding the passenger door open for her and she’s smiling as she goes to get in. What the Hell? He slammed the door before she could climb in. Perhaps I’m worrying for nothing - he’s laughing at her and she looks far from impressed.

Why’s he shaking his head? He takes hold of her wrist and pulls around to the other side of the car and opens the door - gesturing for her to get in. She’s shaking her head now. I wonder what they’re saying.

He’s leaning into the car now. Getting something, by the looks of it. What’s he doing? She’s as confused as I am.

What’s that?

Learner plates?!

She’s laughing but still shaking her head. I’d rather she continued the shaking of the head and stopped laughing. I like it more when she looks angry with him. Go back to looking angry, dear.

He’s walking around to the front of the car, with the L-plates, and sticks one to the bonnet. Must be one of the magnetic ones. I didn’t see him peel any stickers off.

Not that I give a fuck.

To the back of the car, now, and he does the same to the back bumper. I look back to front of the car now and she’s smiling the brightest smile I’ve ever seen from her. Another stabbing feeling runs through my chest as she points to the driver’s seat - must be asking permission to get in because he’s nodding at her now.

Don’t do it, Susie. Don’t go with him. Enough is enough now. Go back to the Supermarket... do some overtime. Do anything. Anything but....

She’s climbed into the car and he’s closed the door behind her. He runs round to the passenger seat and climbs in. The door closes on both the car and my relationship.

It’s over.

I climb into my own car, unable to take my eyes off Susie and the runt. Was he the one that was texting all night? Who is he? Maybe he’s an old friend. It’s not as though it was a proper kiss. Friends kiss like that. I’ve seen it---

He’s kissing her now. Properly.

Another stabbing from within my chest.

Friends don’t kiss like that.

The Ford Escort slowly moves away from the car parking space and promptly stalls. I can’t help but snigger through my tears of anger. She should have asked me to teach her - I wouldn’t have let her stall.

Wait.

I won’t let her stall.

It’s not over.

Clearly I am better than he is. I’m the better person. Whoever he is, he’s not going to take her away from me. Susie and I were meant to be together. There isn’t a chance in Hell he is going to take her away.

I fire up my own engine and start to follow as Susie finally manages to pull away without stalling - heading towards the car park’s exit. I wonder, maybe I should just drive into the back of them - like an accident - forcing them to stop? She’d climb out, see me and panic that she’s been caught out. I’d play it cool, of course, apologise for hitting them and offer to pay for damages - I wouldn’t even act mad that I’ve seen her with another man. Just hand over my details, climb back into my car and drive off. She’d do the same - probably stall again knowing the runt - and then she won’t be able to stop wondering what is going through my mind. She’ll start wondering whether I’m not keen on her. She’ll start wanting me more because she’ll be worrying that I don’t want her.

You act like you really want a woman and you drive them away.

You act like you don’t want them, within reason, and you pull them closer.

A tried and tested method.

Have you ever tried dumping a girl you don’t like just for her to get even more clingy? They text constantly and resort to non-stop ringing when you refuse to answer their pathetic texts.

My foot presses down on the accelerator and I slowly begin to gather speed.

Wait.

Stop.

Slow down.

My foot switches to the brake and my car slows a little.

I don’t want to give her whiplash.

We’re heading down the main road now, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through her mind...

* * * * *

Who is this asshole behind me and why does he insist on driving so close to my tailgate. Can he not see the L-Plates or is he just choosing to ignore them?

“Ignore him,” said Sam - sensing my concerns over the following driver. “Just concentrate on what’s in front of - change gear...” I change gear, “concentrate on what’s in front of you.”

I wish I knew what was in front of me. I’ve missed Sam and the Sam that’s picked me up from work - he’s the fun Sam. He’s the Sam that I loved once upon a time... No, he’s the Sam that I love. I love him. The fun, the laughter, his cheesy grin - everything that I love and missed about him. Meeting up with him again was a good thing to do.

“Turn right up here,” he said, “I’ve got something to show you.”

I reach down for the indicator and flick the lever, turning the indicator on as instructed.

“Start braking,” he said. I gently put my foot down on the accelerator. “Okay, brake harder,” he continued. Was that panic in his voice? I press harder on the accelerator and we more or less stop. The car behind me must surely be inches away from my bumper now. I wonder what’s going through the idiot’s mind.

* * * * *

Fuck me, that was close.

9

She’s been inside the house for over an hour now. I don’t even know why they even had to drive a car here - it’s only around the corner from the supermarket where she worked. They could have easily walked that.

Her secret lover, I wonder, does he even know what a carbon footprint is?

Probably not.

Probably has other things on his mind; like how to steal another man’s girlfriend.

Not that she was my girlfriend.

But she could have been.

I should just go. No woman is worth this. It was obviously never meant to be.

Go.

Go home.

Gather your thoughts, get over it, go and find someone else. I shrug to myself and take hold of the key that still sits in the car’s ignition. Fuck her.

I don’t turn the key.

The car’s engine doesn’t spit into life.

Why should I go? Why should I allow her to get away with treating me like a mug? Who does she think she is? She’s lucky I’m not a monster otherwise I’d have no option but to hit her; show her you can’t treat me like that.

The bloke, though...

A smile spreads across my face and I turn the car key. The engine spits into life and I pull away from the pavement. I don’t need to see her leave the house. I know what needs to be done and now isn’t the time.

This also proves my theory - outside interferences ruin the ‘potentially perfect’. I just can’t believe that they’re ruining our chances before we’ve even become a proper couple! Still, it’s not too late to fix this. I will fix it.

Soon.

* * * * *

“I’ve missed you, babe.”

I can’t help but feel I’ve made a mistake as I watch him from the relative comfort of his bed; he’s standing in the doorway of the en-suite bathroom - cleaning himself, rather unromantically, with a wet-wipe.

“Tissue?” he holds a wet-wipe in my direction.

I can feel his semen trickling out of me. A wet-wipe seems pointless. I feel as though I’ve let myself down. This is exactly what happened last time; he heard I was with someone else, got in touch, promised me that he had changed, won me back with his charm and then disappointed me - again - by proving nothing had changed. How did I end up here? How have I learnt nothing?

He ran back into the room and jumped, naked, back onto the bed, next to where I lay - also naked; my clothes thrown, mixed with his, on the already cluttered floor.

“We’ll get it right this time, babe. You know what they say, third time’s a charm.” He leant over and pressed his hand between my legs, “And I definitely missed this!”

I shuddered. Already he’s becoming the asshole I originally left. The fun, sweet man turning into the ignorant male chauvinistic pig. Why do I always fall for the act?

“Give it a couple of minutes and I’ll go again,” he said as he leant back down on his pillow and shut his eyes.

Get out of there, Susie. Get dressed and get out of there. I don’t move, though. I just lay there, a cold wetness underneath me, looking at him. Why do I find it so hard to ignore him - I should never have let him back in my life, after I originally left him. He must think I’m easy.

Look at me.

I am easy.

A fucking slut.

I hate myself.

I sit up.

“Where you going?” he asks. I look at him - he hasn’t even opened his eyes.

“I have to go.”

“Go? No, you don’t. Lay back down; I told you - give me a couple of minutes and we’ll go again. See if I can finish you off.” He laughs.

Seriously - what have I done.

“I have to go.”

I climb from the bed and start moving around the bedroom, picking up my various items of clothing, “I really have to go - I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong, babe, why you getting your knickers in a twist?”

I step into my panties. They should never have come off in the first place.

I really do hate myself.

“This was a mistake,” I tell him truthfully.

“What the fuck are you talking about? You had fun didn’t you?”

Not really.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to keep him calm. His temper was another reason I left him originally. I don’t need to see that again.

Or feel it.

“Ah well,” he said, “do as you please. You think your new boyfriend will be impressed that we’ve just fucked?”

I put my bra on, “What?”

“You think he’ll be pissed?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your new boyfriend - do you think he’ll forgive you when he finds out?”

I step into my trousers, speeding up now just so I can get out of the house, “I don’t have a boyfriend. Not you. Not anyone.”

He laughs, “Especially when he finds out about us.”

I pick up my top and throw it over my head, “Do what you want, Sam, I don’t care. I’ve had one date with Peter...”

“Oh, Peter, nice name....”

I ignore him, “I’ve had one day with Peter and already decided, before I saw you again, that he wasn’t for me. So you do whatever you need to do...”

“Well, you’re a catch so I think he’ll be pretty upset you don’t want to see him anymore. I know, I’ll tell him about us just to help him get over you. You know - a lucky escape. He could have ended up with a right slut.”

“Fuck you!”

I surprised myself. In the past, I would never have dared speak to him like that.

“I said, babe, give me a few more minutes and you can.”

And here he is - the boy I left.

I storm from the room, without looking back, and head down the stairs towards the front door. I want to cry but I can’t. Not yet. I’m so disappointed in myself - I hate what I’ve done - but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. Once again I’d fallen for his lies.

Never again. I mean it this time.

I open the front door and step out into the daylight.

Roll on tomorrow. Put today behind me.

I wish I could put the blame on Jackie, for this, but I only have myself to blame.

I slam the front door behind me with such force I hear the windows shake.

Fuck him. For all I care, he can drop dead.

* * * * *

It’s dark now but that’s a coincidence.

I didn’t plan to come back here in the dark. I’ve spent the last couple of hours planning what to say to him. The last couple of hours telling him - whoever he is - to back off because she’s with me now. I couldn’t just come here, unprepared. That would lead to getting flustered and more chances of being laughed at.

I’m not here to be laughed at.

I know I should just walk away from Susie but there’s something about her that I can’t seem to move away from.

I want her.

I need her.

I’m going to have her.

And whoever this boy is.... he’s not going to stand in my way.

I’ll knock on his door, say what I have to say and then that’s it. He’s gone. I’m gone. One less outside interference to ruin what I could potentially have with Susie. One less outside interference to pull us apart before we even get together...

But I know it won’t end there.

I need to get her alone sooner rather than later. I can’t allow anymore possibilities of things getting in the way. The sooner it’s just her and me - the better.

Need to step my game up if I’m serious about her.

And I am serious.

I cross the road, heading towards the house where I left her earlier.

I hope he’s home alone or this could get ugly.

I know she isn’t there - my Susie - I had a quick stop by her house earlier and saw her at the window. She’s safe and sound at home. Can’t guarantee he doesn’t have any other friends visiting though.

Fingers crossed he doesn’t.

I don’t even hesitate when I get to the front door - I just ring the doorbell and then slide my hand in my pocket.

A look around behind me, to see if anyone is watching me.

No one about.

Good.

Don’t fancy an audience for what I have to say.

I can’t hear movement from within so bang the door harder before putting my hand back in my pocket.

Footsteps.

He’s coming.

This is it.

I mentally whiz through what I have to say - just to be sure I have it right. Save the embarrassment of getting it wrong face to face.

The door opens and he’s stood there - Susie’s mystery man.

“Yeah?” he says.

I hate him.

“Fuck you!” I whisper.

“What?”

Before he can say anything else, in a swift movement, I push him back into his house with my spare hand, stepping in with him, and pull a knife from my pocket. He doesn’t have time to respond before I plunge it straight into his heart.

The shocked look on his face is priceless - truly a Kodak moment - and I can’t help but smile as he drops to his knees; a funny gurgling noise spilling from his mouth. As I pull the knife from his bloodied chest, I kick back with my foot - kicking the door shut.

I don’t need any witnesses.

On his knees, his head is the perfect height and I thrust the knife into his eye-socket. His body does a weird, twitch and another noise I’ve never heard before comes from his mouth.

That’s it.

Game over.

She’s mine.

I stand up to my full height and cast my eyes up the stairs - no shocked onlookers on the top step.

Good.

Not sure how I’d explain this.

A quick look to my left, into his lounge - no one there either.

Another result.

A glance down the hallway - towards the kitchen - and no shocked onlookers there either. Looks like my timing was spot on.

Okay.

What to do.

First things first; curtains.

I walk into the lounge and pull the curtains - ensures no one can peer in and see anything they shouldn’t. I quickly walk through to the kitchen and pull the window blinds - again, stopping the potential for anyone to peer in.

There’s another door on the left hand side of the kitchen - a quick glance out reveals it’s the way to the garage. Thankfully it’s empty. I can do what needs doing and then back the car into the garage, to load it up.

No need to walk onto the driveway with bags of whatever-his-name-is.

I wonder what his name is.

Was.

I wonder what his name was.

No, I don’t.

Fuck him.

He had it coming.

I stop dead.

He had that coming but.... what does he have coming next?

I haven’t thought this far ahead.

Moments earlier, the happy thought of not having to take bits of him out onto the driveway in carrier bags pointed out two things I hadn’t previously thought of....

1. Bits of him. I can hardly cut him up with this knife.

2. I didn’t bring any bin bags.

3.

10.

I’ve never seen such a poor arrangement of tools as I have in this garage.

Until my recent home improvements, I’d never been one for D.I.Y but - even so - I always made sure I had a garage full of tools on the off chance something needed to be fixed unexpectedly.

I mean, this is just weird, there are hanging spaces for the various tools - even pictures of what should be hanging on the hooks.... it’s just.... the tools are missing. Maybe, by trade, he’s a builder and he’s left them on a work site somewhere? More likely, when he bought or rented the house this set up had already been arranged and he simply put out what he had.

Even so, I couldn’t have done that. I would have needed to fill all the available spaces - matching them up perfectly with their picture counterparts. What sort of sorry excuse of a man was he?

Idiot.

I move to the back wall and thankfully find the piece I am looking for; a saw. It’s rusty and doesn’t look as sharp as it should do but I’m sure, with some effort, it will be what’s required of it. After all, how hard can it be to cut through bone?

I never thought I’d find myself pondering that.

It’s been a strange evening...

I take hold of the saw and yank it from it’s hanging space - leaving another blank space on the wall of useful equipment. I just need some bags now. I wonder where someone like this keeps their bags?

The kitchen.

That’s where I keep mine.

Near the swing-top bin, to be precise, so they are always within reach when the bin needs emptying. Surely that’s not just me, though. Surely that’s just common sense and everyone does the same; keeps their black bags near to the bin.

I remember who lives here.

‘Common Sense’ could be a big ask.

Regardless of my sudden doubts, I step out of his small garage and back into the kitchen. No obvious bin to be seen so I move towards the sink - presuming there will be one of those little pre-installed bins hiding in the cupboard underneath.

I open the cupboard - bingo - there’s the bin.

No bin-liner, though, it’s one of those small bins that’s only just big enough for a carrier bag.

Damn it.

I wonder, how many carrier bags would it take to dispose of a human body? And you can’t really trust them anyway. They’re too easy to split. The last thing I need is to be chasing his ugly head as it rolls away from me, down a busy high-street. Bad idea.

Maybe I should pop out to the supermarket and buy me some of those bags for life? They’re only ten pence and I’ve never had one of those split on me before now, even after I’ve really crammed it various sized tins of food.

No.

Stupid idea.

Someone might come round and find him.

Why is nothing, in life, simple?

Forget the bag, for a bit, I can’t afford to run out of time. If the sun comes up I won’t have the cover of darkness to make my getaway. I’ll get the messy bit done and then worry about a bag - after all, there must be something I can use in this house to shift him from the scene.

I close the cupboard again and turn back to the body that’s waiting for me in the hallway. With saw in hand, I approach him - not entirely sure on the best way to tackle this.

I should have Googled it before I came out.

Google knows everything.

I sit on the bottom step of the stairs and look at the corpse I’ve recently made.

Okay.

Keep things simple.

Six pieces should be small enough. Start with the head - it’s creeping me out. Everywhere I go, it’s like the eyes follow me. Definitely start with the head. Then the arms and then the legs. Should I detach the feet and hands, I wonder. Is that over the top? Entirely necessary?

Fuck it - keep it simple. No need to overcomplicate things. Especially when time is against me. Six pieces will be fine.

I pounce from the bottom step and land, on my knees, next to his head.

He’s still looking at me.

Okay.

This is it.

I take the saw with my left hand and press it against his neck. I use my right hand to take a handful of his greasy-hair to help steady his head from rolling from side to side when I start sawing.

Seriously - did he even know what shampoo was?

I’ll have to wash my hands afterwards.

I press down harder on the saw so the teeth bite into his neck.

Wait.

Blood.

There’s already a pool of blood from where I stabbed him. That will be hard enough to get out of the carpet - unless of course I just cover it with a rug or something... even so, I don’t need more of a mess to clear up.

I need to put him on something - something to soak up the blood.

Or, at least, something easier to clean than carpet.

Like a bath-tub.

Simple.

As long as he has a bath-tub, that is.

I should have killed him around my house - it would have been so much easier to fix everything afterwards and I would have had the right tools for the job! I drop the saw and quickly run up the stairs to see what I can find.

The first room is his bedroom. Small and messy, there’s a strange smell in the air.

Don’t ask.

Not that he’d answer if I did ask.

The second door leads to the airing cupboard - empty. Hardly surprising. He’s probably never washed an item of clothing in his lifetime. Probably still bagged it up and passed it back to his mother.

If that is the case, least it means there are some bags knocking about the place.

I’ll find them later.

The third room is the one I wanted.

The bathroom.

Complete with a large, white bath-tub.

Happy days.

Happier days had I killed him upstairs - save having to drag his sorry arse up the stairs. Still, no point dwelling on that. The sooner I start, the sooner I’m back in the safety of my own home - back to preparing it for Susie and I.

The perfect little nest for the two of us to live happily ever after - I can’t wait.

I shake my head.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

First things first. I’ve got some cleaning up to do...

Some serious cleaning up!

Even so - not bad for a first attempt. I’m fairly proud of myself.

* * * * *

Normally he’s called by now. I’d walk out, he’d let me go and then, a couple of hours later, he’d send a text which I’d ignore - after that - the telephone calls start and continue until I answer him.

He was always persistent.

Not now, though. Not even a text.

Good.

I don’t want a text message from him. I don’t want to hear from him - no text messages, no phone calls and certainly no home visits.

Home visit...

He wouldn’t would he? He wouldn’t skip the texts and calls and just come over would he - angry at how I spoke to him? I shouldn’t have got angry with him. I should have just got dressed and walked out - maybe even lied to him and agreed to see him again, had he asked.

Anything to keep him happy.

Save the possibilities of seeing the temper again.

I let out a sigh.

Why did I think he would have changed? Why do I always believe he’s capable of changing. The first time it ended, my mum told me that a leopard never changes it’s spots. I wish mum was here now. She always says the right things.

It’s too late to call her.

Why do I feel disappointed he hasn’t sent me a text? I don’t want to hear from him and yet, his silence is deafening. I roll onto my side and glance to my mobile phone that’s sitting on the bedside cabinet with it’s charger plugged in and, just as I do, the screen illuminates and a message pings through.

A smile sneaks onto my face.

A smile?

Why?

I don’t want to hear from him. Why am I smiling?

I wonder what the text message says.

Without getting up I reach over to the phone and pull it towards me, carefully so as not to unplug it from the wall. These smart-phones are all well and good but, they never seem to keep their charge for long. If I don’t leave it plugged in all night, and every night, there’s not a chance it will last for a full day.

I click into the message screen; my heart beating hard unsure as to whether I’m going to be seeing a nice message or one of spite. The thing with Sam, he could go either way.

Peter?!

Okay then.

I click into the actual message - ‘thinking of you’ - with some kisses.

Erm.

I’m not entirely sure of what to make of that.

I hadn’t given Peter much thought since hearing from Sam again; a sign that Peter isn’t the one for me. If he had been the one - I wouldn’t have been able to stop thinking of him.

He’s nice enough, just not the one for me.

I can’t ignore him, though. He’s a customer. It would be awkward when he comes in. I’ll play the friend card.

‘Hope ur ok. I’ve had a really good think since I got home yesterday, im sorry, but i think i would rather stay as friends. had a good time yesterday, speak soon.’

A text, like that, is normally the kiss of death to a man.

This whole Sam escapade has just proven to me, I’m not ready for a relationship yet. I thought I was - I thought it was time to move on but.... no. I’m done with relationships for the time being.

* * * * *

I’m tired.

If I ever do this again, I’m using a sharper saw. A chainsaw would be desirable. Although maybe too loud for this sort of task. Might get the neighbours complaining.

I cast a glance back into the bath-tub, full of limbs and the ever-staring head, just as my mobile phone vibrated on the side of the sink.

Susie.

I’ve been thinking of her throughout this ordeal.

Of course I had.

Technically, it’s her fault I had to kill someone.

No.

No, that’s not fair.

It’s not her fault.

It’s his.

The ever-staring head.

It’s his fault.

He obviously had a hold on her. A small laugh escapes from my mouth. He had a hold on her. Had. He certainly doesn’t have the hold on her anymore. I laugh again and turn my attention away from the not-so-smug head and towards the message that came through on my mobi - friends?

I’ve saved her from this fuck and that’s what she wants; friendship.

No.

That doesn’t work for me.

She’s obviously confused but the confusion will be cleared up - just as soon as we’re on our own. No outside interferences. Just me and Susie.

She wants friendship? Fine. For now I’ll play along...

I’ll be the best friend she’s ever had.

I hit ‘reply’.

‘I never presume anything other than friendship’

To prove I’m not a threat I end it with a smiley-face. I don’t bother putting any kisses. Not yet. The smiley-face made it more friendly. She could read too much into a kiss.

I turn to the ever-staring face, “This is your fault, everything was going to be perfect between me and her before you came along.”

Great.

I’m talking to a head.

I’ve finally lost it.

I shake my head and force my mind back onto what I need to be doing; bags. I need bags. With no bags, I won’t be able to take him away. Just a few hours left. There must be a bag of some description in this house - perhaps a suitcase?

I leave the bathroom, looking like an abattoir, and swiftly move through to the bedroom. Under the bed is the first place to look; that’s where I used to keep my suitcases - when I was in a relationship. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have left the bags within such easy grasp. I just made it easier for.... for her.... to run off.

Don’t think about her now. There’s no time for that.

Besides, tonight is all about my future and my future is much more promising than the disaster which was my past. I drop to my knees and look under the bed; surprisingly very little clutter underneath the wooden frame given the state of the rest of the room. No suitcase though. Not even a sports bag.

A sports bag would do.

Irrelevant. There is no sports bag.

Over to the cupboard; loads of clothes, some hanging, some just thrown in there - nothing of interest. Still no bag. I can’t believe I didn’t think of a bag when I came here; such a basic item to remember...

On top of the cupboard.

Pay day.

A small, brown suitcase.

Small...

Brown....suitcase......

Small...

Why would he have such a small fucking bag? What use is a bag of this size?

Small!

I’m going to need smaller pieces.

I begrudgingly take the small bag from off the top of the cupboard and pull the zipper open to find a hidden stash of adult magazines within. Naughty. Carefully, I take them out and hide them under the bed - trying to keep everything neat and tidy.

Everything needs to be neat. Everything needs to be tidy. When I leave the house, I want it to look immaculate. Well.... I want it to look as how it looked before I got here. I’m not sure ‘immaculate’ is the right word. Regardless, I want it to look as though I was never here.

I want it to look like he has simply left.

I can’t believe I’m stood here thinking about tidying his porn up - not when the bathroom is flooded in blood and stringy stuff.

What is that stringy stuff, I wonder.

Not important.

I take the bag through to the bathroom and stop in the doorway.

Jesus.

I knew the bag was small but - seeing it now, next to the freshly cut pieces... I am definitely going to need a lot smaller pieces. Don’t even think about it. Just get it done. Time is running out faster than I am comfortable with.

I need to be gone.

I step into the bathroom, dropping the bag into a puddle of blood - not on purpose - it’s just the blood is hard to avoid. No sense worrying about it, as I collect the saw from on top of the toilet cistern, where I originally left it.

Here we go again.

Smaller pieces.

I wish I had a chainsaw.

11.

It’s been a long night.

I’m tired but....

....Everything is done.

His house is clean. If anything - cleaner than how I found it.

His car has been left at the ferry terminal; it was a long arduous walk back.

My own car is back in my garage; I won’t be able to leave it in there soon.

And I have my feet up, on a certain small brown bag in my lounge, whilst I decide which floorboard to stash it under - a hot, relaxing drink in my hand as my reward for a night’s work well done.... not that I really have time for a relaxing drink! Last night took longer than I originally anticipated. Who would have thought cutting someone up would have been so much hard labour?

Still, it’s done now.

The only question left to answer is still, which floorboard do I bury him under? At first I thought the middle of the room would be an ideal location but, thinking about it, disturbing the boards will only cause them to creak when pressure is applied - what if Susie gets annoyed, in years to come, with the noisy floorboards and attempts to fix them? I’m not sure I could explain the bag - let alone the gruesome contents.

Even if they are her fault.

I think the corner of the room would be more suitable - especially given the fact there’s a plug directly above the board. That’s where I’ll plug in the room freshener.

I have a feeling, as the months go on, I’ll be needing the plug-in air fresheners. Especially if the weather stays as warm as it has been recently. Already he isn’t smelling as fresh as he once did - and that’s saying something knowing the layers of grease glued in his hair.

What did she ever see in him? It certainly wasn’t hygiene. Or money. I had a good look through his house, for money, before I left. All I found was a tiny pot, filled with an odd assortment of coins, some of which weren’t even English.

I couldn’t be bothered to take them.

My mind wanders back to the decomposing body; maybe it would be best to put him somewhere else. Somewhere where his stench won’t be insulting our senses. I don’t want to put them in the garden - whenever someone has buried their victim in the garden they’ve been caught. Normally seen, by their neighbours, digging late at night.

Sure, I don’t have any neighbours near me for miles but - I’m not taking the chance. I’m doing this right. I don’t have a choice. One mistake and my beloved will be visiting me in prison.

I can’t think straight. I’ll leave him in the garage for now and have a quick lay down before I carry on decorating the house. Just a quick lay down. No time for more than that.

I stand up and take hold of the bag; it’s actually heavier than it looks. I shouldn’t be surprised by this, as I pull it off the floor, and walk it through the kitchen towards the garage.

Of course it’s heavy. There’s a body in it, after all. Admittedly some of it is mushed up pretty bad - it’s still a person.

Was.

It was a person.

As I open the door, leading to the garage, I stop dead.

I haven’t put the shopping away that I got yesterday. Was so busy taking care of fuck-nuts, in the bag here, that I forgot. The frozen food, probably thawed out and fit for nothing but the bin now.

Annoying.

It’s not like meat is cheap.

Hmmmm.

Meat.

Stick it straight in the freezer, it’ll last for ages. Susie liked this lad. I wonder. Would she like him with mash potatoes or chips. Should I really do this?

Well...

... it makes up for the food that I left out overnight. And I so hate to waste food.....

I step into the garage and approach the large chest freezer which is by the far wall. I’ve just had a bad thought....

I open the freezer.

Space.

Always an issue in this freezer.

Never enough space.

I look down to the bag which is still in my hand.

I’m going to need smaller pieces...

* * * * *

The alarm, programmed into my mobile phone, wakens me with a start.

Another day.

Great.

Another day at work.

Another day at work being single.

Oh good. I’m in for one of those days. A day spent feeling sorry for myself.

I don’t think so.

I reach across and hit the keypad button, on the phone, which corresponds with ‘snooze’. I’ll keep pressing it until I wake up in the better frame of mind.

Even if it means I’m late for my shift.

I don’t care.

I’m fed up feeling blue.

There has to be more in life than a loser of an ex-boyfriend and working a dead end job in a shitty supermarket. A shitty supermarket with a lousy uniform.

I’ve got rid of the ex-boyfriend. I could always quit the job too. A proper fresh start. Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll go in today and quit. Just hand my notice in. It will be for the best.

I throw the warm duvet back, letting the cold air wake me up.

I might as well get up.

My brain obviously isn’t going to let me snooze.

Hello, World.

I swing my feet, from the mattress, onto the carpeted floor and pull myself into an upright position. I wonder, could I get away with calling in sick today?

No.

I need the money.

Need to pull myself out of this negative slump that I’m in.

First things first, need to put some clothes on, it’s bloody freezing!

I drag myself through to the bathroom and turn the shower on - letting the water run to the desired temperature, before kicking my black panties off and stepping in; allowing the warm water to wash away my negativity.

Come on, girl, things aren’t really that bad.

And, if they are, they can only get better.

Right?

12.

Beans - tinned. Own brand.

BEEP.

Tuna - tinned. Own brand. Gross. It’s more slush than tuna.

BEEP.

Spaghetti - tinned. Own brand. Don’t blame them, it’s just as good as the named.

BEEP.

Hot Dogs - tinned. The cheap ones. What a healthy diet.

BEEP.

Ravioli - tinned, naturally. I’m sure this is the first tin I’ve seen pass through my till. I didn’t think anyone actually ate this; thought it was just on the shelves to keep them looking full. I stand corrected.

BEEP.

Sweetcorn - branded. What makes the sweetcorn so special that they need the named product. I’d ask them but... I don’t actually care.

BEEP.

I smile at the customer as I pass the tin across the scanning. They don’t smile back. People rarely smile back these days.

Peas - tinned. Own brand.

BEEP.

More own brand beans - still tinned.

BEEP.

Soup. Chicken and Vegetable flavour. Branded. Tinned.

BEEP.

Tomato Soup - tinned. Different brand. I wonder why.

No, I don’t. I don’t care.

BEEP.

Tomato Soup - tinned. Different brand to the previous tomato soup. We must have a shortage. One of the shelf-stackers not doing their job properly again, no doubt.

BEEP.

This is my life.

Sardines - tinned.

BEEP.

This is my life and it’s ending one can at a time.

I stop my conveyor-belt and slump back in the uncomfortable stool the store give us to ‘rest’ in.

“Something wrong?”

I look at the customer. Is ‘something wrong’ they ask - I wonder, would they really care if there was something wrong or are they more concerned with the fact I’ve stopped scanning through their items.

“You okay?” the customer repeats.

I stand up, “I’m sorry....”

I’m not really sorry. I don’t care.

“What’s the matter?” asked the customer.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Is the machine broken?”

I look at the customer in utter disbelief.

“No,” I speak slowly for them, “the machine isn’t broken.... I’ve had enough of doing this shit job day in and day out.... I’m fed up.... fed up with serving miserable people such as yourself.... I’m fed up passing the same products down to the bagging area, day in and day out.... I’ve had enough.”

The customer’s just looking at me now.

“I

can’t

do

this

anymore.....”

I don’t wait for a comeback. I stand up and walk away - ignoring the queue of customers I have, all of whom are just looking at me. I ignore Jackie, on the next till down from my own one... I know she’s saying something but the adrenaline flowing through my body, making my heart beat loudly, drowns out her voice.

No turning back no.

I just need to get out back. Get out back, away from the eyes and whispering voices.... get my coat and go home.

What the Hell am I doing?

Don’t think about it. Just carry on. You’ve done it now. Even if you change your mind, you’ll probably be fired for your outburst anyway. The scene, I’m creating, is bigger than a written warning....

No.

Don’t think about it.

This will be for the best, anyway.

The Ex is out of my life, for good. And so will this job be, within the next thirty minutes or so, after I’ve cleaned out my locker.

I’ll probably have to find a new place to live too. I won’t be able to pay the rent anymore. It’s not like I have anything saved up for situations like this. I don’t care.... I probably will in the morning when everything I’ve done, sinks home, but for now - I’m carefree.

A fresh start will be good for me.

I push the door open, which reads ‘staff only’, and step through to the back room corridors which lead the way to the staff cafeteria and - more importantly - my locker....

As I reach the locker, and pull the door open, I wonder whether I’m meant to stick my head into the manager’s office and let him know what I’m doing. Is that the correct protocol or do I simply walk out and let one of the other staff members tell him?

Jackie’s probably already told him...

She’s probably already announced it to the World...

* * * * *

“She’s not here.”

“I’m sorry?” I ask.

“Susie...”

Play it dumb.

“Susie?”

“I know who you are.... she was talking about you. You’re Peter.”

I approach the empty till, where this woman is calling across to me from - both so I can read her name tag and to stop other people listening in on our conversation.

Jackie.

Not as pretty as Susie, that’s for sure, and she looks as though she is enjoying watching me squirm at the thought of knowing all about me - with me knowing so little about her. I don’t like her.

“I thought she was working today?” I ask, ignoring the previous comment about the two of them talking to me; showing it doesn’t bother me.

“She was supposed to be.”

“She’s ill?”

“Mentally, yes....”

What was that meant to mean? I pause - resisting the urge to ask my new friend, Jackie, whether she is being purposefully difficult.

“Not even an hour into her shift, she just stood up and walked out... said she couldn’t do it anymore.... Her head is probably all confused from her date with her ex-boyfriend.”

I look at Jackie and she smiles, slyly. It’s obvious she’s hoping for a reaction. Had it not been for the fact I had been up all night, cleaning up the tiny pieces of the ex-boyfriend, she may have got one from me.

As it is - I’m tired.

And I’ve already won that particular fight.

I shove the shopping trolley, I was previously pushing, away from me and walk from Jackie - towards the store’s exit.

“What about your shopping?” she calls out from behind me.

I ignore her.

Again.

As I leave the store, I think about Susie and hope that she’s okay. I’m sure she is. She’s a sensible girl and I’m sure she has a plan - a valid reason for walking out of her job. Either way, as a friend, I’m sure she won’t mind if I pop round to her house to make sure that she is okay.

A friend in need...

I climb into my car and fire up the engine - I’ll go to her house now, strike whilst the iron is hot. She’ll be impressed that I’m there for her so soon after learning the news; swing by the bus stop first, just in case she is still there. I know how poor the bus services are around here so she’ll be even more impressed if I’m even able to give her a lift home!

If I play this right, I don’t think we’ll just be ‘friends’ for long and I can’t help but smile, a little, as I pull out of the car park and head towards the bus stop.

The bus stop isn’t far from the supermarket, making it nice and convenient to the shoppers who aren’t fortunate enough to drive and it’s not long before I am parked up opposite it.... empty.

She isn’t there.

No one is.

Not even any old age pensioners, which surprises me a little bit.

No loss.

She’ll still be just as happy when I show up at her house. Maybe stop off on the way and grab some flowers - a little gift, from one friend to another, just to cheer her up a little.

I wonder....

..... Will she even need cheering up?

It was her choice to walk out, from the sounds of it. Maybe she’ll already be really happy. I won’t get her the flowers, yet. I’ll save them for another occasion where she’ll definitely be needing some cheering up. Save my money...

There is a recession on, after all.

I press my foot down on the gas - keen to get to Susie’s house as fast as I can; make sure I’m the first person round there.... to comfort her - or should that be ‘congratulate’ her?

As my speed gathers - I’ll find out what her mood is like, soon enough.

I’m excited and, at the same time, a little nervous.

This afternoon could be the making of us.

* * * * *

I don’t know what I feel.

Everything seems to have gone wrong, in a very short space of time. I should be thinking of this as a new, fresh start but - I can’t help but feel as though it’s the end of the line.

No partner.

No job.

No money.

And, if things don’t turn around soon, no home.

I feel numb.

I’m sure, when the numbness wears off and the adrenalin stops pulsating through my body, I’ll panic and break down and cry... until then, I have nothing to give.

I should get down the job centre straight away - start applying for anything and everything... try and find something to get the money coming in - minimise the damage as best as I can.

At least that’s what I should do.

But I can’t move.

I got in and just dropped to the floor, in the middle of the hallway, on my knees - totally beaten. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here now - could be minutes. It could even be hours.

Come on, Susie, this won’t do.

Get up.

Get yourself motivated.

Start putting things right.

You can do it.

You put yourself in this situation, you can get yourself out of it.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

A knocking from the front door breaks my motivational inner-monologue and startles me back to the real world; with my heart beating hard, from the sudden jump, I turn my head, back towards the front door and who-ever was knocking. If I don’t move.... if I stay really quiet - whoever it is, they might go away and leave me be.

I don’t want to see anyone.

Who even knows I’m home?

Maybe it’s my boss - come to talk me round leaving. Should I go back? It would make everything easier if I did. Put up with it for a little longer whilst I look for something new to go and do.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

I clamber up to my feet; I’ll do it. I’ll go back. I won’t say ‘yes’ straight away, though. I won’t let him see I’m desperate. At the moment... at the moment I’m the one in the power seat.

I feels nice.

Comfortable.

I open the do......

Peter?!

“Hi,” he said, “I came as soon as I heard...”

“I’m sorry?”

“Jackie told me. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine... I’m sorry but I’m a bit busy - did you need something?”

“No. Sorry. I just came to check up on you - see if you were okay...?”

“Thank you,” I smile at him. Not because I’m pleased he came around to my house uninvited - it seems a little... stalker-ish to me... But I smile at him because it seems the polite thing to do.

“Bit of a rash decision, though! Is there anything you needed? Anything I can do for you?”

Anything he can do for me? I’d walked out of a job - not broken my leg.

“I’m good, thank you. Look, I’m sorry but I really need to be somewhere...”

He laughs, “Job centre?”

I don’t respond, other than to stare at him in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, just my sense of humour,” he said.

“Look, I don’t think it’s really appropriate for you to just turn up around here - uninvited. It’s a little bit weird.”

“Uninvited? You did invite me - the other night?”

“We had a date.”

“Yes.”

“And then I text you saying I’d rather we stayed as friends....”

He doesn’t react. He’s just stands there, in my doorway, looking at me.

“We are friends,” he says, eventually.

“Okay,” I don’t want to make him angry. His expression seems cold - emotionless - and I feel uneasy. I have a quick look to the left and right, of him, seeing if there is anything around who could help me if he becomes aggressive but, unfortunately, the street seems deserted.

He continued, “and this is what friends do, right? They pop over and check to see if the people they care about are okay or not - especially after they’ve been through something traumatic...”

“I walked out of a dead-end job, it was hardly traumatic,” I said. I discreetly push the door closed a little bit, helping to get a barrier between Peter and I - if he tries anything funny - it’s not as far for me to slam it shut, should I need to.

“You walked out of your job and I was worried about you....”

“And I said thank you - it was sweet of you to think about me.”

“But not sweet of me to pop over and see if you’re okay? Well, what should I have done?”

You should have taken the hint that my ‘friendship’ text was simply a polite way of telling you to go away and leave me alone. Don’t say it, Susie. Bite your tongue.

“Maybe you should have called to see if it was convenient to come over?”

He doesn’t say anything - again, he just stands there for what seems an eternity.

“Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you. Next time, I’ll text....”

And the worrying thing is - I think there will be a next time when he feels the need to get in touch with me.... I’ll have to change my number.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” he said.

He has.

“You haven’t. Again, thank you for popping over but I’m good, thank you.” I start to close the door but he puts his hand on it, stopping me from pushing it further.

“So, did you need a lift to the job centre? It’s not a problem - it’s on my way home.”

“No, but thank you, my mother’s coming over to take me down there. You know what mum’s are like.”

Another lie.

He paused for a minute before, “Well, if you’re sure... look, if you need anything.... anything.... don’t be a stranger - give me a call. We’re friends, after all.”

He smiled at me. A smile that went straight through my soul, sending a shiver down my back. I’m not worried about losing the house now - I think I really should be moving. Move to a new house. Change my number.

I don’t want friendship.

“Well, thanks again....” I reiterate as I put a little more pressure on the door, forcing it to close. I can’t help but let out a little sigh of relief as the Yale lock clicks into place.

He didn’t seem that strange when we first met; almost as though he’s a different person. Still feeling uneasy, I walk through to the lounge and peep through the netted curtain - he’s at the bottom of the driveway now, looking back at the house.

Seriously creepy.

He turns around, again, and crosses the road to what I can only presume is his car.

Don’t stop watching him.

Make sure it is his car.

Another sigh of relief as he climbs inside and drives off down the road - a little squeal from his tyres as he goes. Have I annoyed him or is he just heavy footed? Either way, when I do leave for the job centre; I think I’ll go out via the back door.

13.

“What a fucking cunt.”

My outburst didn’t shock me. I’m often caught unawares by such occurrences when I am feeling upset or bad about something. And this is one of those occasions. I pull my car up to the side of the road - I fear I may have an accident if I carry on at the moment.

Just need to give myself a little time.

A little time to calm down.

Even so...

What a fucking cunt. Sam. Sam. That fucking cunt, Sam.

This is his fault.

All of his fault.

If it weren’t for him, getting back on the scene - her mind would never have been confused and her thoughts wouldn’t have been poisoned against me.

That fucking cunt.

If it weren’t for him, right now, Susie and I could be a proper couple. But, no, he had to ruin it. He had to ruin everything.

That fucking cunt.

I’m glad I killed him.

Fucking glad.

If I could - I’d do it all over again. Bring him back to life some how, just to see the look on his face as I plunge the knife back into his puny little chest. I can’t help but let out a little laugh.

Unexpected but pleasant.

Brought on by remembering the look on that fucking cunt’s face when I did stab him. Looking back, I wish I had a camera. Memories don’t last forever. Sure, the basics of the memory can last years - and sometimes even a lifetime - but not the exact memory. No, they often get turned around and slightly distorted as the time goes on. I don’t want this one to get distorted; the look on his face.

A proper Kodak moment.

Mental note to self - if I’m ever going to kill anyone again, make sure I have a camera to hand.

Even so, I can’t believe how that little thought has just completely turned my mood around. I feel a little calmer now.

Thanks, Sam.

It’s nice to know that, although you ruined my relationship with Susie.... it’s nice to know you’re trying to make amends, even in death. So... Thanks.

Fucking cunt.

I laugh again as I drive away from the side of the road, where I had previously pulled over to. I’m still not exactly happy but at least I feel calm enough to drive.

I just can’t believe the damage he did in that short amount of time.

Was it even a short amount of time?

Now my mind is wondering as to whether she was really single when we met up for the evening. Was she single? Was he already on the scene? Had she broken up with him recently and so, even though technically she was single, he wasn’t quite out of her mind yet?

It’s not important.

No.

I have bigger things to think about. More important things to worry about.

Like, how am I going to make this right? How am I going to fix this? Make good, my relationship between Susie. I can’t give up on her, even though it’s the logical thing to do.

I don’t want to give up on her.

We’ve been through too much together.

We’ve been through too much together and, deep down, I know we’d be perfect together.

Besides, I think I love her.

I cringe.

I realise how stupid that must sound but I can’t help my feelings.

I think I love her.

I think I love her.

I love her.

I guess that’s why it hurts so much - the fact she can’t even be civil to me as a ‘friend’. It was her that suggested friendship so... why wouldn’t she accept a lift from me? Why wouldn’t she want me, a friend, to pop over to her house to see her when I hear she is feeling low?

The more I think about it....

.... I think, maybe.... maybe she doesn’t want to stay as friends? Maybe she said that hoping I’d just drift away in my continuing search the find the right woman.

She doesn’t really know me very well....

But she will.

She just needs time.

In time she’ll get to know me and, in time, she’ll realise I’m perfect for her.

I just need to keep her away from outside interferences.

Keep people like that fucking cunt away from her. I won’t let someone like him come between us again. I’ve learnt my lesson. I won’t fall into the same trap again.

Ever.

It will just be the two of us.

Me.

Her.

Me and her.

No one else.

Hmmm, easier said than done.

I guess I have some work to do.

* * * * *

There’s no work I am qualified to do, as I tap through the touch-screen computer in the job centre. Absolutely nothing. Five screens worth of jobs - nothing.

If I come back in a couple of days and stumble across my old job, I think I’m going to cry. I wonder, should I re-apply for it if it does come up?

No.

Don’t give them the satisfaction.

Besides - I hated it there.

I turn away from the computer screen and look towards the office clerks’ desks; all occupied by the job centre staff and people such as myself.

A sign of the times as I turn to the waiting area and fail to spot a seat that isn’t occupied. I really shouldn’t have walked out of my job.

Too late.

It’s done.

I’ve already walked out. I can’t just walk back in with an apology.

Or could I?

Maybe I should give it a try. At least, if I’m turned away, I can say I tried.

No. It’s a stupid idea.

Don’t dwell on it. It’ll only plague my thoughts.

I walk over to the corner of the room and what appears to be the end of the queue and patiently wait my turn to see one of the staff-members.

My first time in the job centre.

The most depressing building I’ve ever been in.

14.

By the time I would have finished this house; it was to be the nicest place she would have ever seen. The sort of house where she could envision a perfect future with the man she loved. The perfect house. Perfect for her. Perfect for us.

And in time...

Perfect for our family.

Even perfect for our dog.

Well...

Too bad.

I raise the crow-bar, taken from the corner of the garage, and bring it down hard on the posh dining room table - a few heavy swings and it’s already starting to look like match-sticks. The bigger pieces, I also stamp on, snapping the wood in to smaller chunks.

The banging, the crashing, the smashing...

This is actually good fun.

The cabinet is next, as I swing the crow-bar into the glass doors covering the room in tiny glass shards. A different angled swing of the crow-bar makes short work of the shelves within the cabinet.

This is really good fun.

Mirror on the far way also shatters into tiny fragments with one heavy swing.

The noise that one made....

... that one was the best one yet.

With each swing I feel more of the stress, poisoning my body, drip out of my sweat glands. I should have taken this hobby up years ago. It’s much more fun than making everything look nice and clean.

At this rate, by the end of the day - they’ll be nothing in this house. Nothing in this house to distract her from ‘us’. Nothing to get in the way of our beautiful relationship.

After making short work of the dining room table’s chairs, I drop to my knees exhausted and survey my handiwork.

Mental note to self - order a skip.

An apology.

It felt weird, round her house. A Strained start to our relationship.

I should apologise.

Say sorry for showing up at her place, uninvited. Show her that I can see how this wasn’t the right thing to do. Show her that I’ve learnt and won’t do it again. More importantly, show her I listened.

The perfect man.

I nod - agreeing with myself.

It’s a good plan.

I reach down to my pocket and pull my mobile phone from it.

A quick, non-intrusive text.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Hopefully she’ll reply and we can take it from there.

Start building bridges.

Hi. Sorry I upset you this morning.

Didn’t mean any harm. Hope ur ok x

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

We’ll see how she responds to that and take it from there.

There’s no rush, though.

So much to do, in the house now. Effectively starting again. It would be fine if I were doing it from scratch but, I need to clear out the old stuff first. Get rid of anything and everything that may distract her from me.

I have a lot of work ahead of me.

Some people might be annoyed by this - starting again but not me.

No.

I can see the bigger picture.

I can see where all this is leading to and - I’m excited.

Speaking of starting again, though, I’m going to need new furniture. Nothing elaborate. Nothing fancy. Nothing that may take her thoughts away from me.

Basic furniture; the cheap stuff.

White walls.

No paintings, no pictures - nothing.

When she’s living with me. When we’re a couple. Properly, I mean. When that time comes; we can go out and make the place ours. A little flutter of excitement in my stomach as I picture our future shopping trips.

This is going to be great.

And convincing her I am the man for her... when it’s just the two of us... well, convincing her won’t be hard. Not when I have her to myself with no outsiders getting in the way of it.

Yes.

This really is going to be great.

* * * * *

I wonder if restraining orders work. Or whether they just upset the person that receives them to such an extent, they feel forced into doing something stupid. The man clearly has issues.

I wonder how far he’d go.

No.

I don’t want to think about it.

I have enough on my plate to deal with, at the moment.

I close the text message down and throw the phone to the far side of the lounge, where it safely lands on the sofa.

How did my life get to this?

I shouldn’t have walked out on Sam. Peter would have got the message if Sam was still around. And if he didn’t -

Well, he would have got the message.

I wonder, would Sam do me the favour of scaring Peter off for me? After how I spoke to him, I doubt it. He’d probably find the whole situation funny. Besides which, I’m not entirely sure as to whether Peter would be scared off by Sam.

If I ignore him, I’m sure he’ll go away eventually.

Or show up again?

Round my house.

Uninvited.

For fucks sake what have I got myself into this time? I should never have told him my address - especially for a first date. You just.... You just never think of things like this happening to you. You always read about it happening to other people.

Never you...

Maybe I should call Jackie. Tell her how weird Peter is being. Mind you, I’m surprised she isn’t already round here; her shift ended over an hour ago. I would have thought I would have been her first port of call, after work, just to get the gossip as to what happened.

I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before there’s a knock at my door.

Mustn’t forget to look through the curtain, first. Make sure it’s not Peter again!

No, I’m fine.

It won’t be him.

Not after this morning.

Not after the last text message he sent. He couldn’t be that stupid.

Where the hell is Jackie?

I walk over to where I foolishly threw my mobile phone and scroll through the contacts until I find Jackie’s name. One click on the keypad later and it’s ringing....

15.

“You’re a bitch!”

“Thanks for that.” Jackie, the one straight-talking constant in my life. “And how am I a bitch?”

“I had to stay on, last week, when you walked out. And I’ve been pulling double-shifts since, to make up for the store being short staffed.”

“They’ve made you do double-shifts?”

“Well, no.... I volunteered it. More money. But I’m still tired! And it’s still your fault!”

“You didn’t need to volunteer! No one forced you to do it!”

“Technically my credit card bill forced me to do it but if you hadn’t walked out I would never have had the choice presented to me....”

“So, if you think about it, your out of control spending habits forced you into the double-shifts....”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she smiles.

“So, how have you been? What have you been up to?”

“You mean other than wondering where my supposed best friend has been?”

“I told you, you forced me to do double-shifts!”

I laugh but move the conversation away from the circle in which it’s headed, “I’ve been fine - signed on, eventually, and just hunting for jobs.”

“And how’s that going?”

“It’s not. There’s nothing out there...”

“Nothing?”

“Well, nothing that I want to do.”

“I know of one job...”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

“I’m not coming back.”

“Oh, go on... it’s not the same without you. It’s boring! I’m sure Phil would take you back in a heart-beat.... you should see the dross he has been interviewing. They all look as though they lack the mental capabilities to stack a shelf, let alone operate a till....”

Phil was the store manager. Right from the moment I met him, I always felt uneasy around him. Every time I turned around, I’d see him standing near-by just watching me. Sometimes he was doing nothing else at the time so he would literally just be there, in the middle of the store.... looking at me. It used to freak me out.

“I’m not coming back....”

“You know Phil would take you back....” She adopted a silly voice, “He fancied you..... You’re his special girl....”

“Oh shut up! That’s disgusting.”

“So what are you going to do then?”

“Sponge off society for the rest of my life, claiming benefits?”

“Okay, you realise that, at some point, they’ll expect you to get a job, right?”

“I know... and I will. I’m already bored with being sat at home....”

“Oh, my heart bleeds for you.”

“Quit your job too! Be a lady of leisure, you could spend your time round here with me.”

“I’m sure the other half would be really happy about that.”

“He might be. He’d probably enjoy it, the thought of us...”

Jackie laughs, “Yes, he probably would but, sorry, I prefer cock.”

“Jackie!” It was my fault she stooped that low but, even so, it still surprised me. I should have known it was a mistake to even hint at something like that. Jackie’s mind was always a split second away from anything sex related.

“So what was the voicemail message all about anyway?” she asked, thankfully taking the conversation back into ‘normal’ territory. “You sounded upset.”

“A week ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sounded upset a week ago and, a week later, you only just get around to asking what’s wrong. Some friend you are!”

“I told you, I’ve been busy.... besides.... I’m here now, aren’t I?”

After I practically had to beg her to come over.

“I suppose,” I mutter, trying to keep the peace. After all, she’s here now, no need to harp on about it taking a week to return my call. I’m just thankful it wasn’t an emergency.

“So what was it all about?”

“A bit of everything, I guess - Peter showed up here, the day I walked out.”

“I wondered if he would...”

“You told him?”

“I didn’t tell him to come round your house, if that’s what you’re asking. But, I did tell him you had walked out. He was being weird - just walking up and down the aisle, like he was looking for your check-out. You know, he didn’t even buy his shopping?”

“He walked out with it?”

“No, as soon as he found out you’d just walked out - he did the same. Pushed his trolley to one side and just left. Like a man on a mission. Phil was fuming; your boyfriend had a trolley full of frozen stuff he just abandoned....”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“So what did he want?” I noticed she ignored the comment about him not being my boyfriend.

“Just to check up on me. Make sure I was okay.”

“Well, that’s sweet....”

“It was weird. He was weird. I didn’t like it.”

“He just wanted to make sure you were okay, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s sweet. Have you seen him since?”

“No.”

“So that’s another man you frightened off?”

“Fuck you!” I never frighten the men off. They get bored with me and eventually leave me, Sam being the exception, but I never frighten them off. Peter was the first bloke I actively went out of my way to avoid and we weren’t even dating so that doesn’t count as a real boyfriend.

“Has he been in touch? Or tried?”

“No - the last text was later that same day; he sent me a text message to say sorry for coming round uninvited.”

“Well, there you go then.... he was just being sweet.”

“I guess.”

“Did you reply?”

“No.”

“And what about Sam?”

“What about him?”

“Has he been in touch?”

“No. That’s weird too - it’s like he has just vanished from the face of the planet. He’s never made it that easy when I’ve left him before. Normally he texts me, or calls me, until I agree to meet up with him again.... but, no, this time.... nothing.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to. Jackie has probably lost count the amount of times Sam and I have broken up and got back together again. She’s probably sick and tired of hearing about it.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

I cringe. I know how pathetic it is. I know he’s not good enough for me. I’m better than everything he has to offer - even in my current jobless, penniless predicament, I’m still better than everything he has to give.

“I give up with you two,” Jackie continued.

“I can’t help it.”

“Have you tried calling him?”

“No,” I pause for less than a split second, “and I won’t. I’m not interested. I’m taking this whole mess I am in as a fresh start....”

“Not the best of starts.... no boyfriend, no job.....”

“It can only get better.”

“You’ve jinxed yourself now! You realise that, right?”

“I don’t believe in any of that, I’ll be fine.”

* * * * *

She’s hardly left her house, this past week.

She’s definitely had the time to answer my text message. A friendly apology for stepping out of line - unanswered. Shows she hasn’t forgiven me. She’s going to be hard work, I can tell.

Worth it, though.

Totally worth it.

Unless - unless, maybe she didn’t get the text message? I don’t get reports from my network provider telling me if messages have been read, let alone delivered so maybe it failed. Should I send another one? After all, if she replies straight away, this time, at least I’ll be ready for her.

Take her back to my house, show her what I’ve done to the place.

I hope she likes it.

That’s stupid.

It’s practically empty.

There isn’t anything not to like about the place.

I won’t text, not yet.

Soon.

I need to watch her for a little while longer. Make sure she really is as isolated as she appears. I hope so, it will make it easier when she suddenly vanishes. Like Sam. No one has missed him yet. At least, not that I’ve seen in the papers or News programs, I tend to watch in the evening.

If Susie’s life is as quiet as it appears, she’ll disappear with no one bothering to look for her. Other than her work colleague - I forget her name.

I wonder, maybe I should kill her first. Before I take Susie, kill her blabbermouth friend.

No.

Foolish.

I’ve been lucky with Sam, so far. Dear Sam.... resting in pieces in my freezer.

He’ll make a fine Sunday Roast for Susie, some day.

I laugh to myself.

Besides, thinking back to her work colleague, if I kill her - I think half the men in the town would notice - going by the impression I get of what sort of character she is. A slut of the worst kind.

The sort of ‘lady’ that gives others a bad name.

Another laugh.

I should kill her. Do society a favour. Save them from the diseases she no doubt passes around whenever she lays with another man. Whore.

And yet - it appears she’s Susie’s only friend.

All the time I’ve been watching - I haven’t seen anyone else come and go.

Her mother; she said her mother was taking her to the job centre. It must have been a lie. When I heard that, I feared she had a close relationship with her mother but I haven’t seen her once and I’ve been here, one and off, for every day.

I don’t like that she lied to me but I’ll forgive her this once.

I wonder, would a punch in the mouth make her realise lies are evil?

I told a lie when we first met.

I told her I was shopping for other people. An act of kindness. A necessary lie.

For what little good it did me.

Still, I’ll watch her for a while longer. Just in case she had more visitors during the times I wasn’t able to sit outside and look in on her life. By varying the shifts, with which I look upon her house, I have more chance of catching people coming and going. It’s important I get this bit right.

It’s a shame I don’t have CCTV. I could set it up, outside her house, constantly recording to ensure I never miss anything. Pointless, it’s a waste of money. I’ll get her all to myself soon enough and won’t have a use for the cameras. Watching the place in shifts - that’s my best option.

16.

Another full week has passed and she’s only left the house twice; once to go to the job centre and the other time for what appeared to be a walk - perhaps done just to get out of her house, as opposed to any real reason. Maybe she was going a little stir crazy, sat in there, all alone.

She won’t be alone soon.

It’s almost time.

I’m still happy she’s the one. The more I watch her. The more I want her. She is the one for me, without a shadow of a doubt.

I’ve been waiting for this moment, for what seems, forever.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I’ll bring her home.

A final walk around the house to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.

The lounge.

I’ve ripped the carpets up. One less thing to distract us from our time together. Carpets aren’t important, in a relationship and, again, it’ll be nice traipsing around the stores together, in the coming months, choosing a nice thick carpet to keep our feet warm in the colder months. The walls are just as bare as the floor - I’ve re-painted them white and taken down the various paintings I had originally hung to add colour and character to the room; again, none of which are important whilst I’m trying to show her I’m the perfect man for her. And, again, it will give us something to shop for in the future.

Against the far wall is a settee which will comfortably seat three people. To the side of that is an armchair for a further one person. I don’t plan on having more than four people in here. I especially don’t want just three people.

Truth be told, in the early months, I don’t want any other people in here. This is my house.

Susie’s home.

Our home.

The settee itself is a relatively nice sofa. I didn’t feel the need to buy the most expensive but, considering the amount of time I plan to be in here with Susie, I didn’t want the cheapest either. It had to be comfortable.

Comfortable doesn’t come cheap.

Sadly.

On the opposite wall of the lounge is a small television but I doubt I’ll be keeping that there, when I bring Susie home. I want her to talk to me, get to know me - enjoy my company. I don’t fancy the idea of her sitting there, watching television all night barely speaking a word to me.

Maybe I’ll just take the fuse out of the plug. There is no denying the television helps make the room look more comfortable to sit in - even if it doesn’t work.

Yes.

I’ll do that.

Mental note to self - take the fuse out of the television’s plug.

I walk through to the kitchen.

The shelves and sides are crammed with food. Too much for the two of us to eat before it goes out of date. But I’m not wasting it. Well, she’s not. I’ll eat the good stuff and serve her the out of date stuff first.

Apart from the overflowing cupboards, I’ve more or less left the kitchen as it was. It’s not a room I plan on her seeing for a while. After all, she’s my guest to start with so I’ll do the cooking.

In time? Well, in time it will be nice to come home to a meal cooked by the woman I love. I think that’ll be a few months off, though.

Sadly.

The hallway, leading to the stairs is also missing it’s carpet. The mirror, that hung on the wall adjacent to the stairs - smashed and removed. Only a nail sticks out of the wall showing there once was something there.

A nail also showing that something could hang there once again, too.... when we’re ready to make the home our own. Our little nest.

Not that it’s really needed, as it was the last room that I sorted, I stick my head into the dining room. A cheap table from B&Q, less than one hundred pounds and four chairs, which came with the table, around it.

I left place settings on the table.

I think place settings are important. They show everyone has their own place. A place for Susie, a place for me and, eventually, a place for some guests. Maybe, and I’m getting ahead of myself now, her parents.

I wonder, will they give me their blessing to be seeing their daughter?

Hopefully.

I walk up the stairs noticing they creak more, without the carpet. Maybe getting rid of the carpet here was a mistake? No matter, something else to shop for - a romantic shopping trip..... looking for carpet. I smile to myself.

The bathroom - a clean, white bath-tub, white walls, white sink, light blue tiled floor. I don’t like this room. It seems clinical. Depressing. The other rooms are a little depressing - what with being so empty - but there’s scope, there, for improving it.

To improve the bathroom - to the scale which I think is needed - would be a major upheaval. I don’t have the time or the patience. Still, it’s clean. That’s something at least. I close the door as I step back out onto the landing.

She doesn’t need to see that room straight away.

Not until we’ve spent the day together.

The spare bedroom, next to the bathroom. This is her room until she feels ready to move in with him - which will be soon, I hope. Not that I’ll pressure her.

Not straight away, at least.

Again, another room of white walls and floorboards - a single bed across from the doorway, against the far wall. Flowery sheets. A little colour for her. So she can feel comfortable.

This will be the nursery, in a few years.

That’s a strange feeling.

The next room down the hallway - my bedroom.

Soon to be our bedroom.

Same white walls, same creaky floorboards. A large double bed on the far wall. Built in wardrobes. This room - this room has potential for us. So many possibilities for what it could look like, in time to come.

I hope she doesn’t make it really girly, though.

I hope there’s a little compromise along the way.

Maybe she could do one side of the room and I could do the other? That would be fair. No, that’s stupid. Forget it. Even if I did mention that to her - it would probably offend her; like I don’t trust her to make choices that I’d like.

I close the door and peer into the next room; my study.

A black, glass table...

Top of the range iMac computer. No expense spared.

A digital clock on the magnolia painted wall. Silver frame. Black numbers. Classy.

Light wooden flooring - nicely laminated.

Comfortable, high-backed leather chair. Again, no expense spared.

This is my room.

Boys’ toys, in here. It’s none of her business what style I decorate this room in.

I close the door and lock it - with the lock I added to the door.

My room.

I’m happy. The house is looking ready for it’s guest of honour.

All I need to do....

All I have to do....

I have to collect her. Bring her home....

My heart skips a beat at the thought of it. In my mind, it’s a relatively easy process where I invite her around and she simply comes of her own accord but, seeing as she can’t even answer a straight-forward text, I doubt my invite will be accepted that easily.

The only way I can think of getting her back here is by taking her from her home. She won’t thank me for that. She won’t thank me but, in time, I hope she can forgive me - when she sees why I did it.

There’s no point second guessing what she’ll think or how she’ll behave. I just need to do it. I just need to get her home. Bring her back and worry about how she behaves then.

For all I know, she could be happy to see me? It’s been a couple of weeks now.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I read that somewhere.

Not sure where though.

Stop delaying.

Wasting time. Waiting for my brain to find a reason for me not to do this.

I’m doing it.

Tonight.

Tonight is the night.

I’m not coming home empty handed.

Not after all this.

17.

“Sam?” I open my eyes and peep into the darkness of my bedroom - half expecting to see Sam stood at the foot of the bed, with that charming smile.

There’s no answer.

I sit up, in my bed, a general feeling of unease. My heart beating hard from the sudden wake, the strangest feeling that someone was watching over me as I slept.

I squint harder into the darkness - I’m pretty sure no one is there but, even so, I lean over to the table, next to the bed, and flick the switch on the bedside lamp - illuminating the room as best as the little bulb can.

“Hello?”

I knew there’d be no answer. I feel stupid for even calling out. At least, when I called out for Sam, I can blame the fact that I was half asleep. Of course there’s going to be no answer. No one to reply. I locked the door on the way up to bed. I know I did.

I always lock the door before coming up.

Every day it’s the same.

I’m sure I did.

I think.

Did I?

I reach over to the small clock, next to the bedside lamp.

Three-thirty.

It feels like ages since I’ve slept properly. I blame it on the afternoon naps - something of a daily habit since finding myself unemployed. I’ll suffer, for those, when I do get a job again.

Did I lock the door?

Dammit.

You’re going to make me get out of bed, aren’t you?

You aren’t going to let me just go back to sleep; a peaceful dream. You’re going to make me get up, out of my warm and cozy bed just to check a door I am sure I locked. Pretty sure I locked, at least.

For fuck’s sake.

Okay.

But when we see it’s locked - I’m going to say I told you so. So, as long as you can cope with me gloating that I was right and you were wrong, I’ll check.

I wait a moment.

Nope.

I need to prove it to myself. Prove the nagging doubts, in my mind, that I did lock it, like I said I did. At least they’ll let me sleep then. Hopefully. And, tomorrow, I won’t have an afternoon nap. I’ll stay awake all day; keep myself busy so I can get a decent night’s sleep tomorrow evening.

Get my body clock back to normal; a head start for when I find myself a job again.

Everything sounds so easy when you say it in your head.

If only it was just as easy when you had to do it for real.

The lock?

Okay, I’m going.

I kick the duvet back. Jesus Christ it’s fucking cold.

Yeah, well, just think how lovely and warm the bed will be when you clamber back into it and snuggle down into your duvet. The warmth will be your reward for checking on the lock and proving me wrong.

I’m not going to be long so I don’t even stop to throw on my dressing gown. I just want to get downstairs and check the front door is locked and then straight back upstairs to the warmth of my bed.

I dart across the landing and down the stairs in what seems like seconds - not even stopping to turn the lights on - and I’m soon at the front door.

I twist the handle and give myself a little triumphant smile.

Locked.

I knew I had locked it.

But are you so sure about the back door?

I can’t even remember the last time I used the back door.

Which means it’s potentially been open for a good number of days. More reason to check it. Arguing with myself is just wasting time so I hastily walk through to the kitchen and try the back door.

Another triumphant smile to myself.

Locked.

And now, back to my bed - calling to me from upstairs.

I stop.

Another feeling of unease washes over me and I slowly turn back to the kitchen door - a typical back door with a large window showing the blackness of the night outside.

I walk over to the door and put my face up against the glass-pane to see the world beyond but it’s shrouded in nothing but blackness. With my hand, I feel for the light-switch, on the wall, to the patio light and flick it on illuminating the back garden.

I freeze.

Looking hard into the garden - to the shadows of the far corners - to see if there is anyone out there. To my relief, there is no one. A nervous laugh escapes my mouth.

See - I said I locked up.

Told you so.

I flick the light switch off and retire to the safety (and warmth) of my bedroom - under the covers, to be more precise. Had there been anyone in the back garden, I’m not entirely sure what I would have done - other than scream, that is.

In the dead of night, it’s amazing the tricks your mind can play on you.

You can be your own worse enemy.

I shake my head at myself, again, and lean over to flick the light off on the bedside lamp - plunging the room back into the haunting darkness that disturbed me in the first place.

“Sweet dreams,” whispered a voice from behind the bedroom door.

I screamed.

* * * * *

I’ve covered the room in less than the time it took for her to finish screaming and straddled over her body, as she lay there in the bed. She’s fighting hard, trying to get me off but she’s no match against my dead weight sitting on top of her and - as I hold a pillow over her face - she must be running out of air now.

I should have got a drug, or something, to speedily knock her out - like they do in the movies. But, where do you find things like that? I’m guessing it’s not something you can easily pick up on in the pharmacy. I imagine they’d ask all sorts of awkward questions.

She’s weakening now - as her legs try and kick me off and her hands pull, helplessly, at the pillow over her face. Yes, definitely weakening. She’ll go limp soon. And, when she does, I’ll keep the pillow over her face a little longer - just in case she’s pretending to be unconscious.

I wonder, how long should I hope it there for? I don’t want to kill her. What if I can’t get her to wake up? What if I do kill her? Do I still take her home with me? Or do I leave her here for the neighbours to find when the rotting smell of her corpse invades their home?

So many questions.

Why do I come to these things so ill-prepared.

I should have Googled it.

I’ll learn for next time.

Next time?

There shouldn’t be a next time. She’s the one for me. I shouldn’t need to do this again.

I’m sure she’ll be fine...

As if to cue her body went limp underneath me.

This is it.

She’s mine now.

I take a little of my weight off her body - just enough to give her the chance for freedom but allow me the chance to easily take control again - just in case she is pretending.

She doesn’t move.

In response to her lack of movement, I lift the pillow slowly from her face. Her eyes are shut. She looks so peaceful. I’m not fooled though. I don’t lower my guard. I’ve seen too many Hollywood movies where it turns out the victim is merely feigning death or unconsciousness and, just as the attacker lowers their guard, the victim suddenly springs to life and turn the tables back onto their attacker. The attacker becomes the victim.

I’m not falling for it.

She does look peaceful though.

An Angel.

My Angel.

I move my face closer to hers - half expecting her eyes to suddenly open. Half expecting her to sink her teeth into my throat. She must be able to feel my breath against her face now. If she’s going to suddenly wake up and attack me - this is her opportunity. She doesn’t move, though. She doesn’t suddenly spring to life and turn the tables on me. I smile. Hollywood always gets it wrong.

I drop the pillow onto the bed, next to her head, and with my right hand, move a piece of hair from her eyes. So pretty. I’ve made the right choice. She’s gorgeous. The most perfect skin.

I’m glad I didn’t have to resort to punching her, to knock her out.

It would have been a shame to blemish her beauty.

On the floor, next to where I hid, is my bag. I reach down and lift it onto the bed, next to Susie. When I leant over, it would have been the perfect time for her to suddenly kick me off - as my balance would have been off centre. She didn’t move, though.

Actually.... she’s very still.

A quick check of her pulse and all’s good.

Well, as good as it can be, given the situation.

Good so far as - she’s not dead.

I open my bag, with the zipper, and pull the duct tape out. I’ll start with her mouth. Start with her mouth so, if she wakes up, she can’t scream. Screaming would be the first reaction and could alert people something’s not right. I’m lucky the initial scream was soon stifled.

Next, I’ll tape her wrists and hands. When she realises she can’t scream, she’ll do anything to get away from me - she’ll lash out, she’ll try and get the tape from her mouth.... a lot harder if her hands are taped. Also, if she does manage to get away from me, it will be harder for her to open doors, as she tries to make her getaway.

Her ankles are the last thing to tape together - making a quick getaway less likely. I’m sure people would have their own preference to which bit they secure first but my plan makes sense to me.

Logical sense.

I’m sure she can do damage by kicking and running but she can do more damage to my plan by screaming and throwing things. Yes, this definitely makes more sense...

And, as I struggle to find the end of the duct tape, I guess it would have made more sense to prepare the end of the tape first too - from the comfort of my home - where time wasn’t an issue. Eventually, after what seems like hours - although in reality was probably less than a minute - I find the edge of the tape and start tearing strips off.

The first, as per my plan, goes across her mouth.

She can’t scream now.

The next strips, multiple strips on each, are for her wrists - promptly followed by her hands. By the time I’m done tearing strips off and wrapping them around her wrists and hands - she looks as though she is wearing mittens.

I wonder, when I tear the tape off her - will it sting?

I didn’t even give that a moment’s thought.

Time will tell.

Finally, I bind her ankles.

They’ll be no screaming, they’ll be no hitting, punching, scratching or throwing things and they’ll certainly be no running. She’s mine. All I have to do now is get her in the back of my car and drive her to our home.

This should be easy now.

The hard bit’s done.

18.

It’s funny how much your driving improves when you have a body in your car’s boot.

Speed limits are adhered to.

Road signs are taken as Gospel.

Traffic lights are obeyed.

You even find yourself more patient with other drivers too.

All to stay under the radar of any potential police officers.

At least with Sam - he was crammed into a bag. If I had been pulled over and searched, they may not have looked in Sam’s bag. Susie, though.... Susie’s semi-naked in the boot bound and gagged. There’s no hiding that.

No explaining it.

No denying it.

Certainly, no getting away with it.

Tonight - I’m driving better than I’ve ever driven before and, at least, at this time of the morning there is usually little traffic on the road. Perhaps some people doing an early morning commute to work in the City... the odd taxi, here and there, but not many other souls.

Thankfully.

Another blessing - my house is out in the country and it’s never long before I’m driving off the beaten track. Less chance to be seen by other drivers and less chance to bump into any patrolling police cars.

Sleeping tablets!

I could have tried sleeping tablets to knock her out with.

Crush loads of them up and slip them into whatever she is eating or drinking.

No - stupid.

The likelihood of getting the dosage right, or even the timings would be a nightmare. I definitely chose the easiest of ways to quieten her.

I could always get some sleeping pills and try it out on myself, at some point, for when I have to knock her out again.

When?

I don’t actually plan to knock her out again. I’m not sure why I’m thinking that.

I turn down another country lane.

Nearly home.

I turn my head, ever so slightly, to the side - aiming my good ear towards the back of the car. I can’t hear her yet. I guess she isn’t awake yet. If she were, I’m sure she’d be banging around back there.

Hopefully she’ll remain unconscious whilst I get her in the house, into the spare-room. It’ll be easier than if she’s awake, squirming around the place. Knowing my luck, I’d drop her.

That wouldn’t make the best first impression.

I hang a left.

Final stretch now.

I wonder, when I get home should I take a chair into the spare bedroom too? Somewhere for me to sit and wait for her to wake up. She might be scared if she wakes up in the room, alone.

I don’t want her to feel scared.

That wouldn’t be fair.

Yes, I’ll take a chair into the bedroom. Sit up and wait for her to wake up. Be there to reassure her that everything is going to be okay.

In the long run.

I turn off the main road and head up the short drive that leads to my house. When I first came into possession of this house, I wasn’t that keen on it. Now I’m used to the quietness of the country, I love it. Secluded. Aware from prying eyes.

Perfect for what I need it for.

Keep the outside interferences away. It’s just the two of us now.

Normally I pull into the garage, to the side of the house but not this time. I drive up to the door and park up just outside of it. On the other side of the door lay the staircase, leading to her new bedroom.

Parking here - it will be easier to drag her up the stairs.

Certainly not as far to drag her, compared to if I had parked the car in the garage.

I kill the engine.

Silence.

Peace.

No banging from the boot.

No mumbled shouting.

I guess she’s still asleep. Good.

A flash of panic.

I wonder if she’s okay.

Forget it.

Just get her indoors.

You can check on her when she’s in her room.

Safe and sound in her new room.

I climb from the car and close the door behind me before walking to the boot.

A brief pause.

What happens if she’s just pretending to be out for the count? A single punch to the face - knock her back out? Or fight her up the stairs to her room?

I don’t know.

I’ve never really had to think about this before. I never thought that this situation was something I would need to be thinking about, in truth. I hope she really is unconscious.

Okay, no sense worrying about it.

I’ll cross that bridge as and when....

I clench my left hand into a fist. I don’t think I’d hit her but I don’t think it hurts to be ready to show her that I could hurt her, if she is waiting to try something funny. An empty threat.

I think.

I might hit her.

With my right hand I push the button on the boot - popping it open.

There she is.

Unconscious.

Thank God.

I wonder, should I hit her just to be sure? You know, just to be on the safe side.

I shake my head and the thought fades from the forefront of my mind. There’s no need for violence at this stage. I unclench my fist and lean into the car - one arm under her neck and the other slides under the back of her knees.

As I lift her out of the boot, I’m still surprised at how much she weighs. I nearly tripped with her, when I brought her to the car in the first place. One day, these are the things we’ll be able to joke about.

I didn’t forget, on the drive over, how good she smells though. I breathe in deeply. I’m not sure what perfume she wears, but I hope it’s one she never changes. I’ll never tire of the scent.

Shit.

I should have opened the front door first.

Again, not something I really thought through properly. I’ll know for next time.

Next time?

Why does my subconscious keep telling me I’ll know better for next time. What is it not telling me, I wonder.

I look around for a suitable place to drop Susie.

Ooh.

Better plan.

I walk up to the front door and lean my back against it. Letting Susie’s legs drop to the floor, I move my arm away and take the weight of her body against my own. Now, with my spare arm, I feel clumsily around in my trouser pocket, where I slid the car (and house) keys.

With the one arm still around her, I pull her closer, taking more of the weight of her own body against my own so I don’t drop her. Awkward but, with a little careful moving, I manage to manoeuver the key into the lock and not drop her.

I’d say that was a win.

A twist of the key and the door opens. For some reason it catches me by surprise and I nearly fall into the house - only just catching my balance in time, saving both Susie and I from landing on the floor of the hallway.

Okay. This is it.

I slide the keys back out of the lock and drop them back into my pocket.

A job well done.

I slide my arm back under her knees and lift her off the floor again - with a little struggle. Fuck me, she’s heavy. Don’t think about it. Just get her up the stairs and drop her onto the bed. Ignore the numb feeling spreading through my arms....

I step into the house and kick the door shut behind me.

A little wobble.

Don’t drop her.

I look to the stairs and to the top, where I need to get to. A stumble forward and I’m on my way. This is it.

Go.

Don’t stop.

Don’t think about the weight.

Don’t think about the numbness of my arms... Just go.

Go for it.

Do it in one.

Much easier than stopping and starting.

Half way to the top and I’m going okay. Not much further. I can feel the sweat dripping down my forehead. I hope she doesn’t wake up now. I must look terrible. Unfit.

A poor excuse of a man.

She wouldn’t find me very attractive right now. I think that’s fair to say.

Top of the stairs now. I allow a smile to creep across my face, replacing the look of sheer determination. A few more steps and I’m in her room.

I wonder if I’ll be able to throw her onto the bed from the doorway. Save the final few steps? Stupid idea.

In her room now.

I quicken the pace and within seconds I’m at her bed.

Knackered, I can’t help but drop her onto the mattress where she does a little bounce. Again, I can’t help but laugh a little, the way her body flops.

She groans.

Fuck.

19.

Her eyes are wide with fear.

It’s funny, I thought she’d be a little relieved to see me.

I’m not stupid, I understand she’s scared - given the circumstances but, even so, I honestly thought she’d be a little bit happy to see me.... see I’m someone who she knows instead of some psychotic stranger.

She has nothing to fear from me.

We have history.

And now I have her here, we have a future too.

“Ssh,” I try and reassure her, stroking my hand down her face. “It’s me, Peter.”

I smile at her. The most reassuring smile I can muster up.

Poor girl, she looks petrified.

She tries to mumble something through the tape but, “I’m sorry - I don’t understand you....”

She tries again and again I don’t understand what she’s saying.

“Hang on,” I take hold of a corner of the tape and peel back, slowly - so as not to hurt her. She winces as the last of the take comes away from her lip. “Sorry.”

Looking back - perhaps I should have tested the tape on my own skin first. Learn the best way to peel it away; the way which causes the least amount of pain. Ah well, too late now. It’s done.

“I won’t tell anyone....” she whimpers.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I won’t tell anyone.... I won’t tell anyone.... you can just let me go....”

“Let you go? You’ve only just got here! Why would I let you go?”

“Please. I want to go home now.”

“You’ve just got here.”

All the effort I’ve gone to. I can’t believe she just wants to go straight home without giving us a go. The more I talk to her, the more she’s coming across as ungrateful.

“Please, I promise, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know you won’t.”

No outside interferences. There’ll be no one to tell...

“So you’ll let me go?” she whimpers again, through pathetic little sniffles. I have to say, as beautiful as she is - she’s starting to annoy me already. Not a good sign. I’m sure it’s just teething problems. Everything will come out right, in the end. I don’t say anything. I simply move the tape across her mouth again - a little bit of pressure at the end to make sure it sticks back down. She shakes her head, from side to side - as though that will make me change my mind about re-taping her mouth closed.

I stand up.

“You can’t go home. You are home. At least, for the time-being. You stay with me, for a while, let me show you I can be the man you love.... let me prove to you I’m perfect for you and, if after a couple of days, you’re not convinced - I’ll let you go.”

She’s crying. The tears rolling down the side of her face, into her hair.

“I promise,” I continue, “everything’s going to be okay.”

A smile to reassure her.

She doesn’t look especially reassured.

“I’ll give you some time to have a think about it,” I say as I turn out of the room. Hopefully, if I leave her to her thoughts - she’ll calm down and get used to the situation; trust that I’m not here to hurt her, just here to love her.

Ten minutes should do it.

I stop in the doorway and turn back to her.

“Did you want a cup of tea?”

* * * * *

I try and answer him with a mouthful of obscenities mixed with a few choice words of desperation to try and get him to let me go but the tape on my mouth is causing some issues in the communications.

He simply says, “okay” and walks from the room. He closes the door behind him.

Okay, try and stay calm.

Easier said than done.

Use this time alone to get a plan. Try and escape.

I look down my body to see why I’m struggling, so much, to move. Hands are bound with the same style tape that forces my mouth shut. Wrists, too, are bound as are my ankles. With as much force as I can muster up I try and pull my wrists and ankles in opposite directions - hoping to tear the tape in the process - but it’s pointless. He must have used a whole roll of tape to ensure it wouldn’t be free to break away.

The piece across my mouth is only one piece, though. The fact he has already peeled it away once must have taken some of the stickiness away from it. I move my bound hands up to my mouth and start scraping across the tape - hoping to catch a little corner, which might not be quite stuck down, in order to scrape the rest away from my mouth too. At the same time, I’m flexing my jaw muscles - trying to force my mouth open. Hoping that the tape will give way just enough to unable my mouth to open and close.

I wish I could see what I was doing.

I wish there was a mirror - or something I could use to see if I was making any progress. It’s tiring work and I’m feeling groggy from almost being suffocated. I can’t afford to use what little energy I have on just removing the tape.

Stop.

You’re right.

Save your energy.

At some point he’ll cut the tape away. He has to. He can’t keep me like this forever. At least, I hope he doesn’t because I can’t feel my hands or feet anymore and it’s uncomfortable.

Save your energy for when he lets you free. Make a run for it then.

Even if I could get the tape away and scream - other than him, I’m not sure who else is around to hear me. For all I know, we could be in the middle of nowhere.

Yet...

We could also be in a flat.

A flat in the middle of town.

People upstairs.

People downstairs.

Even people outside, walking around, getting on with their lives blissfully unaware of my predicament.

Maybe I should carry on trying to take the tape off?

Just in case.

Just in case someone else is around.... Sure, he’ll hear me and come running in and soon silence me but - someone else might hear me too. Someone else may hear just enough of my screams to get some help - call the police, maybe?

No.

Silly.

I can’t risk it

I don’t know what he’d do. I don’t know how far he’d go.

Just be patient.

With no warning, the door opened and he came back in...

“I’m sorry - do you take milk and sugar?”

20.

He’s taken the tape off me and led me to a dining room - after giving me an evening dress he must have taken from my home at the same time as when he took me. It looked as though he had helped himself to a whole bag of my clothes.

There’s only a table and some cheap chairs in the dining room. No other decoration. A depressing room... although, from what I’ve seen - the rest of the house is styled very similar to this one.

He’s sat opposite me.

Talking.

I hear nothing that he says.

I haven’t heard him since he took the tape off - warning me not to try anything. Instead I’ve been looking for a way out. Besides, if I said anything I’d probably upset him and I don’t want to upset him; not all the time I don’t know how he’d react.

I notice he’s just looking at me; a look of expectation on his face. Has he just asked me a question?

“You haven’t been listening, have you?”

No.

I don’t know what to tell him.

Don’t upset him.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him; trying to keep him happy.

“Don’t be. It’s a lot to take in. We can chat tomorrow, if you’d prefer?”

I shake my head.

If I tell him I’d rather chat with him tomorrow.... he might tie me back up and put me into the bedroom again. I don’t want to spend the night. I want to go home. The longer we’re up - the more chance for an opportunity to get away.

First opportunity and I’ll make my move.

At first, when I saw him, I just thought he was a nice bloke but - not my perfect man.... Then, when he showed up around my house uninvited, I found him a little off but now.... Every time I see him he seems to have taken a further, darker turn, for the worse.

I need to get out of here.

We sit in silence for what seems an eternity.

“Are you hungry? I hope so, I’ve got some food cooking...”

I’m not hungry.

“That’d be nice.”

Keep him happy.

Besides which, if he has food cooking - it means there is a good chance that, at some point, he’ll leave me on my own. That’s when I’ll do it. That’s when I’ll make my move.

Get as far away as possible.

“What is for dinner?” I ask - trying to show some interest. I don’t actually care. Even if I am here, when dinner is served, I won’t be able to eat it. Not with my stomach in this many knots.

“A surprise,” he answered. “I’m sure you’ll love it.”

He smiles and a cold chill races down my spine.

* * * * *

I couldn’t help but smile. The thought of what’s cooking and my clever little line.... of course she’ll love it. She used to love it, after all...

Sam.

I breathe in - filling my nostrils with the welcoming aroma of cooking meat.

I have to say, he smells delicious.

She’s looking a little worried. Try and put her at ease.

“Is there anything you want to ask?”

Silence.

“Anything you want or need?” I continue, trying my best to be nice.

“I want to go home.”

I frown.

“You are home,” I answer.

“No, I’m not.”

“This is your home now.”

“I want my home...”

“This is your home...”

“I want my home - my home that you took me from.”

I don’t answer her. She looks as though she’s getting hysterical.

“Please, just let me go home. Take me home. Please. I won’t tell anyone.”

I feel myself getting angry and do my best to swallow the negative feelings back down

into the depths of my soul.

“I can’t take you home, yet....” I tell her. The ‘yet’ was said more out of giving her some hope and keeping her home. In truth - there is no ‘yet’. She’s mine.

Forever more.

“Yet?” she asks; picking up on my little white lie but hopefully willing to believe it.

“Yet.” I smile at her. “I just want you to stay with me for a couple of days.”

“Why?”

“To give us a chance....”

“What do you mean? There is no us.”

She’s not trying to be difficult. She genuinely looks confused.

“We could have been great together,” I said, “and we still can. Imagine it - no outside interferences, no one getting in our way.... no one putting doubts in either of our minds.... just the two of us.... Living together.... in bliss....”

“You’re crazy.”

Her look of confusion has turned to one of horror. I feel my own expression turn to one of confusion.

“You’re fucking crazy.... take me home... take me home now... I promise I won’t tell anyone. We can just forget any of this happened... Forget we ever met....”

“Fuck you.”

She stops and just stares at me. She knows she has crossed a line. It’s written all over her face. I feel I’ve let myself down too - unnecessary use of profanity.

This isn’t going well. There’s an awkward pause.

“I’m going to check on dinner.”

I stand up and walk from the room. I turn around and give her a final look before I close the door on her. In my preparations, for getting the house ready for her, I put locks on all the doors - the dining room door being no exception.

With the bunch of keys, in my pocket, I lock the door.

* * * * *

A split second of hope shattered when I hear the door lock. A quick look around the room showing me there’s no other way to escape. I’m not going anywhere.

Yet.

I can only hope there’ll be other times of solitude.

Unless I can overpower him. Take control of the situation when he comes back into the room - hit him with something. Another quick scan around the room - there’s nothing - nothing other than one of the chairs.

It’s worth a shot.

It might catch him off guard - at the very least take his balance away and give me my chance to make a run for it. Hopefully they’ll be something outside.... someone, maybe. Someone who can help me get away.

It’s definitely worth a shot.

It could be my only shot, after all.

I stand up and take the chair in my hands, lifting it off the floor so I can creep over to the door. As soon as I hear the key in the lock, I’ll lift the chair up as high as I can and ready myself to bring it crashing down on his head.

I can feel the adrenalin flowing through my body as my mind plans what to do.

What if it doesn’t knock him down?

What if he deflects the blow? He’ll still be in the doorway, blocking my path - blocking my exit.... more importantly; blocking my freedom.

How would he react?

His mood was quick to change when I told him I thought he was crazy. I’m sure his mood would take a further, darker turn if I was to hit him with a chair.

Maybe this is a bad idea...

Take the chair, sit down and wait... he said he wanted me here for a couple of days? Maybe it will be a couple of days and then he’ll take me home as though nothing had happened.

Stupid.

You’re being stupid.

You don’t take someone prisoner and then just take them home, as though everything is normal. It would be a one way ticket to prison. He’s not that stupid.

I shouldn’t be that stupid.

If I stay here - there is no happy ending. For either of us.

Certainly not the Happy Ever After he is looking for.

Even so, I can’t shift the thought of not being able to get past him from my mind.

Keeping the chair off the wooden floor, so he doesn’t hear it dragging along - I creep back to the table and sit where he originally left me. There’ll be more opportune times to make a dash for it. This isn’t the time.

Not yet.

21.

I’m glad she didn’t try anything. The sooner we build enough trust, the sooner she can have free roam of the house - maybe even move into my bedroom, with me. I’d like that.

Start living as a happy couple.

Just the two of us.

I carry the tray of food over to the dining room table. and place it on the edge - taking one plate and putting it in front of her and the other plate, the one with less meat, in front of my own seat before sitting down and flashing her a smile.

“Enjoy.”

She takes one of the plastic knives and forks off the tray and starts pushing the food around the plate - pretending to show some interest in eating it. It’s already clear she has no intentions to eat.

I wonder, would she be as wasteful if she knew who was on her plate?

I didn’t actually want to put any of Sam on my plate but I thought it may look a little suspicious if I didn’t even at least give him a try. Besides, he’s been in the oven for an hour now so I’m sure any germs he may have had are well cooked out of him by now.

And I’m a little curious.

He smelt good whilst cooking so maybe - maybe he’ll taste nice.

Stop thinking about him. You’ll only put yourself off giving him a try.

Just think of him as chicken.

I start to eat - starting with the potatoes, watching her push her food around.

“You need to keep your strength up,” I said.

She doesn’t answer me.

Rude.

When I’ve finished a mouthful of King Edward, I reach across and stab my fork into one of her own roast potatoes - lifting it over to my plate; she watches as I cut it in half and pop some in my mouth.

“See,” I say when I’ve finished chewing, “not poisoned.”

I smile at her. She looks down at her plate - eyes, once again, wide with fear.

Perhaps I’ve said something wrong.

* * * * *

I don’t know how best to respond so I say nothing.

Of all the things going through my mind - poisoned food wasn’t one of them.

Now, it is.

Maybe that would be a blessing.

A few moments of pain whilst the poison took hold of my body and then nothing.

No more worry.

No more fear.

No more pain.

That has to be better than anything he can be thinking.

I shovel some of the vegetables onto my fork and tentatively eat them.

Slow chewing at first.

No funny taste.

No stomach cramps.

No vomiting blood.

Quite nice actually.

I chew normally and catch a glimpse of Peter out the corner of my eye. He’s just looking at me - watching me eat.

“What?” I ask - hoping he’ll look away but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me. Watching my mouth as it chews the food down.

Creeping me out.

“How’s the meat?” he asks.

“Good,” I lie.

“You haven’t tried it yet,” he points out.

Why did he ask what I thought of it if he knows I haven’t even tried it yet?

I smile at him and cut a piece of the chicken off - after a bit of a struggle with the plastic knife.

“What’s wrong with normal cutlery?” I ask.

“I wasn’t sure which design you’d like...” he answered - quick as a flash.

“What do you mean?”

“I just figured we could go shopping for a nice set, later on...”

Was he joking?

“You haven’t noticed how empty our house is? I thought we could fill it together - you know - in time.”

He wasn’t joking.

He continued, “I thought it would make a nice day out. Nesting.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

As soon as I asked the question, I wish I could take it back.

“What? Whatever gave you that impression?”

Other than the abducting and general creepiness?

“I just thought -”

“You thought wrong,” he said, “I told you - I just want you to stay with me for a few days.... get to know me a little without anyone else getting in the way of us.”

There’s a pause.

Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s lying, just to make me feel at ease before hurting me. I can’t tell. I just smile at him. He smiles back.

“Don’t let it get cold,” he says again, nodding towards the food on my plate.

I smile again and bite the chicken off my fork.

It’s good.

Succulent.

He watches me chew a while longer before turning back to his own food.

* * * * *

Well, she’s not gagging on it.

Always a good sign.

Maybe it’s good.

I cut a tiny piece off and stab it with my fork - lifting it off the plate and putting it close to my mouth. I wonder, will it taste like chicken? I hold it there for a moment and let the smell waft it’s way up my nostrils.

He smells good.

I look back to Susie who seems to be eating more, it must be good. If it wasn’t, I’m sure she would have made some excuse and left the rest. As she scoops the next piece into her mouth - she looks up at me.

I can’t show her I’m hesitating.

I take a bite and hold it there for a moment - waiting for the first taste sensation to wash over me.

Veal....

No.... wait.... beef.....

No veal.... definitely veal.

Good meat, though.

Pork!

It’s a little like pork.

Definitely pork.

I smile as I realise the taste isn’t at all hideous and, within a few more chews, I almost forget it’s actually Sam. Almost. It’s hard to actually forget you have a dead body in your mouth - no matter how good it is. I am, however, surprised he doesn’t taste like chicken...

Maybe a little bit disappointed. After all, I had built up my expectations to taste chicken... Still, he’s nice. Good effort. I’d definitely eat the breast meat again but my mind wonders as to what the thigh would taste like.

A bit like turkey.... white meat and dark.

I see what she means about the plastic cutlery, though. Not the easiest to cut things with. I think I’ll make the proper cutlery a priority - when we’re settled.

“What style cutlery would you choose?” I ask - trying to move the conversation forward.

She stops eating and looks at me.

“What?”

“I just wondered what cutlery you’d go for? You know - something plain or some sort of elaborate pattern on the handles?”

She shakes her head, “I don’t know.”

A pause.

Uncomfortable.

“What sort of cutlery do you have at home?”

I mentally kick myself. I know what sort of cutlery she has at her house. I remember it; silver with a flower pattern engraved on the handle. Nothing over elaborate.

“I can’t remember...”

Can’t remember? She hasn’t been away from her home that long. Of course she can remember.

“I can’t think straight....”

With no warning she starts to cough - dropping her plastic knife onto the floor.

“Allow me...”

I lean down to pick the cutlery off the floor.

* * * * *

Quick as a flash, I’ve stood up and lifted my chair high in the air, above his head. From his position on the floor, as planned, he’s looked up to see what I’m doing - my fake cough stopped.

“Susie -”

I don’t wait for him to finish, I just bring the chair down as hard as I can - unfortunately catching him more on his back than on his head. It does the trick, though, and his body crumbles in a heap on the floor.

I don’t know if he’s unconscious or just stunned.

I don’t care.

I don’t hang around to check his vitals. I just run for the dining room door.

A right turn out of the dining room leads to the kitchen so I turn to the left - the front door. The kitchen would have sealed my fate - no doubt. Hardly anyone ever leaves their back door unlocked these days and, even if it were, there’d be less chance to be helped out the back...

More chance to be spotted outside the front of the house.

Thankfully the front door is unlocked and it’s mere seconds before it’s opened and I’m outside.

“SOMEONE HELP ME!” I scream at the top of my voice.

I don’t stop running, though.

I scream again, “SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!”

I can’t hear anyone coming to my rescue and it’s no surprise. Where am I? In the country. I can’t see any other houses.

Don’t worry about that, Susie. Just keep running.

And I do.

“SUSIE!!!”

Fuck.

His voice is angry.

Keep running, girl.

Don’t look back....

“PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP ME! ANYONE.....”

At the end of the drive, I turn right on the main road. I have no idea where I’m going and I don’t care. As long as it is away from Peter - as far as I am concerned it’s the right direction.

Keep running, girl.

Don’t look back....

“SUSIE! COME BACK HERE! YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING! I’M SORRY! OKAY? I’M SORRY! AT LEAST LET ME GIVE YOU A LIFT HOME....”

Don’t listen to him. I can hear the anger spilling out of him with every word screamed.

His yelling, on it’s own, is bad news for me.

He wouldn’t scream that loudly, at me, unless he was sure there’d be no one around to hear us. I’ve never felt so alone.

“SUSIE! GET BACK HERE!”

Keep running.

He sounds closer now.

Don’t look back.

Just keep running.

I can feel myself slowing as my fitness drains quickly. My speed further hampered as I start to cry. Come on, girl, don’t give in...

I can’t go on...

Just a bit further - maybe he’ll stop and give up...

Give up.

I can’t go on...

I drop to my knees and scream through my tears of both fear and desperation.

“I’m sorry,” I just keep repeating it - hoping he’ll forgive me, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry....”

He’s right behind me now.

I turn to him so he can see the fear in my eyes - maybe he’ll go easy on me when he sees how scared I am. How sorry I am. Even though I’m sorry I wasn’t fit enough to get away from him and not sorry about hurting him... Please go easy on me.

“Fucking cunt.”

His fist is clen.......................................

22.

The sky.

Clouds.

Peaceful?

Trees.

My head is buzzing and ears are ringing.

Where am I? What...

Can’t move.

I focus to my surroundings - he’s sat on me. Sat on my stomach.

Can’t kick him off.

Face is hurting. Signals are getting confused between my brain and legs and I can’t seem to move them. My eye socket is stinging and my top lip feels wet. A taste of iron in my mouth. So sore.

Focus.

He’s saying something.

Listen past the ringing in my ears...

Listen to him.

What’s he saying...

“Fucking cunt. Why are you trying to ruin everything? We’re meant to be together - we’re going to be together...”

Pressure on my neck.

Can’t get air.

Legs finally get the message from my brain and I try desperately hard to kick out but he doesn’t budge.

Pressure on my neck getting tighter.

Tighter.

Can’t breathe.

Gasping now.

Focus going from my sight.

Panic setting in.

Vision getting darker.

“I’m not letting you leave me.... you’re mine.....”

I can’t see him.

Words are getting faint....

* * * * *

I don’t want to loosen my grip. I want to choke her until she breaths no more. Choke the life right out of her dainty little body.... make her suffer until she is no more.

Dead.

Dead?

No.

I don’t want her dead.

I love her.

I loosen my grip.

I love her.

I loosen it a bit more.

She doesn’t move. Her eyes are closed and don’t open - even when I move my hands away from her neck completely.

“Susie?”

Nothing.

There’s no moaning. No sighing. No whimpering.

Nothing.

“Susie?”

I wave of panic rushes through my body.

“Honey?”

Nothing.

Shit.

What have I done.

Another wave of panic.

We’re over before we’ve begun?

I take my weight off her stomach by kneeling up slightly before frantically feeling for a pulse....

Nothing.

A tear dwells up in my right eye and lazily rolls down my cheek.

Wait a minute.

I can feel it.... a pulse.... It’s faint but it’s there. I haven’t killed her.

A welcome feeling of relief.

Thank you, God.

I need to get her home before she wakes up. Get her back into bed. Maybe find some ice for the bruise that’s already showing on her face. I try and remind myself that she pushed me to it. If she hadn’t tried to run - none of this would have happened.

I climb off her and stand up, bending over to lift her off of the muddy floor where she landed. It’s a good job she has other clean clothes at home....

Holding her close to my own body, I start the short walk back to my drive, and home. I’m glad I caught her when I did - already I can feel my back starting to hurt.

I think I’ll start giving her smaller portions...

I quicken my pace to get to the drive. If need be, I can put her down for a while when we get there - to rest up. It’s rare that cars come down here but, even so, I don’t want to risk being seen with her... not like this.

At least on the drive - it will be harder to spot us if someone drives past.

Not much further to go.... and I cross the threshold to my property.

A sigh of relief but I don’t put Susie down, for a rest. If I do, put her down, it will be even harder to get going again. Just keep going - ignoring the aching in the muscles.

As my feet keep moving forward I can’t help but wonder if I should just drop her in a bush and run ahead to fetch my car.

Might be easier.

No.

Stupid idea.

Besides, with every new thought I’m having - I’m even closer to the final destination. And thinking about the many thoughts that are flying through my mind - she’s just made it more awkward for us to have guests around for dinner in the future.... now we only have three chairs.

She didn’t really think that one through properly.

I get to the house and push the door open with my foot before carrying her over the threshold.... again.

My mind skips to our future; I wonder, will I ever have to repeat this process with her wearing a wedding dress? A tired smile creeps onto my face.

This will all be worth it, in the future. I’m sure of it.

Quarter of the way up the stairs now - I forgot how hard this was. If I ever find myself in this position again, I’m dragging them up the stairs. It has to be easier than this.

Has to be.

It doesn’t matter.

I don’t plan to do this again.

I’m sure she would have learnt her lesson. She won’t try anything a..... whoa....

My legs feel numb.

Nearly at the top but I don’t think I’m going to make it these last few steps. Not without a little rest. The same routine as before, when I had to unlock the front door... I turn, slightly to the wall and rest against it.

The idea is simple in my head - I lean on the wall and let go of her legs so I still have the bulk of her weight - the idea is just to give myself a little rest. A little break before we carry on.

In execution - it’s a little more tricky. I find it hard to move towards the wall, to lean, due to the lack of space on the step. I try and shuffle my feet but, again, it’s harder than it sounds.

Maybe I should just carry on.... I’m nearly there.

No.

I can’t.

Just take a side-step towards the wall, it really isn’t as far as you think it is...

I move my right foot, without realising the shoe-lace is firmly underneath my left foot.... My heart flutters wildly as I lose my balance. Think fast - grab the bannister. Stop myself from -

Fuck....

In my panic I let go of Susie and she slips past me, down the stairs - hitting every single step on the way down. Every step looking painful but the worst bump was the final one at the bottom of the stairs.

A bump accompanied by a massive crack.

Fuck.

What was that?

I freeze.

She broke the floorboard? Is she really that heavy?

I hope so.

A bit more of a pause before I walk down the stairs to see the damage done..... Jesus.... I think I know what cracked.... her arm. Her arm is bent at an angle no arm should ever bend to.

She’s going to feel that in the morning.

Another wave of panic sets in.

She will feel that in the morning.

I can’t fix this.

She’s going to be in agony.

Don’t be a pessimist.

You can fix this.

This is perfectly fix-able.

Just take hold of her arm and give it a yank; straighten it.

A sharp tug later and another loud crack.

Fuck.

It looks even worse now.

If she wasn’t going to feel it before.... she is definitely going to feel it now.

I don’t think over the counter painkillers are going to help with this one.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!

I feel tears dwell in my eyes once again.

I can’t fix this. At the same time, I can’t leave it. She’ll be in agony. I don’t want to see her in any pain. Ever. But, I can’t take her to the hospital. I can’t. She’ll tell them everything. She’ll tell them about me and how I took her.

Kidnapped her.

She definitely can’t go to the hospital.

The tears start to roll down my cheek.

Shit.

I know what needs to be done...

It has to be done....

23.

I’ve laid her on the garage floor, where I dragged her.

She looks peaceful; laying there... a sleeping Angel.

Well, other than the strangely twisted arm.

A sleeping Angel with a broken arm.

Part of me wants to give it another tug - just to see if I can crack it back into place but another part of me thinks it’s pointless to even try; probably end up making it worse again. Leave it be. Just do what needs to be done.

I know what needs to be done.

I know.

I just don’t want to do it.

A range of emotions are flowing through my body with what feels like an almost fatal dose of adrenalin. My heart pounding so hard, it feels like it’s going to either explode or bust through the wall of my chest. Obviously I’m feeling sad what for needs to be done. Part of me believes I can fix it. Part of me knows I can’t. Part of me blames myself for dropping her down the stairs but another part of me blames her - if she didn’t try to run - we could well be on our way to our Happy Ever After.

And I feel angry.

I feel angry that I’m going to miss out on my Happy Ever After with her because of this. Anyway, stop thinking about it. Stop putting it off.

What needs to be done.

It’s not going to get any easier, the longer you leave it.

If anything, it’s going to get harder.

Just do it.

I kneel down on the floor, next to my sleeping Angel and stroke her face. Never mind her arm, her face looks sore too. I lean forward - a soft, tender kiss on her forehead...

A kiss goodbye?

I put my left hand over her mouth and clamp her nostrils with my right hand - stopping any air getting in or out. For the third time today, my eyes start to well up. I hate the feeling of eyes welling up - it makes me feel less of a man. It makes me feel weak.

At least it’s peaceful for her.

I lean over her body and whisper, “This is your fault.”

And it is her fault.

Why did she have to try and run from me? I was so kind to her.

Things could have been perfect between us - in time.

Why did she have to be so impatient?

I look to her chest to see any sign of movement. There’s still some movement to be seen. Shallow but.... still movement - her heart is still beating. I don’t move my hands. Just a bit longer.

Come on Susie.

Come on.

Let go.

Another kiss on the forehead.

“I would have loved you forever,” I whispered - unsure as to why I was actually whispering. She wasn’t hearing me.

The chest is still moving.

Jesus Fucking Christ - how long does this take? I’d go and Google it but then I’d have to start again. Come on, Susie... Give it up already. Who would have thought her heart was so strong. Still slight movement to be seen.

Fuck this.

I let go and rush to the garage wall where the tools are hanging - a shovel being the first that I come across. This will work. Back over to Susie and I line the shovel up with her neck.

I was trying to do this nicely.

I was trying to be humane.

Kind.

Gentle.

I can’t afford to run out of time.

I can’t afford for her to wake up. I don’t want to see her in pain. Not this sort of pain, anyway. I’m not a monster.

I lift the shovel up, high into the air, and bring it down on her neck as hard as I can; the edge of the shovel cutting her neck wide open; the force not being enough to decapitate her but - with the blood pouring out - it won’t be long before she’s dead. Even so, I lift the shovel up high, again, and bring it crashing back down.

This time, I hear the edge of the blade hit the concrete under her body; her head no longer attached. I don’t need to worry about Susie waking up now. I stop and drop the shovel, looking down at her dead body.

I don’t know why but I drop to my knees and let out the loudest scream I’ve ever screamed before - a scream filled with anguish and sadness. I loved her. I did.

I loved her.

I killed her.

No.

Don’t think like that.

She killed herself.

The moment she ran from you.

She killed herself.

Even so...

... I feel empty.

I feel lost.

Alone.

All I’ve done for her. All I changed for her. A waste.

I did it all for nothing.

She was The One. She was my woman, my lady... my Princess. I love her.

I loved her.

I wipe the tears from my eyes.

I’ll never find anyone like Susie. Ever.

Well... not ever.

I’ll find someone else.

Eventually.

I’ll find someone else - after a suitable grieving period.

I wonder, what is a suitable grieving period? Couple of hours? Longer? Shorter?

I need to Google it after I’ve cleaned the mess up.

I frown as another feeling eases it’s way through my body. At first it sneaks into my system, almost without me realising it but... I feel.... I feel calmer. All this time, with Susie, I’ve been getting myself more and more stressed. More wound up. All this time I haven’t been myself but now - now she’s passed away.... I feel like my old self again.

A smile creeps across my face.

Maybe it was the scream? Flushing the poisonous thoughts and emotions from my body? Maybe it’s just that Susie had pushed me into a darker place - all the worrying I was doing about us being a couple - a proper couple going for a Happy Ever After... our own slice of Heaven.

Now she’s gone...

Now she’s gone there’ll be no more stress, no more anxiety, no more worry.

I can’t help but feel bad that we came this far before I realised that...

... Maybe she wasn’t the one for me after all.

I’m not sure what I feel.

Maybe I’m just in shock and, when I’m alone tonight, everything will come back to haunt my thoughts and I’ll miss her again and regret all of this... I don’t know.

I don’t know the answers.

Whatever...

There’s a saying I heard years ago...

‘You just need to get back on the horse.’

Clear her up - bury what I don’t want and freeze what I’ll keep.

And then...

.... And then get back out there. Get back down to the supermarket.

If indeed I feel calm now because Susie wasn’t the one for me...

.... It means....

The One is still out there waiting for me to find her.

And I will find her.

I’ll find my One.

As I stand up, I take hold of Susie’s pretty head and kiss her on the forehead.

“I’ll miss you.”

At least she won’t go to waste.

And another positive to come from all of this - I’ve learnt I need to make some changes to the house to ensure it doesn’t end badly again. A few changes to guarantee that, when I find The One, I won’t lose her.

Not again.

No.

I smile.

The more I think about it....

... Susie was the practice run.

Young Susie.

I turn Susie’s head to the side and whisper in her ear, “You’ve been a great help.”

~ END

If you haven’t already, follow Peter to his own ‘Happy Ever After’ - available though Amazon.

A NEW MORNING

A weird dream!

I open my eyes and focus on my surroundings.

No weird dream.

Sadly.

I sigh a heavy sigh and roll to my side and my heart skips a beat as my vision focuses on Peter staring right back at me from his side of the bed.

“Morning,” I say.

Nothing.

He doesn’t answer.

Not even a ‘Good morning, Vanessa’ out of common courtesy. No doubt still upset from the previous night. I don’t know him very well, I wonder how long he holds a grudge for.

No.

I don’t even want to second guess it.

I don’t care.

Not much longer to go now. Surely. I keep telling myself not much longer to go anyway. Not much longer to tolerate his stubborn mood swings and unpredictable nature - worse still, his child-like silent treatment.

I thought it was us women that were supposedly guilty of giving people the silent treatment?

Not important. What is important is the fact that there isn’t much longer before I am out. Away from him once and for all... I can’t wait.

The more I think about it, the more excited I get.

I’m so close.

I can almost taste the freedom now - the outside air.

I’m excited.

More excitement than I have felt for a long time.

The sheer thought of ...

...‘A FRESH START’...

... filling me with a sense of hope I had long since given up on.

CONTINUE VANESSA’S STORY IN THE SEQUEL TO ‘HAPPY EVER AFTER’

COMING 2013

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