Session 2

Her perfect breast bloomed pale pink – but didn’t yield beneath the gentle pressure of two latexed fingers. Rigor had set in. She’d been dead, therefore, at least eight hours. Killed when Corrie was on. When Staff and Old Folk alike were riveted. Well timed.

Twenty minutes later, the girl’s eyes still stared into mine – though now from the base of a twenty foot vertical drop as, eyebrows raised, mimicking her frozen surprise, I gazed down at her from the open window of a viciously miserable old woman’s Nursing Home room.

It’d been a soft kill. He – her murderer was most likely a he – hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t wanted to. Hadn’t needed to. So she hadn’t suffered: she was, simply, dead. That’s what he’d done to her. That’s all.

What he’d done to her corpse, though, was a different matter.

“You hate me, don’t you?” the old woman moaned.

If I gave it an inch, I might – but I was busy stinking up the place: stale cigarettes and, secretly, staler sweat. The cigarettes I couldn’t fathom. Hadn’t touched one in four months. But the sweat: that was me all right. Kept meaning to edge under the shower on a night – or a morning – but kept meandering by it somehow. Figured it’d be too hot. Or too cold.

And I had a pain. Deep in my belly.

Locked into that eerie exchange of dead stares with the dead girl, I answered the bitter old bat folded haphazardly into the military Parker Knoll behind me,

“I don’t hate you, Mrs Nett.”

“You think you’ve found me out to be a liar,” she said.

I know I’ve found you out to be a liar. You’ve been a liar all your life. So have I,

“You’re not a liar.”

“Then what d’you think I am?”

I couldn’t let go the dead girl’s eyes… and drooped against the casement, peculiarly roasting, all of a sudden, despite a wholesome Manchester chill – and acute apathy let a thought catch me up: this chuntering old cow at my back had spent the last three decades making everyone she came into contact with feel miserable: her son in particular. It was a waste of her life – and his – not that it was any business of mine what she did with her life – but she probably figured she’d hard-earned a Masters. And now she was teaching the little ones.

“Why should I care what you are? There’s a dead girl down there,” I turned at last to face her: that long miserable old façade. “I think I care more about who she is,” I paused, wondering whether I really did care, “And why she’s down there. Like that…”

“Like what?”

“All bare.”

Mrs Nett’s jaw snapped shut and she looked me square in the eye; her trembling, liver-spotted old-woman hand might’ve liked to smack my chops.

“I knew you hated me,” she said.

She thought I gave a damn.

I took a last look at the dead girl: she, her body, was perfect. Flawless. Shaved. That’s what he’d done: post mortem, he’d shaved her pubic hair right off. That’s all. No lacerations, contusions, ligature marks, stabs or gunshots: nothing ordinary. And nothing weird: no disfiguration, evisceration, decapitation, hand loss, foot loss, eye gouging, breast slicing, vagina mutilation; no drawing on her, peeing, defecating, masturbating. No signs, symbols or serial signatures. She might’ve been raped. But it didn’t look like it. Simply: dead. Pubic hair: shaved. Why? There’s the rub.

He’d needed her dead to do it.

He wouldn’t’ve looked into her eyes. When he killed her. He would’ve closed his own eyes. Or looked away. When she died. When her young life slipped out of her. When her life slipped out. And his razor slipped down.

Gatsby's Smile by Morana Blue at Amazon for Kindle

Read the whole mad, bad, psychotically murderous tale.



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