The Girl with the Swastika Stockings

[Hawkman]

Two years ago, Wilson was 35, single and depressed.

Part of the reason for his being single and depressed was that he was divorced, which had meant surrendering his home to his ex-wife. You should be able to work out why he was 35 by yourselves. He lived in a poky flat that was most definitely located in the unfashionable quarter of a provincial town and was still paying for his ill-advised marital excursion. He was still paying, alright, and through the nose, but not since that first taste of wedding cake had he received any of the fringe benefits which the institution was supposed to provide, like spectacular sex, regular meals or even companionship. He felt cheated. The order of this short list was significant. It reflected his internal priorities.

His depression was exacerbated by post traumatic stress disorder, not that he’d ever been a soldier, not in the conventional sense of the word. He’d never worn a uniform, borne arms, or experienced at first hand, combat with the enemies of his country. His mental scars had been acquired while serving as a grunt during his enlistment, and personal five year stint, in the battle of the sexes. He suffered from vivid flash-backs of endless arguments, relived, word for word, in their entirety and punctuated by sporadic memories of trips to hospital to have his wounds sewn up by contemptuous doctors who’d thought he was the contemporary equivalent of a teddy boy.

On these occasions he’d choked on the truth, unable to admit to anyone, not even to himself, that as a healthy man, no coked-up gang member on the rampage could possibly instil the fear, or inflict the damage, that his wife was capable of when wielding a kitchen knife. No-one would have believed it.

Eventually he’d done the only thing he could. He’d run away.

Whatever residual pride he’d been able to retain pricked him occasionally, but at least he was still alive. Pride doesn’t prick the conscience of the dead, but in the living, and, in his case, when at a safe distance, it stimulated the desire for revenge. The ex had to die, preferably painfully and with the knowledge that it was he who had killed her.

The trouble was that he had absolutely no idea how to go about it. Also, he was fairly certain that even if he could have mustered the courage to face his nemesis, his nemesis would’ve won. Even if she hadn’t, he had sufficient confidence in the efficiency of the police and the discipline of forensic science to believe that he’d be caught. His only schooling in the murky underworld inhabited by ruthless killers had been through the medium of pulp-fiction and Hollywood. Consequently, he believed that hit men had to be trained by military or paramilitary organisations, with their potential operatives drawn from the Special Forces or the criminal underclass. Alternatively they were Cambridge graduates recruited by the KGB.

He was a habitual civilian, he wasn’t a Cambridge graduate and he’d never even met a Russian. Neither was he a criminal, at least not yet, and, to the best of his knowledge, was not acquainted with any.

So, he’d asked himself, what was he to do?

Eventually, he’d come up with an answer. He’d done what any disaffected man would do. He’d subscribed to Soldier of Fortune magazine and taken up paint-ball.

He’d slopped about in combats in his time off, bought a mail-order crossbow and amused himself reading up on the latest weapons issued to the armed forces of the developed nations. He’d also had a lot of fun in the woods, getting bitten by horse flies and covered in paint splats at weekends, but he’d learned utterly nothing about how to become a successful killer.

Then he’d met Lilly.

Lilly was hardcore. Blond, beautiful, she had an air of mystery and spoke perfect English with just a hint of an accent. Nobody, not even Wilson, ever worked out what she’d seen in him. Men were enviously incredulous when they saw them together, while women were more thoughtful. The women who pursued those thoughts to their logical conclusion were inclined to comment that, “You never can tell,” and, “It just goes to show…” to the bafflement of their male partners and the sage, nodding agreement of other women.

In fact, what Lilly had seen in Wilson was a potential fall-guy and stooge, but what she had found in him had both surprised and intrigued her. What she had found was a partner.

The day of that first meeting had been a long one for Wilson. The woods had been soggy and he’d been repeatedly shot by an infuriatingly trigger-happy youth assigned to his squad as a ‘first-timer’. The team had not captured the pennant from the opposition’s compound, but there had been the minor compensation of arranging a ‘firing squad’ to dispense summary justice against the overly enthusiastic newcomer. This had been followed by a dunking in a fetid pond to cool him off.

Now it was getting dark, so he stripped off his paint splattered camouflage, throwing it into the boot of his car, together with his helmet, paint gun and goggles, before driving to the local pub for a little R&R, which he hoped would relieve the stresses of male bonding. He was looking forward to a pint and a pub meal, the highlight of the day, after which he’d have to go back to the depressing loneliness of his flat.

As he drove, he steeled his soul to cope with the raucous exuberance of other paint-ballers, which was the inevitable consequence of the post game wash-up. Usually this would have been part of the fun, an excuse to delay the anti-climax of returning home. But not today. Today he just wanted a drink and something to eat. He parked the car and limped the 20 yards to the lounge bar door and tried to enter as inconspicuously as possible. He’d only managed to take two paces into the room before the first hail of recognition assaulted his ears.

“Hey, Wilson! What happened with your squad today?” yelled a grinning paramilitary youth from a seat by a crowded table. It was overflowing with empty beer glasses. “Did you get lost or something?”

Wilson tried not to cringe and waved a hand in acknowledgement but continued on his way to the bar. He called over his shoulder, “We had a fifth columnist in our midst. I had him shot.”

This comment produced a growl of laughter from the group at the table, which then carried on with the serious business of drinking to the accompaniment of a general hum of conversation. Wilson reached the counter and halted.

“Yes, love?” inquired the barmaid.

“Pint of bitter please, Rita,” he said, as he picked up the menu. The drink duly arrived.

“£2.50,” said Rita.

Wilson thanked her as he fished his wallet out of his thigh pocket and handed over a fiver.

“Do you want to order your food now?” she asked.

Wilson habitually ordered steak egg and chips, but today he felt like a change. “No thanks,” he said as he scanned the menu, “I’ll let you know in a minute.”

“Ok, love, when you’re ready.”

She went to the till, took for the beer and gave him his change. Wilson remained by the bar and took a sip, then returned his attention to the menu.

With his back to the door he was completely unaware of the entrance of the leggy blond who looked as though she’d just stepped off a catwalk in an up-market fashion salon, somewhere in the West End. She was definitely out of place here, and it took about 2.3 nanoseconds for her to attract the wholehearted attention of the beer fuelled, testosterone charged, paint-ballers at the tables. They noticed her, even if Wilson didn’t. There was a breathless susurration of about twenty simultaneous gasps, mingled with a few longing sighs, the occasional gulp and a smattering of, ‘Cor’s. Then there was silence as their imaginations went into overdrive.

The focus of their attention cast a haughty, disdainful glance over her admirers and then her eyes found the loaner at the bar. She smiled to herself and sauntered over to stand beside him. Every pair of eyes in the place, save one, followed her progress. Nobody dared speak. The atmosphere was electric and pregnant with expectation. The ears of every occupant of the room except for Wilson and the girl, strained to catch every word that might be spoken.

Wilson’s nostrils twitched as they caught the subtlest hint of scent wafting from somewhere, just as he made his mind up to order chicken in a basket. With his mind focused on the imminence of food the scent failed to register on his consciousness. He ordered the meal, and Rita, who couldn’t believe he was oblivious to the vision standing next to him, almost forgot to charge him for it. Then the vision spoke.

“Hello,” it said, “Why don’t you buy me a drink?”

The proximity of the voice took him by surprise and he momentarily raised an eyebrow before turning to regard its owner, which he did with narrowing eyes, considerable suspicion and barely suppressed hostility. “Why should I?” he asked, “You look as though you can afford to buy your own.”

There was a whispered comment from the crowded table that almost cut through the ensuing pause like a knife. “Wow, is that playing it cool, or what?”
There was a chorus of shushes from the eager eavesdroppers around him, desperate not to miss the next move.

Surprised at his repost, the blonde’s eyes flashed like sapphires. It seemed her mark had hidden depth. Much more accustomed to the kind of reaction evinced by the bar’s other clientele, she was momentarily non-plussed by his resistance. Slowly, she smiled and moved a little closer. It was time to wind up the charm.

“Maybe I can. Maybe I can’t. Maybe I’m a damsel in distress -” she said before he interrupted her with an acerbic comment.

“Like hell you are,” it was as far as he got before she interrupted him back.

“Maybe I just want you to buy me a drink so we can get acquainted,” she purred, warming to her task.

“And I suppose you’d like me to feed you too,” he replied.

“That would be nice,” she said with a lazy smile. His manner was a little rough but he seemed to be getting the idea now.

“No chance, sweetie.”

It was a flat refusal and she couldn’t believe it. Neither could the eavesdroppers. Everyone began to wonder if he was gay. For a moment she was stumped, could she have made a mistake? It was becoming a matter of personal pride that she persevere and wear him down. Then he gave her the opening she needed.

“If you really want my company then you’re welcome to join me. I’ll be sitting over there,” he indicated a vacant table, “But,” he continued, “Don’t expect me to pay for the privilege of your company. I won’t tolerate being treated like a mark by a grifter, or a john by a hotel call-girl. You can pay your own way.”

With that, he picked up his chicken-in-a-basket, together with his drink, and headed over to the vacant table, pausing only to collect condiments and cutlery on the way. He didn’t give her a second glance. The eavesdroppers were awestruck. Would she join him, or wouldn’t she. Under the table, money was changing hands. Jaws were dropping. They’d never seen a technique like it.

Neither had the girl. She regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments and then she smiled. It was a genuinely amused smile. She turned back to the bar and ordered a glass of wine and a salad. While she was waiting for the food she turned back to watch Wilson who never once looked in her direction. The attention of everyone else was concentrated on the two of them. As soon as her salad appeared on the bar she took it, together with her drink, and walked casually over to Wilson’s table and sat down.

“Hello,” she said, “My name’s Lilly. What’s yours?”

“Hello, Lilly, you can call me Wilson,” said Wilson.

Unacknowledged by the object of it’s attention, the bar’s crowd emitted the kind of relieved sigh that only the synchronised release of extreme tension from many breasts can generate. Slowly, very slowly, conversation resumed in respectfully muted tones as people discussed what they had witnessed. Those present would dine out on the story for weeks. Wilson’s name became legendary among the paint-balling fraternity, which was never to see him again after the night that he and Lilly walked out into the night together.

However, no-one imagined, not even for an instant, that their meeting would change the world.

(To be continued…)

[Emil Miller]

Really good, it's a pity that it's going to be a short story, it has all the hallmarks of a potential novel. I await the continuation with more than a little anticipation.

[Jack of Hearts]

It's great to see you on this side of the boards, Hawk.

The use of language in this piece is very measured and logical. There's great skill in that. This reader found the prose to be very dry. This is possibly the most frequently given advice, at least the latter part: more descriptive detail presented through the channel of human senses would not go amiss.

It was still a treat in a few ways. For one, this reader felt like he got to tumble around a highly ordinate mind- while he was reading it, he was thinking about how you constructed it. After that assessment, it's no wonder you're so good in verse.





J

[cyberbob]

Too much purple prose imo.

You're describing extremely mundane events like playing paintball and ordering food in language like 19th century british author or something.

For example:

"Wilson’s nostrils twitched as they caught the subtlest hint of scent wafting from somewhere, just as he made his mind up to order chicken in a basket. With his mind focused on the imminence of food the scent failed to register on his consciousness. He ordered the meal, and Rita, who couldn’t believe he was oblivious to the vision standing next to him, almost forgot to charge him for it. Then the vision spoke."

What are you even talking about here? Is the scent her perfume? The whole story is full of language like this.

I have nothing against elegant language, and you have good vocabulary, but this just seems silly.

[Jack of Hearts]

To continue discussion:

cyberbob's perceptive nature has labeled this purple. He may be right- but to this reader, purple is Twilight, etc. This, to him, was not verbose with undue sentiment but had the tonality of an encyclopedia at parts.

Again, bob tends to post with unusual perceptiveness, so this reader may have the weaker footing in interpretation... but something to consider nonetheless.




J

[hillwalker]

I think the 'purple prose' comment is correct, but I'm guessing the style was used deliberately here to mimic certain types of British humorous writing (Kingsley Amis or P G Wodehouse possibly) where the reader is invited to marvel at the character's inflated self-importance for example by focussing on his internalised behaviour.

It is a little old-fashioned when measured against more contemporary writing - rather too comfortable like an old slipper - but it's an enjoyable read and I'm looking forward to Act II.

H

[TheBearJew]

Great. Your writing is fantastic, but the prose is a tad dry for my taste. A lot should be cut down, and as hard as it is, especially when each sentence is truly well written, the reader will struggle otherwise. The general rule for cutting down is that when you aren't adding a new element, get rid of it. I wouldn't adhere too strictly to such a rule, but if you keep any piece as you wrote it at first, you're being far too lenient.

[Steven Hunley]

This is a good start. The prose is a taste long-winded as noted. I read quite a lot of old stuff so I didn't notice at first. That's the style that I'm used to. But don't hesitate to return to it with a pair of sizzors. A snip here and there wouldn't hurt. But other than that it was grand. Good to see your stuff again.

[Hawkman]

Thank you all for reading and for your comments. Forgive me if I'm brief, I'm slaving over part 2 :)

Live and be well - H

[Hawkman]

Wilson was not a misogynist by nature; he had become one by nurture. Until his marriage he’d enjoyed the company of women. A string of mutually satisfying relationships with pleasant girls had run their natural courses. He’d even stayed in touch with a couple of them, at least up to the point he’d taken up with the ‘Bride from Hell’ as he’d come to think of her. It was she who’d taught him how to hate.

So now, even though he found himself in the company of a woman who made Claudia Schiffer look plain, and who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be displaying every sign of finding him, at the very least, extremely interesting, he couldn’t help being suspicious. Quite frankly he couldn’t believe it. It was like a bizarre, schoolboy fantasy.

He might not be able to believe it, but he was determined to enjoy it. Definitely better than going home to an empty flat, with its dog-eared, back-catalogue of “Soldier of Fortune” magazines, or watching “Ronin” on DVD for the one hundred and twenty-fifth time. There was the mail-order crossbow of course, still in its unopened box on the top of the wardrobe, gathering dust. He could take it out and look at it. But even this tantalising prospect failed to compete with the remote possibility that he might get to unwrap the woman. So, when she’d asked him to drive her home, he’d agreed. At the very least he’d found out where she lived. He’d half expected her to be staying at a plush hotel on an out of town visit, but he was pleasantly surprised to learn that she had a permanent residence only a few miles from his flat. Her address, though, was considerably more up-market than his. ‘No surprise there,’ he thought.

She was sitting beside him now, in the passenger seat of his car, as he navigated the maze of deserted country roads under the blanket of night. He could feel her perfumed warmth, the scent intoxicating in the confines of the car, and it made him uncomfortably aware that he needed a wash. In front of them, the moving bubble of light from the headlights briefly illuminated a few yards of road, together with its bordering hedges, before the darkness reclaimed them from behind. Occasionally he would spare her a sideways glance. The backwash from the main beams highlighted her face, revealing that she was still wearing that secret smile with its hint of amused condescension. It was both intriguing and irritating.

The conversation was lying fallow and he began to find the muted drone of the engine oppressive. Without taking his eyes off the road he flicked his left thumb over his shoulder to indicate the pub they had recently vacated.

“So, what on earth induced you to venture this far out into the sticks?” he asked. “You don’t exactly look like the kind of girl who frequents country pubs.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Don’t I?” she said, “Well, appearances can be deceptive.”

She was still smiling that secretive half-smile. He didn’t see it, but he was acutely conscious of the amusement in her voice.

“Actually, I was looking for someone,” she paused and this time he looked at her. “I found you,” she said.

In this light her irises looked black, but the highlights in them twinkled at him mischievously. She smiled properly, revealing the pale gleam of her perfectly even teeth.

“So it would seem,” said Wilson sardonically as he returned his attention to the road.

A few seconds later he felt her hand on his thigh. It slid a little inwards and upwards, stopping short of his groin, then squeezed, gently, before her fingertips began tracing exploratory circles against the fabric of his trousers.

“Not if you want to live,” he said. It was his turn to display a half smile.

Lilly gave him a surprisingly appraising look, which again he missed.

“Not while I’m driving,” expanded Wilson with a smile, sparing her a glance.

She smiled back.

“You could pull over…” Lilly left the sentence hanging.

“I don’t think so, not on this road.”

“Suit your-self,” said Lilly, dismissively. She withdrew her hand, but slowly, making sure that the last vestige of contact communicated obvious reluctance. There was another pregnant pause.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he replied, adding, “Especially if you light one for me.”

Lilly reached down into the foot-well and retrieved her handbag. Depositing it on her lap, she opened it and rummaged for a moment, before pulling out a cigarette case and her lighter. Wilson picked up the movement in his peripheral vision and noted that although the bag was stylish, and almost certainly as expensive as everything else she was wearing, it was larger than he’d have expected it to be. As an accessory it wasn’t quite chic, but it was large enough to comfortably accommodate a bulky, grey-looking object, which gleamed metallically for a moment before she closed it.

She opened the case and extracted a pair of cigarettes, put them both in her mouth then lit them. It was the least elegant thing he’d seen her do in their short acquaintance. It made her seem less mysterious to Wilson, but a lot more human. He cracked both the front electric windows open and reached over to take the proffered cigarette. The butt had lipstick on it. He put it to his mouth and inhaled deeply, then blew out the smoke towards the partially open window.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

They lapsed into an almost companionable silence while they smoked. Wilson drove, sneaking an occasional look at Lilly, who watched him back, with casual but catlike appraisal out of the corner of her eye. Both were thinking that it was likely to be an eventful night, although the exact nature of those events differed somewhat in their respective imaginations. Wilson may have had hopes, but Lilly had definite plans.

Ten minutes later they were driving through the outskirts of the city and five minutes after that Wilson pulled up outside a smart apartment block, the upper storeys of which had an uninterrupted view of the coast. Lilly got out of the car and walked round to the driver’s side. Wilson lowered the window.

“Thanks for the lift,” she said, smiling, and before he could reply, added, “You can come up for a nightcap if you like.”

Wilson remembered the feel of her hand on his thigh. He definitely liked, but if there was the remotest possibility of getting up close and personal with this woman he wanted to feel a lot cleaner. As if reading his mind, Lilly banished his qualms.

“You’re welcome to take a shower in my apartment. It’s a service flat. I can even have your clothes laundered for the morning.” She leaned forwards and whispered, “You probably won’t need them till then,” softly into his ear.

To Wilson this sounded just too good to be true, but what the hell, he thought.

“I don’t suppose you could lend me a razor, could you?” he asked.

She laughed with genuine amusement. “I’m sure we can come up with something,” she said. “You can leave the car where it is. Now come on, let’s go in. It’s cold out here.”

Wilson didn’t need asking again. He closed the window, turned off the ignition and got out, locking the car behind him. To his surprise, Lilly took his hand and led him to the entrance. The door was opened remotely from the inside by a uniformed security guard seated at a CCTV console in the lobby.

“Evenin’ Miss,” he said cheerfully to Lilly as she walked past. He eyed her dishevelled companion with envious disapproval, managing only a sullen, “Sir,” in grudging acknowledgment of his existence.

“Hello, Jameson, any messages?” said Lilly, bestowing on the flunky the largess of a smile that made his day.

“No, Miss,” replied Jameson.

“Good,” said Lilly, who turned and winked at Wilson before dragging him into the lift.

She pressed the button for the top floor and before the doors had fully closed, pulled him over and began kissing him on the lips, slowly and tentatively at first and then with increasing enthusiasm. Wilson was not inclined to put up much of a fight and definitely starting to enjoy himself, but he still didn’t believe it. He was wondering if he was in some kind of twilight zone. Stuff like this just didn’t happen in real life. It didn’t happen in stories either come to think of it; at least, not the kind he read.

She was still kissing him when the lift reached the top floor, pinged and opened its doors. She disengaged, and, a little breathlessly, propelled him to a door which she opened with a swipe of her security fob. They practically fell through it, and then it swung closed behind them, locking with a discrete click. It was the door to the penthouse apartment, which was now totally secure.

After passing through a shallow entrance hall lined with walk-in cupboards, Wilson found himself standing in an incredibly spacious, rectangular sitting room, and, as he looked around, he was conscious of an overwhelming impression of whiteness. Not a glaring, sterile whiteness, but a diffuse, soft comfortable whiteness, with subtle shades of cream and beige. The floor was luxuriously carpeted with a pale, deep pile and an expansive picture window was set in the far wall opposite the door. For the moment it looked out onto blackness, but curtains were in the process of drawing, shutting out the night and apparently of their own volition.

The centre area of the floor was recessed and at the foot of three steps. Here there were long, comfortable-looking sofas on three sides of the well, but none with their backs to the entrance. There was an ornately carved standard lamp in one corner, set between two of the sofas, while a plain wooden coffee table reposed in the centre of the sunken floor.

A walnut bookcase, filled with leather-bound books, covered nearly half of one of the short walls. It looked as though it was quite a long way away from where he was standing. Up-lighters, in pairs, were discretely sited around the other two walls, which also played host to what must have been extremely expensive art, assuming that it was genuine. The pictures themselves had their own swan-necked lighting. There were two internal doors, situated opposite each other at either end of the room and a well stocked bar was located next to one of them. A handful of occasional tables and plinths provided resting places for classy-looking vases.

Wilson surmised that the decorator who’d designed the interior must have charged a fortune. He’d barley managed to assimilate his surroundings before Lilly became extremely distracting. He took a step backwards and gently but firmly held her at arms length. She pouted at him, but her eyes continued to regard him with disquieting, calculated amusement.

“OK, Lilly, what is it that you really want from me?” he asked.

She couldn’t help herself. She laughed and let her handbag drop onto the floor, where it landed with a surprisingly heavy clunk.

“Why, I want your body, of course,” she managed after a moment. It was just as well that he didn’t get the joke.

“Well you can’t have it until it’s clean,” he said with more than a hint of irritation.

“Fair enough,” said Lilly, regaining her composure, “Here, give me your coat and take off those shoes.”

He did so and handed them to her. She turned and sloughed off her own, opened one of the cupboards in the hall, put their coats on hangers and placed the shoes in a rack. Then she took him by the hand again and led him into the bathroom. She’d shown him where to find what he needed, including a rather diminutive razor and a plain towelling dressing gown. Lastly, she’d pointed out the laundry chute before leaving him to his own devices.

He emerged, some fifteen minutes later, feeling like a new man, and found Lilly standing by the bar. He must have looked like a new man too, because Lilly was giving him a more appraisingly thoughtful look. He was no Adonis, but he was passably attractive and was in reasonably good shape. Her gaze was slightly less mocking than it had been.

“Drink?” she asked.

“Scotch, please. Got a single malt?” he asked as he claimed a place on one of the sofas.

“Sure.”

She poured a generous measure of Glenlivet and carried it over to him. He took it, sniffed it and put it on the table as she settled in beside him.

“Well,” she said, “You certainly smell better.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he replied.

“How did you get on with the razor?”

In answer he offered her his cheek. She nuzzled it then gave it a kiss.

“Hmmm, definitely satisfactory,” she said.

Casually, she started to stroke the back of his neck with her fingertips. “That’s nice,” he sighed and leaned against her, closing his eyes.

Almost without thinking, she stroked his cheek with her left hand and continued downward onto his chest where she slipped it under the fold of the dressing gown, gently exploring the sparse chest hair and running over his skin until she felt the first of his scars. Her hand stopped moving.

“What’s this?” she murmured into his ear.

“Long story, don’t want to tell,” he sighed, wearily.

Her hand began exploring again and found another scar.

“How many of these have you got?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

“Too many,” he replied. The tone of his voice had changed. Now it was tinged with bitterness.

She wanted him more relaxed than this. She tried to lighten his mood by becoming a little more playful. She nibbled his earlobe and whispered, “Tell me your deepest desire, your darkest fantasy…”

With surprising vehemence he said, “I want to kill someone.”

She was somewhat taken aback.

“Anyone in particular?” she asked, wondering where she’d left her handbag.

“Oh, Yes!” he said. Then he opened his eyes and reached for his drink. Lilly made a split second decision and with uncharacteristic clumsiness, knocked it out of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ll get you another.” She picked up his glass and retraced her steps to the bar. Picking up a fresh glass she poured another measure of scotch, only this time she didn’t drug it. She returned to sit beside him and handed him the drink.

“Thanks,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek before taking a sip.

Suddenly she felt quite disarmed by this casual act of affection, and this was in spite of the fact that she remembered where she’d left her handbag.

She was intrigued by his wounds and his desire to kill. She wanted to find out if he had the aptitude. If he had, then their relationship might be very much to their mutual advantage. Of course, this meant a significant change in her plans for the evening, and for the job she had to do on Monday if it came to that, but she was nothing if not flexible. In the meantime she saw no reason not to enjoy herself.

She gently touched his face and turned it to face her, then gave him a lingering kiss. They both enjoyed it.

Looking him square in the eyes, she said, “Give me five minutes while I slip into something more comfortable,” stood up, and disappeared into her bedroom.

When she re-emerged she made quite an entrance. The double doors of her bedroom swung back to reveal her in spectacular form, wearing a long, grey-silk dressing gown, black stockings and patent black stilettos, and judging from the way the dressing gown was hanging, nothing else. Her long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders with all the sheen and bounce that Vidal Sassoon could have wished for, while her dark blue eyes sparkled with promise.

She took a half step into the sitting room and struck a catwalk pose, dropping one hip so that the folds of the dressing gown parted just enough to reveal a glimpse of milk-white inner thigh above the sheer black stocking top. Wilson gasped and gravitated towards her like a loadstone drawn to the magnetic Pole. The closer he got the more clearly he discerned the stocking top, which he now saw was decorated with a band of diamante swastikas which glittered in the light.

“What on earth?” he managed

She shifted her stance to show that the other leg was similarly adorned.

“You should feel honoured,” she said with a lascivious smile, “I don’t put these on for just anyone you know.”

“But they’re…” he squeaked, torn between lust and loathing.

“Yes,” she said, and they make me feel wicked!”

She reached out and grabbed him, dragging him into her bedroom where the doors swung to behind him. Resistance was useless, the lust had won.

(To be continued…)

[MANICHAEAN]

Not sure how I missed this one H.

Very enjoyable read, especially the way you alternate from your hero's bed of nails existence with a sadistic b---h, to a damsel with a hint of promise in her eyes & in her loins.

Don't let us down with the next instalment!

M.

[Bluehound]

Ooo she's a fox, can't wait to find out what happens next.

[Hawkman]

Hi, M - Glad you seem to be enjoying it :) I'm afraid you'll have to wait a day or so for the next instalment, I've other things to do, but the plot is well mapped out in my head, so I hope to have it finished soon.

Bluehound, Yes she is rather, but a potentially lethal one :D Keep watching the boards...

Live long and prosper - H

[AuntShecky]

I can see Hill's point in seeing Amis the Elder and Wodehouse in the intentionally-stilted prose style. The American writer who came to my mind was S.J. Perelman, especially "Farewell, My Lovely Appetizer." It's not strictly a parody, but rather a "pastiche." There are too different kinds of pastiche ("pastiches"?) --I looked it up. One lampoons the original, the other is an affectionate tribute. Your story of course falls into the latter definition.

There are multiple delectables in here, such as in single lines, such as the one how drinking can "relieve the stress of male bonding." And in passages, such as this masterpiece of understatement:

He’d done what any disaffected man would do. He’d subscribed to Soldier of Fortune magazine and taken up paint-ball.


(I have no quibble at all with the content of this, but in the placement. More about this in a bit.)

Another highly effective part is the scene in which Wilson meets the notorious Lilly is not only a spoof of the "meeting cute" convention of contemporary rom-coms, but even more so it's a send up of hard-boiled Bogart or Belmondo types in film noir.

Just a short foray into the world of paint-balling and all of a sudden Wilson has become the Essence of Cool, Mr. Macho, Sir Lady Killer. The irony comes in with the fact that the "deep background" depicts Wilson as --I'm trying to use a polite expression here --"-----whipped" in the most literal sense. The ex-wife physically abused him along with taking him for every penny that he was worth, right? That sets up his motivation -- to off the b-word right?

Well, it's the "deep background" aka the "back story" which is the only problem in the story. In my ever-increasing opinion there is much Too Much Information too early. The narrator tells us everything up front.
for instance, we know all about Lilly, what she's after, and how Wilson falls for her, even before they meet! The problem isn't the what or the how--the problem is the locations where this information appears. All it needs is a realignment of the passages.

I wonder if the story --which certainly is entertaining and funny already--couldn't be improved by letting out the details gradually, a little at a time. Let the reader get in on the fun but guessing what is going on, just like the best of the detective/thriller movies do.

I think you know what I'm saying. I'm not saying what's there isn't good --in fact, it's great. I'm not saying that it lacks subtlety -- it has it in abundance. What I am saying is to intersperse the narration (the essential "telling" parts) seamlessly within the body of the dramatic "showing" parts.

Couple of other minor points.
The first two sentences
Two years ago, Wilson was 35, single and depressed.
Part of the reason for his being single and depressed

could be combined.

Some sentences are extraneous, not necessary.--You should be able to work out why he was 35 by yourselves

This is one example of "telling" rather than showing:
In fact, what Lilly had seen in Wilson was a potential fall-guy and stooge, but what she had found in him had both surprised and intrigued her. What she had found was a partner.

and in this:
Lilly was hardcore. Blond, beautiful, she had an air of mystery and spoke perfect English with just a hint of an accent.

Rather than tell us about the "hint of an accent," show us in her lines of dialogue.

As usual, take all these suggestions w. a grain o' you know what.

Looking forward to reading the rest of this.

Your Auntie

[Hawkman]

Firstly Auntie, please don’t take that tone of ink with me :D It is incredibly hard on these poor old eyes of mine when set against the forum’s brown background. Even with my glasses on it has been something of a strain to make it out. Black or dark blue in future please :D

Thanks very much for your compliments with regard to the piece and for appreciating the elements of style which it incorporates. With regard to your criticism of my deliberate choice of putting the back story, “up front” though, I am compelled to explain my reason. As you have noted, it sets up the principle characters’ motivations. This leaves the reader free to enjoy and understand the subsequent situations as they develop without tedious digressions which slow the action. Had this been a 2000 word short, I’d agree that the depth of detail would be inappropriate, but it’s running at nearly 5000 words already and will probably run to at least another 3k (but more likely 4k) in order to be completed.

I’m afraid that you might be a bit off the mark with your assessment that Wilson, becomes a macho lady killer simply because he’s taken up paint-ball. He’s a morose, anti-social misogynist and his reactions and attitude would normally be considered repellent. Lilly pursues him because he’s a loaner, literally standing apart from the crowd. He’s potentially expendable. The humour is derived from the reader knowing this, from Wilson and Lilly’s interaction and from the reactions of the bystanders.

I’m not writing a detective story, but I am taking the reader on a journey. There is already a clearly defined character arc which will become explicit as the story develops.

As for Lilly’s accent, I’ve already stated that she speaks perfect English. Describing the sound in dialogue would become rather tedious. The origins of the accent are already hinted at but I’m not going to spell it out at this stage ;)

Anyway, thanks again for taking the trouble to plough through it and share your thoughts. Hopefully you won’t have to wait too long for the rest - More will be forthcoming ASAP.

Live long and prosper - H

[Hawkman]

In the morning, when Wilson surfaced from the arms of Morpheus, he did so without his customary sense of existential dread. The waves of self-loathing, which habitually washed through his consciousness on waking, completely failed to materialise. Instead, they were replaced with a general sensation of wellbeing, a warm glow, which permeated his soul and reassured him, for the first time in years, of his status as a man. He opened his eyes. There followed a brief instant of disorientation on becoming aware of his strange surroundings, followed by disappointment at the discovery that he was alone.

He sighed.

Reluctantly he heaved himself out of bed, pulled on the dressing gown and padded into the bathroom, where he found Lilly’s stockings lying in a bowl. They looked a bit like sloughed snake-skins, with their tawdry decoration appearing little more than traces of sand adhering to the translucent material. Without her legs inside to give them life they looked vaguely squalid.

He reached into the shower to turn on the water, then shrugged off the dressing gown and stepped in. He winced as the jets struck his back where Lilly’s fingernails had gouged tracks into his skin. Fresh wounds, he thought, but they wouldn’t scar, and he could wear his latest stripes with a certain degree of satisfaction.

He emerged from the bathroom and padded into the spacious lounge. There was no sign of Lilly but the curtains were drawn back from the huge window. He walked over to look outside. The view was impressive, but the sun was well up, so he must have slept late. The door to the bedroom was open and he peered in, but there was no sign of his hostess here either.

“Hello,” he called.

“In here,” came the reply from beyond the door by the bar.

He found Lilly, wearing slacks and a sweater, sitting at the table in a luxuriously appointed kitchen-diner. She was reading the Sunday papers and had obviously already breakfasted as her used plate was pushed to the side. She was halfway through a cup of coffee and looked up as he entered.

“Hungry?” she asked, adding, “You should be,” with a complacent smile before he could reply.

“Just a bit,” he said, smiling back.

“What would you like?” she asked.

“What’ve you got?”

She told him. He elected for scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of coffee.

“Help your self to coffee,” she said, pointing to a filter machine on a worktop.

He poured himself a cup.

“You should get dressed,” she said, handing him his neatly laundered clothes. “As promised. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking them. He gave her a peck on the cheek and headed back to the bedroom.

“Idiot!” she said, under her breath with a wry grin. She was uncertain whether she was referring to Wilson, or herself.

In the bedroom Wilson dressed hastily and was about to re-enter the sitting room when he noticed a small, glazed display frame on the wall. It contained an impressive collection of WW2 medals. They were German. He recognised some of them. In pride of place was The Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross (with oak leaves and swords). It also contained the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, 1st class and the Iron Cross 2nd class, together with the War Merit Cross (with swords) and a couple of combat badges, which he couldn’t identify.

He hoped they had been awarded for honest soldiering, because if they had, their recipient must have been quite a man. He suddenly felt very small, but it definitely made him wonder about those stockings. They explained that hint of an accent though, he thought.

Lilly’s call that his breakfast was ready came as a welcome relief from his ponderings, and he gratefully headed to the kitchen.

“What are your plans for today?” asked Lilly as he ate.

“Haven’t got any,” said Wilson, between mouthfuls.

“Good,” said Lilly, “Because I want to go for a drive in the country and I’d like your company.”

She was smiling that unfathomable smile again, but the proposal sounded good to Wilson. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do and he hadn’t had this much attention from anyone, let alone a sex goddess, for longer than he cared to remember. He readily agreed, and while he’d finished his breakfast, Lilly had thrown together a quick picnic lunch and stuffed it into a hamper.

Lilly had taken them in her sports car, which she drove like a fighter plane, so it was something of a white knuckle ride for her passenger. However, she handled the car with precision along the narrow country roads. It was a beautiful day and with the top down her hair whipped in the slipstream.

Between the bellow of the engine and the roaring wind noise, conversation was difficult to say the least, and anyway, Wilson was too scared to talk much. Lilly just grinned. It was the kind of grin that people wear when they’re firing off an entire belt from a Vickers machinegun.

What was the word which described it? ‘Ah yes,’ he thought, ‘Manic, that’s it.’

Not quite what he’d had in mind when she’d suggested a drive in the country, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. At 70 miles an hour he couldn’t exactly get out, and besides, he doubted that he’d have been able to open the door because the hedges were so close. The only consolation was that at this speed it wouldn’t take too long to get where they were going, wherever that might be. He just hoped it wouldn’t be a hospital or a morgue.

To Wilson’s immense relief, Lilly slowed down and then pulled up opposite a padlocked gate, which bore the sign, KEEP OUT, in large unfriendly letters. She got out of the car unlocked it and pushed it open. Then she drove the car through and relocked it behind them.

Wilson saw that they were on a track, with a well maintained, metalled surface, which headed into the countryside for a way before curving round to the left behind a stand of trees. Lilly drove them along it until it came to an end beside a substantially built, long, low shed.

She switched off the engine and turned to face him.

“So,” She asked, “Who is it that you want to kill?”

Wilson was taken aback and just looked at her stupidly. It didn’t take long before Lilly started to look impatient. He suddenly had a feeling that this was probably a bad thing, but before he opened his mouth she spoke again.

“Would it be the person who gave you those scars?”

“Yes,” he said, uncomfortably.

“So why haven’t you done anything about it?” she asked.

Wilson decided that only complete honesty would be acceptable to this woman. “Because,” he said, “I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about it and I’d almost certainly get caught.”

“Good answer,” she said, and then she smiled that smile again. “A man should know his limitations. How would you like to find out what they really are?”

Wilson was intrigued.

“I think it would be… interesting,” he said, thoughtfully.

Lilly smiled, a slow, seductive smile this time, then leaned over and kissed him.

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

She grabbed her bulky handbag, got out of the car, and headed over to the building. Wilson followed her.

They were standing in a private shooting range. Wilson guessed it was about 25 yards long and heavily soundproofed.

“OK,” said Lilly, “we’ll start with the easy stuff. Let’s find out if you can shoot.”

She put her bag down on the table in one of the shooting alcoves, opened it, and extracted an automatic pistol. It wasn’t a dainty, chrome-plated, pearl handled affair, the kind a femme fatale keeps tucked into her purse in Film Noir. No, it was a brute of a gun, a god-damned hand-cannon, and it had stopping power.

“This is a Glock21, point 45 calibre pistol which carries a 13 round magazine inserted into the grip,” she said. “Want to give it a try?”

“OK,” he said.

Lilly reached under the table and pulled out two sets of ear defenders.

“Here, you’ll need these,” she said, handing him a pair.

She pressed a button and an electric winch pulled a man-shaped target forward to a distance of about 15 yards from the firing point.

“To c0ck the weapon grip the slide with your thumb and forefinger, pull it all the way back and let it go. Hold it two handed, like this,” she showed him, “And make sure that your thumb stays low, otherwise you’ll know about it. The slide will gouge a groove in your skin. It’s called slide bite.

‘I want you to aim at the centre of the target and fire two rounds. Then shift your aim to the head and fire two more. Then we’ll see how you’ve done.”

She handed him the gun and moved behind him to watch over his shoulder. He cocked the pistol, took aim and squeezed off four rounds. Lilly took off her ear-defenders and relieved Wilson of the gun. Then she wound the target all the way in. It only had two holes in it, one in the centre of the chest and one between the eyes. She gave him a quizzical look but said nothing. She pasted patches over the holes and returned the target to its previous position.

“Do that again,” she said.

He did.

“Impressive,” she said. “Have you done this before?”

“No,” he replied.

“Well let’s see what you can do with the target a little farther away.”

Lilly sent it to the bottom of the range and Wilson fired four more shots. When she examined the target there were four overlapping holes in it.

“Well, well,” she said, “That makes two things you’re good at.” She checked the gun and reloaded it. I wonder if you can still do it with a little distraction. When you hear the sound of a gun being cocked I want you to shoot. Understand?”

“OK,” he said.

She pressed a button on the side of the alcove, and then kissed him enthusiastically. He responded.

From down range the sound of the cocking gun clattered away, but he was still kissing her, right up until the moment he found himself lying on his back with her knee in his chest and uncomfortably aware of a hot, pricking sensation at his throat. Lilly slapped his face, not too hard, but hard enough.

“Too slow,” she said. “You could be dead now. Lesson number one: if you ever hear that noise, and it’s not you who’s making it, don’t hesitate.” She climbed off him and he stood up. He put his hand to where he’d felt the prick. His fingers came away with a smear of blood on them. It wasn’t a game any more.

“Now, again,” she demanded.

This time, the moment he heard the sound, he swung her round so that she was in front of him and fired two shots. At the other end of the range the speaker disintegrated in a shower of little plastic bits. It sparked fitfully and a little wisp of smoke curled away into the rafters.

There was a moment of silence, then Lilly cleared her throat.

“Actually, I meant for you to shoot the target,” she said, trying not to laugh, “And personally, I think I’d have preferred it if you hadn’t used me as a human shield, but you seem to have got the idea.”

She walked over to a door in the wall and opened it. It was a store room and she disappeared inside for a moment. When she emerged she was pushing a wheeled trolley. It had a naked bust mounted on it, which looked astonishingly real. She left it positioned in the middle of the range, then walked back to rejoin Wilson at the firing point.

“What’s that?” asked Wilson.

“A training aid,” she replied. “Putting a bullet through a piece of paper can help your marksmanship, but it doesn’t bear any relationship to what you’ll see when you shoot a person. It’s shocking, and you need to be prepared for it. A large calibre bullet makes a god-awful mess, as you’re about to find out.” She put her ear defenders back on and said, “Shoot it.”

He picked up the gun, took aim and fired. The result was spectacular. The entire back of the head was blown off, spraying the floor with spattered matter and little bits of what looked like skull. The remains of the head pumped red liquid in a fountain, which rapidly subsided leaving a gory puddle on the concrete.

“Bloody hell”, he breathed.

“Told you,” said Lilly. “Now, what do you say to some lunch?”

Wilson had never felt less like eating in his life.

Lilly grinned at him. “Come on,” she said, “It’ll do you good.”

After their picnic they cleaned up the range and Lilly spent a couple of hours introducing him to different calibre pistols and explaining their respective merits, depending on the prevailing circumstances. By four o’clock Wilson was suffering from culture shock and his head was swimming.

“OK, she said, “That’s enough for one day, we’ll head back now. I’ll drop you off at my place and you can pick up your car and go home. I have to work tonight anyway and I’ll probably be busy until Tuesday morning. I’ll call you and we can go out and have some fun.”

“I have to work,” he began, but Lilly interrupted him.

“No you don’t,” she said, “Take a sicky or quit. You’ve more important things to do.”

When they arrived back at her apartment block she gave him a lingering kiss which made him wish that he didn’t have to go home. She was firm though, and almost pushed him out of the car with playful force. With a wave, she left him, standing beside his own vehicle, and screamed off round the corner to the underground garage.

He sighed, climbed into his car and drove home.

That night he slept well and didn’t bother going into work on Monday.

On Monday night, it was reported on the news, that a prominent and outspoken politician had been found dead at home. He’d been vociferous in calling for a major arms manufacturer to be investigated for illegal trading with an unpopular foreign government. He’d been found on his kitchen table, wearing women’s underwear and trussed up like an oven ready chicken, apparently having suffocated himself with a plastic bag over his head. The report claimed that he’d even had an apple in his mouth.

Wilson didn’t think anything of it, just dismissed it as the sort of political sex scandal which seemed unusually prevalent these days. Later, there was some suggestion that a leggy blond might have been involved, but the police dismissed these rumours as hearsay, and stated, quite categorically, that there was absolutely no evidence to back them up. Still, it made him wonder what his new girlfriend had been up to.

(To be continued…)

[AuntShecky]

Hi Hawk--

As I 'splained today's PM, I got confused and skaroooooed
up bigtime.

Mea Culpa.

No more colored fonts (or at least, I'll try to make 'em darker.)

And finally--I'll wait 'til the entire piece is posted in its entirety and make (it is to be hoped) a less hasty judgement. (There's a lesson to be learned there, at least for yers fooly.)

Auntie

[Hawkman]

Lilly was on her back staring up into the eyes of her lover. She was panting heavily and a fine sheen of perspiration was glistening on her skin. Wilson looked down at her with an expression of extreme satisfaction on his face.

“God, you’re good,” she managed to say, fighting to control her breathing.

She smiled, and the expression in her eyes held no trace of the calculated, mocking amusement which they’d shown when she first met him. She hadn’t looked at him like that for quite a while now.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning back.

It was the fourth time today that they’d been in this position, not counting those occasions when they’d not been wearing any clothes. He reached out with his left hand and relieved her of the knife she was holding before removing the tip of his own from her throat. It left a tiny red mark which faded rapidly. He hadn’t even scratched her perfect skin.

He shifted his weight, releasing her right arm which had been pinned beneath his knee, and was about to roll aside when she reached up and pulled his face down to hers. Their lips met in a warm, melting kiss. Wilson allowed himself to enjoy it but didn’t let down his guard. He was still holding his knife and its point was less than a millimetre from a spot just below her left ear. Lilly knew it was there. Reluctantly she disengaged from the kiss and smiled a relaxed smile. Her eyes were still closed.

“Hmmm…. Good boy,” she murmured. “Training’s over, you’re ready.”

It had been a long but rewarding two years for Wilson. He’d learned how to use the long gun, a fifty calibre sniper’s rifle which could take someone’s head off at a range of a mile. He’d learned how to judge wind speed by the fluttering of a blade of grass, how he even needed to factor in the rotation of the earth when taking aim. He liked the long gun, it gave him distance.

He’d learned how to use explosives with the precision of a surgeon’s knife. He didn’t like bombs, they were indiscriminate, but they had their uses. He’d learned how to kill with his bare hands, quickly and quietly. He’d learned how to use a blade and where to strike; Biology, 101. He’d learned that anything could be a weapon, even a book or a rolled up magazine.

He’d learned how to abseil and treat rooftops as a highway, he’d learned how to climb and how not to fall, which had taken a while and had been a bit painful on occasion. He’d learned patience, enduring Lilly’s periodic absences with fortitude, using them to motivate himself with extra fitness training. He went for long runs, starting with a mile, which had almost killed him, but now he could comfortably manage ten.

He’d quickly learned that he preferred fitness training with Lilly, though. It invariably involved sex. He really liked the sex, it was spectacular, everything he’d ever dreamed sex could be.

He’d learned that he could love someone and not be weakened by it.

Lilly had rebuilt him. Wilson was better than he was before: better, stronger, faster - and considerably more dangerous. He was now the consummate assassin and could disappear at will, able to find whatever he needed almost anywhere in the world, and there’d be not a trace left behind. All he needed was his first kill.

“Let’s celebrate,” said Lilly, “Take me out to dinner.”

Wilson rolled off her and sprang to his feet in one fluid movement, then reached down and helped her to her feet. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

Lilly admired her handiwork. He was looking at her now, with eyes that gave nothing away, wearing a half-smile that just for a moment kindled a frisson of dread in her mind. He looked like a predator contemplating a kill.

He was.

‘My god, I’ve created a monster,’ she thought.

She realised her heart was racing and suddenly she wanted some reassurance, needed to know that she was safe. The instant of disorientation was intoxicating and before she knew it she was kissing him passionately. Her legs gave way and he swept her up and carried her into the bedroom. She’d never felt so helpless in her life. The fear gave her passion an edge that was shatteringly satisfying.

She needn’t have worried though. Wilson had been thinking of killing someone else entirely.

That evening they got dressed up to the nines and made a spectacular impression on the hearts and minds of the staff, as well as the other diner’s, in a swankily expensive restaurant. Lilly wore a gown that showed her figure off to perfection, while Wilson looked resplendent in his freshly tailored dinner suit. They looked like a couple of film stars at a premier and, as they absolutely reeked of money, the head waiter positively fawned on them. He was slightly disappointed at the end of the evening only to receive a £50 tip. It was a very exclusive restaurant.

If they ever came back, he decided, he’d have to work harder. For some reason, neither of them had been inclined to drink much, despite his having attempted to lure them with the exclusivity of his cellar. He blamed government health fascists for adverse publicity regarding the benefits of alcohol, and the tediousness of drink-driving laws.

After they’d left, Wilson drove until they were only a couple of miles from Lilly’s home, then he turned into a quiet cul-de-sac and pulled over.

Lilly gave him a quizzical look.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I’ve a social call to make in the neighbourhood,” he said.

“Will it take long?”

“Not sure,” he replied. “Are you ok to drive home?”

Lilly looked down at her feet and then back at Wilson.

“In these shoes?” she said. She was wearing very high heels.

“No problem,” he replied and got out of the car.

He walked round the back and popped the boot, pulling out a small black bag, then closed it and walked round to her side of the car. She lowered the window. He pulled her driving pumps out of the bag and handed them to her.

“I see you came prepared,” she said with a wry grin. “Tell me, is your social call business or pleasure?”

“Both,” he replied.

“I see.”

There was an awkward pause. She had to admit to herself that this was the moment they’d been working towards for two years, but, in a strange way, it was a moment she’d been dreading. It was the moment when he’d taken charge of his own life. It was the moment of truth.

“I could wait…” She left the sentence hanging, but he shook his head.

“Best not,” he replied, “A car like this would only attract attention round here.”

“I could meet you somewhere.”

Wilson thought for a moment. It wasn’t a bad idea as it would be better if they arrived home together, but she’d have to go somewhere there were no surveillance cameras. There was an abandoned filling station less than a mile from where he was going and she’d be able to park up, out of sight, behind the boarded up shop.

“OK” he said, “Wait for me at the old Garden Road garage.”

He gave her directions, told her where to park, and then leaned through the window to kiss her before disappearing into the night. Lilly watched him go with the trepidation of a mother bird watching her favourite fledgling taking its first flight. Then she got into the driver’s seat and drove off.

Wilson heard her pull away as he walked towards the house of which his ex wife had deprived him. He allowed himself the luxury of a little sympathy for any mugger who might stumble across her while she was waiting for him. They wouldn’t stand a chance. The only problem would be the inconvenience of having to dispose of the body.

He checked his watch and the luminous dial showed him that it was nearly midnight. He was standing just inside the garden wall, in deep shadow, wearing a set of dark overalls, a pair of gloves and a dark balaclava which he’d taken out of his bag. The bag was now rolled up and stuffed into his pocket. He watched the house for five minutes. The place still didn’t have an alarm. It wouldn’t have troubled him unduly if there had been one, but it made things simpler that there wasn’t.

All the lights were out, and, provided that his ex was keeping to her usual Friday night routine, she would not be home for another ten minutes. Taking care to keep to the stone path so that there would be no trace of footprints on the lawn, he flitted over to the back door and paused, listening, before picking the lock and slipping inside.

He made his way upstairs to the spare room and waited.

Three minutes later he heard a key in the front door and footsteps on the stairs. He’d been a little afraid that she might have brought someone with her, which would undoubtedly have complicated matters somewhat, but she was alone. As she reached the top of the stairs he slipped onto the landing. She wasn’t there because she’d gone into the loo. The gods of revenge were smiling on him, he thought.

Soundlessly, he padded over to the bathroom door and flattened himself against the wall. A moment later he heard the flush and the sound of running water as she washed her hands. When she stepped onto the landing he grabbed her from behind, with his arm tight round her throat choking off her cry of alarm.

“Hello, Anna,” he said into her ear.

“Wilson?” she croaked in disbelief.

“The very same, “he said, adding, “You’ve only yourself to blame, you know. You should have loved me better.”

“I didn’t mean to be unkind,” she rasped with desperate insincerity.

“I know, he said, “It was the last thing on your mind.” Then he snapped her neck and let her body fall down the stairs.

He left her lying there and slipped out the way he’d come in, locked the door behind him and was gone.

A mere twenty minutes from the time he’d kissed Lilly and walked off into the night to commit his first murder, he found her waiting for him behind the kiosk at the deserted garage. Fortunately no-one had tried to mug her, so there were no inconvenient bodies that needed to be got rid of.

“Did you have a nice time?” she asked.

“Cracking,” he replied with a very satisfied smile. “Let’s go home.”

That night he snuggled up to Lilly in her bed and slept better than he ever had before. Wrapped securely in his arms, so did she; two happy murderers, dead to the world in the comfort of a luxury penthouse.

So, how did their meeting change the world?

Well, in the years to come, Wilson personally dispatched fourteen South American Drug Lords, one ex-Prime Minister, a couple of generals and was reputed to have killed the President of Paraguay with a spoon. There was even a rumour that he’d knocked off a President of the United States.

It is entirely possible that if Lilly had never walked through the door of a certain country pub, all those international movers and shakers, now deceased, would still be alive. Of course, no one knew this world class assassin to be Wilson. He was known only by a euphemistic code name.

To Interpol, and the security services of every country where he’d ever worked, he was simply known as, “The Hawk.”

The End.

[hillwalker]

Great title - along the lines of dragon tattoos and hornets' nests ... but, my dear Hawk, perhaps I should stop there in case you are tempted to continue the body count. Or maybe not…

There were some humorous one-liners that worked well – nature v nurture in particular – and I found the revelation that Lilly had drugged his first whisky a clever intrusion into an otherwise rather banal scene (but you then ditched that fascinating plot development – the most intriguing in the entire story).

This seemed to be the pattern for most of the piece - too much filler that starved the story of air.

1) The stereotypical response of the guys in the pub when they saw the way Wilson reacted to Lilly was overplayed - to such an extent that it quickly became tiresome rather than droll.
Exposing Lilly and Wilson’s incompatibility in such detail before we even get to know her took away the only chance you had of making her interesting. And the comments about everyone’s response – dining out on the story for weeks (!) - plus the barmaid’s reaction - Rita almost forgetting to charge him - were the final nails in the coffin for me.
Unless it’s just my sense of humour that is too high maintenance.

2) Most of the dialogue was little more than small talk – and you included so many ‘he said’ – ‘she said’ – ‘he asked’ – ‘she replied’ that I began to skim the story hunting out the interesting bits. Instead of aiding the story’s flow all this formulaic chat just slowed it down to a halt.

3) The arms training was presumably fun to write if you have an Armed Forces background but I got bored as soon as I realised we were going to have to suffer the entire course with Wilson. I was desperate for something interesting to happen (it’s a story about a hired assassin after all) but nothing did.

4) Many of the plot changes were too slow in taking off – all foreplay but very little in the way of action. And some of the scenes were absurd :

The hero’s been admitted to this hot chick’s flat with only one item on the agenda and what thoughts go through his mind?
- Wilson surmised that the decorator who’d designed the interior must have charged a fortune.

and when she’s made it clear that she’s wearing nothing underneath her dressing gown (apart from those stockings) what does he focus on?
- Her long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders with all the sheen and bounce that Vidal Sassoon could have wished for, while her dark blue eyes sparkled with promise. - an advertisement for shampoo when what I really expected was action.

It could have been an attempt at irony but since Wilson doesn’t come across as a cerebrally playful individual I’m guessing not.

In conclusion I’m guessing you enjoyed writing this more than I did reading it. It’s a clever idea for a short story but your characters are paper thin, walking clichés, and the plot seems to move in fits and starts from one drawn-out scene to another with no attempt at creating build-up, introducing conflict or allowing much resolution.

So shoot me!

H

[Hawkman]

Hill, If you prowl these boards expecting to be exposed to pulitzer prize winning prose I'm afraid you are always going to be disappointed. You seem to have failed to notice that the whole damn thing's a spoof and that it's a spoof of graphic novel standard to boot. Of course the characters are cyphers. The whole tale is little more than a cartoon!

I am conscious that this is not an x rated site and consequently refrained from explicit descriptions of sexual shennanigens, although I'm quite capable of writing them.

I grant that there were instances which over indulged in description. This is, perhaps, an inevitable consequence of writing a story in instalments, where ideas intended to be followed through in more detail are abandoned as the story progresses, in order to move the action forward. I do acknowledge there are too many he and she saids though, I might back track a bit and excise a few.

I'm sorry you found it such a chore to read. nevertheless, I thank you for reading it. Oh, and the bullet is in the post! :D

[hillwalker]

Hill, If you prowl these boards expecting to be exposed to pulitzer prize winning prose I'm afraid you are always going to be disappointed.
Oh, and the bullet is in the post! :D

Damn - tried to duck but left it too late.

H

[Hawkman]

That's the trouble with the Royal Mail, it's always a surprise when it arrives :D

[MANICHAEAN]

QUOTE

"I am conscious that this is not an x rated site and consequently refrained from explicit descriptions of sexual shennanigens, although I'm quite capable of writing them."

It amazes me actually H how liberal the moderators are on this forum and I admire them for it. On a number of occasions I have expected to be cut, but then, there is a distinction between being overtly explicit & couching such writing in obscure and sympathetic language.

Regards
H.