Aqualung

Monkeys in a cage. Rats in a maze.

We were being taken out one by one. Removed from the chain.

But why? And by who?

What was the ultimate goal? The final target?

If Jenny killed the Hoodie because someone in her life had been killed… And he’d contacted me because someone in his life had been killed… And I was supposed to kill Jenny because Garth had been pushed in front of a train… Who else was involved? How big was the chain? How many deaths had been written off as accidents over the years?

More urgently – who was coming after me?

These thoughts consumed me as I wrestled to keep my car on the steep winding road from the water tower to normality. Other cars passed me on their way up. Where were they going? To Jenny’s place? To the water tower? Why? Were they looking for me?

I slowed down when I realized I had no destination. I couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not until the police had…

Right. The police. Were they in on it? Was there a policeman in my local station with a piece of paper folded in his pocket? Could they – the omniscient “they” – reach that far?

What would I say? “Yes, officer, I publicly threatened to harm Garth. But I didn’t kill him. Not really. Jenny? Yes, I was there. And yes, she was crawling away from me when she fell off the cliff. Why? Well, because I’d been sent there to ensure she had an unfortunate accident. Who sent me? Sorry officer, I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Normal traffic absorbed me as rush hour drained another 60 minutes from everyone’s life. At least here I was faceless. Unknown. Lost in a crowd.

Or was I? Panic-stricken, I clawed my cellphone from the trouser pocket where it lurked. The GPS app was still running. Keeping one eye on the car ahead of me, inching forward every time it moved, I struggled to shut things down. GPS – off. Location – off. Should I switch off the phone? Would that help? Hadn’t I read once that cellphones can be tracked even when they’re off?

What about my laptop, stowed safely in the boot? Was it broadcasting my whereabouts to the anonymous puppet master in the UK? Was that even where he was? She? They? Them?

A knock on the window snapped me back to reality. A beggar, looking for a handout.

Or was he?

Was that a scrap of paper clutched in his filthy hand? Why was he staring at me so intently? He moved away from the side window to stand near the front of the car. Wrinkled eyes screwed against the last rays of the setting sun peered through the windscreen. He muttered something. Reached in his pocket.

The car in front jerked forward and I stood on the accelerator, wrenching the steering wheel sharply to the side. My car barely registered the impact as the beggar vanished and I shot across oncoming traffic to roar up a side street.

I hope this little series helped to relieve some of the boredom associated with the Corona lockdowns. If you want to read the whole short story, it will be released across all online retailers (including Amazon) on the 1st of May. Available on preorder now, for only 99c.

It’s called Book of Faces.

Smashwords has extended its Authors Give Back Sale to the end of May. So you can still get Shorty’s Poems for the discounted price of only $1.20. Or grab my Tales From The Crying Room for free.

Till next time.

Cheers.