Best served cold. A short story by Felicity Radcliffe.

 

                                                

Best Served Cold

‘You’ve lost weight, Bishop.’

The screw was right. John’s suit, which had fit snugly when he last wore it a decade ago, now hung on his angular frame. John glared at the prison officer and tightened his belt.

‘Yeah, well. Ten years in jail is gonna do that – ‘specially given I’m innocent.’

The prison officer sighed.

‘Change the record, Bishop. You’re getting released. No need to keep on with that fairy story. You were convicted - and you lost your appeal.’

‘Only ‘cos the other bloke had better lawyers.’

‘Whatever. Now shut up while I finish your paperwork.’

***

John was luckier than most prisoners. He had money stashed away; enough to start over by himself. His wife had called time after he was sent down. She didn’t believe him either. Her lack of faith had been a disappointment, so John planned to stay single; at least until he had taken care of business.

Gradually John adjusted to a changed world. He rented a house, grew out his crew cut into a man bun, joined a gym and got a job at a DIY superstore with a policy of giving ex-cons a chance. The twenty percent discount came in handy. He stored the tools in the garage, ready for when he needed them.

***

Dawn broke to reveal a lone fisherman at the lake. For Gareth, pike fishing was about solitude. A fishing competition, with blokes chugging beer and boasting, was his idea of hell. He cast, and watched the line carve through the dove-grey mist that veiled the surface. Wholly absorbed, he failed to hear the man creep up behind him. When the cold steel kissed his temple, the fishing rod fell from his hands.

‘Hello, Gaz.’

Gareth fought to keep the tremor from his voice.

‘Y…you wanna get sent down again, John? ‘Cos that’s what’ll happen, if you shoot me.’

‘I’m not gonna shoot you. You don’t deserve an easy death. I’ve planned something creative, but if you run, you cop a bullet in the head. Got it?’

‘Look – mate. I didn’t mean to drop you in it. Thing is, it was…’

‘I know. You or me. You made your choice, I did my time, and now you’re gonna pay. Ever heard of an auto-erotic incident?’

‘Y…you mean, like that pop star?’

‘He was an amateur, Gaz. Real pervs do it underwater. Look.’

John upended his rucksack. Out tumbled plastic sheeting, gaffer tape, a syringe, and a weight from his gym, with a chain attached. Hot urine streamed down Gareth’s leg.

‘J…John. You can’t…’

‘I can - and I won’t feel no guilt. I got sent down, and now you’re going down - into the abyss, where the pike’ll do a nice job of cleaning up the evidence. Either that or the cops’ll figure you was into that kinky stuff and got it wrong.’

John stabbed with the syringe. Gareth dropped to the ground. He would wake underwater, just when things were getting interesting.