Black & Blue

frilly knickers

Posted on January 22, 2015. Filed under: Black & Blue |

Harry was watching, too. When I did it. When Professor ‘Lithium Bob’ Beck suddenly sprang a thoughtful smile at me across the brilliant white linen of the silver service laid table centred squarely in the middle of the prison gymnasium – and I forked aside a couple of honey-roasted carrots and stared down at the Moulin Rouge motif on the vintage china,
“This plate…” I began, then faded.
“You’d rather it was stuck in the cabinet?” Robert murmured.
“It’s distracting…”
“In what way d’you feel… distracted?” he asked.
Listen to him.
Making out he’s interested. At all.
Making out he’s the one who’s asking questions.
Figuring it out.
Fitting it in.
Coming over all psychiatric about it.
I’m the psychiatrist.
His psychiatrist.
“I’d rather not eat my dinner off of La Goulue’s frilly-knickered backside,” I answered. “To get a bite, I literally have to slice away at her buttocks…”

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burn

Posted on January 5, 2015. Filed under: Black & Blue |

Harry weighed me up.
Brought me down.
Then indicated the burning house,
“I figured this was you,” he watched me carefully; he watched me watching my own house burn down.
My black eye, bitten lip, bust nose and swollen jaw might’ve bulged, pursed, twitched and dropped.
Maybe they did. I couldn’t really feel my face anymore.
My one good eye, at least, might’ve tried to gawk a bit; but didn’t.
“I’ve burnt my own house down?”
“Your behaviour’s been a little… extreme, lately.”
“Unorthodox, I think y’mean. But solid. Logical. A good solid logical means to a mad bad illogical bastard’s end. I got you Robert.”
I got Robert.
“Actually I got Robert,” Harry corrected. “You nearly got yourself killed.”
I looked back to the flames,
“You reckon I’m off my rocker?”
“Reckon so.”
Rock on.
At the far end of the house, my study’s square-leaded window – the last window standing – already contorted and molten and hanging itself off of its blazing hardwood frame, finally fell out.
“I didn’t do this.” My study looked weird without a window. Aside from the heat and the smoke and the thick bright flames, there was nothing, now, to keep all the mad bad illogical bastards out.
Or in.
Harry flickered.
I turned back to him, sucked in a searing hot breath – then gingerly let it out across the distance between us,
“I didn’t. Honestly. I came home for a lie down.”
Harry took a moment. Took me in. Tested me out. Then pulled his mobile from his pocket and speed-dialed.
“Kris. Plan B.” He pocketed the ‘phone and gazed an expert eye around, through and beyond the gathered crowd.
Looking for Robert.
Robert.
Why else would my house be burning down. Because Betty next door left her chip pan on? Because Frankie the postman dropped a lighted cigarette?
Because I stabbed Lithium Bob through the palm with a fancy fish knife.
That.
Explained it.
Robert’s escaped. Robert’s gone. Robert’s gone and burnt my house down.
And Robert is here.
Watching it burn.
Watching me carefully – just like Harry had done. Watching me watch my own house burn down.
Watching. Me. Burn.

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drip, drip, drip

Posted on November 24, 2014. Filed under: Black & Blue |

I didn’t know what Robert wanted of me – and, terrible truth be told, I didn’t care.
So I stabbed him through the palm.
That’s what he got.
He got a blunt blade thrashing aside his delicate extended tendons as I thumped a burnished silver fish knife into his open palm – then briefly pressed harder as if to pin him to the table. The tablecloth was thick, though, and underneath, the table wasn’t actually a table at all. It was a modified steel detention bench to which Robert was attached via a couple of integral steel rings oil-rig-strength soldered to its underside.
Foot cuffed. Hand cuffed.
“What’s on your plate?” I asked.
Robert was frozen. Maybe his wince had frozen him.
Incy wincy. Spider.
Climbing up the spout.
Down came his razor.
And cut her throat right out.
Robert slowly withdrew his hand, knife and all, back across the linen.
All the while staring at me.
He didn’t seem to bleed. Not until, at last, he levered the silver out of his palm and Arlo stuck a Glock 19 in his ear.
The worry had been, what with all that fancy cutlery knocking about, that Robert would slice my throat. Or neck. Taking out an artery. Taking out a vein.
Carotid. Jugular.
Taking me out.
The Prof was the Police Coroner, after all. He knew exactly where and how to cut. Even – or especially – old-school with a battered old-fashioned fish knife. Or maybe he’d just go for an eye, Dennis had suggested. Or both eyes, Arlo had added. Through he’d have to be pretty quick for both eyes.
And he’d have to want to die.
Robert had been advised – his own council, police, prison governor, district judge – that his effecting any all-of-a-sudden movements – never mind any actual right-across-the-table lunges – would see one or two of Dennis or Arlo’s ballistic missiles, at the speed of thought, lodged swiftly and snugly within his skull.
Bullets in.
Lights out.
Psycho.
But I knew Robert didn’t want to die.
And I knew he didn’t want to kill me.
“Jane Avril – La Mélinite,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to watch the blood pool a little in his palm.
“Right,” though I couldn’t see them right then, I knew his eyes too. As his breathing slowed and his body stilled, his pupils would be lazily dilating as he faintly tipped, levelled and retipped his hand toward the tabletop, regulating the flow and slow drip, drip, drip of his blood onto the receptive linen. “Always eating off of the ladies,” I muttered.
He looked sharply back up at me.
He’d been making me do it, too.
Eating off of the lovely ladies.
With a bleeding heart.
And a bleeding belly.

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frozen

Posted on October 13, 2014. Filed under: Black & Blue |

Robert had laid down his knife, taken a measured breath and, inch by measured inch, had skirted a handsome, beautifully manicured hand as far as his long-chain handcuffs would allow past the ornate bevel of his own fin de siècle Limoges dinner plate. He’d opened up his fingers toward me.
Had I half an inclination I might’ve wondered what he was doing, what he wanted exactly – but I was busy deciding where precisely upon a can-can girl’s smooth-bloomered cheek or thigh was an appropriate place to attempt to slash that shiny carrot.
I didn’t want it to, but my raddled left brain had to have a half-arsed go, though. Had to think it – think him – through.
What did Robert want? What did Mad Bobby expect?
That I’d reach right back toward him? Take his hand? Gently squeeze his fingers and, perhaps, whisper that it’s all right? Everything’s okay. They’ll get over it. The mothers. They’ll forgive. The fathers. They’ll forget. The brothers. Sisters. Friends. Lovers. Of the four young women you murdered.
All those children.
The children those girls were.
And their children.
The unconceived.
The children, now, that would never be.
I didn’t know what Robert wanted of me – and, terrible truth be told, I didn’t care.
So I stabbed him through the palm.
That’s what he got.
He got a blunt blade thrashing aside his delicate extended tendons as I thumped a burnished silver fish knife into his open palm – then briefly pressed harder as if to pin him to the table. The tablecloth was thick, though, and underneath, the table wasn’t actually a table at all. It was a modified steel detention bench to which Robert was attached via a couple of integral steel rings oil-rig-strength soldered to its underside.
Foot cuffed. Hand cuffed.
“What’s on your plate?” I asked.
Robert was frozen. Maybe his wince had frozen him.
Incy wincy. Spider.
Climbing up the spout.
Down came his razor.
And cut her throat right out.

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“There’s dark humour and one liners but there are also beautifully tender words.” UK http://t.co/uj6w7iSMds US http://t.co/VfOGxUefv3 #IARTG

— Morana Blue (@MoranaBlue) October 25, 2014

 

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frilly knickers

Posted on September 28, 2014. Filed under: Black & Blue |

Harry was watching, too. When I did it. When Professor ‘Lithium Bob’ Beck suddenly sprang a thoughtful smile at me across the brilliant white linen of the silver service laid table centred squarely in the middle of the prison gymnasium – and I forked aside a couple of honey-roasted carrots and stared down at the Moulin Rouge motif on the vintage china,
“This plate…” I began, then faded.
“You’d rather it was stuck in the cabinet?” Robert murmured.
“It’s distracting…”
“In what way d’you feel… distracted?” he asked.
Listen to him.
Making out he’s interested. At all.
Making out he’s the one who’s asking questions.
Figuring it out.
Fitting it in.
Coming over all psychiatric about it.
I’m the psychiatrist.
His psychiatrist.
“I’d rather not eat my dinner off of La Goulue’s frilly-knickered backside,” I answered. “To get a bite, I literally have to slice away at her buttocks…”

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knife

Posted on August 29, 2014. Filed under: Black & Blue |

Thumping a blunt knife through Robert Beck’s upturned palm probably wasn’t a good idea. Can’t say that it felt good, either. He winced, being human after all. Yet he seemed neither surprised nor upset with me. Just resigned. With me.

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Rain

Posted on August 26, 2014. Filed under: Black & Blue |

Listened to the rain all last night.  No sleep.  No words.

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