Murder, He Wrote Read online

  Murder, He Wrote

  R S Higham

  1

  Prologue

  The dank, musty smell of rotting mulch and wet soil swam up his nostrils and down his throat where he could taste it. He swallowed it away, but in the next breath it was there again. His stomach knotted up and he clutched it tight but his pace had slowed to nothing more than desperate stumbling, “come on Alan get it together.” He had to rest.

  Behind a tree he hid, leaning his back against it, the bare skin of his neck tightening as it touched the cold, damp bark. He listened out for footsteps. Silence.

  “Maybe I've lost him.” He thought.

  2

  “Shut up!” James growled at his insistent cellphone which ignored him and vibrated and rang out its awful music to its heart’s content. James knew who was calling, and he knew why. Audrey Hope, a raspy voiced woman who on voice alone you would age at least forty years senior to her looks. James was an author on her publishing company’s books and she had been calling non-stop for weeks since he told her he was taking a ‘short’ break from writing due to stress.

  “Stress!?” She said. “Try doing my job. Try working with people like you every day!”

  But James was used to her jabs and her insults, he’d known her for a few years now and he’d learnt to tune it out. Audrey was having none of it. She and her business partner had founded the company just over five years ago and it wasn’t until James published his first book with them that they really took off. Despite still being a small company with only a handful of authors on their books they felt James would bring them into a lot of money. His first book sold five thousand copies in the first month and the second book sold ten thousand. Very promising for a young man with a lot of raw talent. But that had been over three years ago. Anyone who’d mentioned James Jones’s name then had moved on to someone new and the wonder books were now lining bargain bins and charity shop windows.

  Audrey was desperate for him to pull another ace from his sleeve and she made a show out of reminding him whenever she could, anyone else would have gone mad and James nearly did. What he hadn’t told her was that he’d had a breakdown last year, too many all-nighters on empty stomachs forcing what small drop of creativity he had left out and onto the page along with the occasional blackout where he’d wake up not knowing where he was and what he was doing. That had scared him big time. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was being out of control, but what Audrey didn’t need to know he wouldn’t tell her, God forbid she would sell it to the press and being the way she was James wouldn’t put it past her.

  The cellphone fell silent, just in time; James was using every joule of energy not to hurl it out of the third story window. The screen lit up with the familiar one new voicemail message he now expected after each unsuccessful phone call. He deleted it without listening.

  The sky glowed reddish pink on the horizon and above it was black. A few straggly clouds littered the air but the strong winds were blowing the heavy snow clouds towards the city and in a matter of minutes a soft, wintery dander would carpet the New Hatton pavement.

  Despite the foreseeable bad weather James had a hankering to visit Red’s –a small tavern he had found one evening roaming about the city. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but tonight a cold pint would be hard to say no to.

  His stomach growled but eating was at the back of his mind, he felt sick. It wasn’t the food or the drink that kept him coming back to Red’s though; there was a waitress who brought some sunshine to the drab surroundings. Above average in looks; she would have been beautiful if she took care of her appearance, but with a lively personality to match it was hard not to be charmed by her. Kate was different, a misfit like James who didn’t quite belong with the big city masses. Two totally different people somehow linked if not by fate or Divine Intervention then by a mutual distance from the rest of the world. He liked finding people who stood out; they made great characters for his books.

  The street was bare save for a few pale faces with red noses and hoods pulled down past their eyes. The snowstorm was growing heavier by the second. James held his collar up to his cheeks, his stomach was settling now as the bone-chilling cold was an effective remedy, and his body focused more on keeping warm than the three litres of coffee and cold medicine sloshing about in his stomach like some puke-tastic cocktail. He was nearly at Red’s anyway but he knew adding beer to the mix wouldn’t help. The red glow above the bar was visible through his flaky eyelashes. It came from the ruby neon sign that sat above the entrance.

  RED’S TAVERN

  3

  James reached his arm out to the metal handle leading into the bar half expecting to stick to it like a tongue on a lamppost. The heat from inside blasted his face making his eyes water and blinking it away he perched himself up on the cleanest looking bar stool, the only other taken was by a perfectly round man dressed in black leather slumped over a pint, his unkempt beard covered in a mixture of ginger specks and foam. Other than him the bar was virtually empty, the handful of regulars were scattered about in the booths and the only waitress working was Kate. James flashed a smile over to her and her face lit up behind the torrent of sickly yellow bruises around her eyes and a fresh looking black splodge on the side of her mouth. She skipped over to him effortlessly keeping control of the empty glasses she had been carrying back to the bar.

  “James! Hi!” Kate smiled, the left side of her smile sagging thanks to the bruise.

  “Hey Kate.” James tried to ignore it. “What is this the sixth time I’ve come here –“

  “Seventh.” She corrected him.

  “–Seventh time I’ve come here and I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than half a dozen people inside, and that was on St Patrick’s Day!” He said, hoping he wasn’t offending in any way, it would be just his luck if she was the owner’s daughter.

  “Yeah it’s quiet, but the regulars really are regulars, in fact, I think one or two have never left.” She twisted a piece of blonde hair through her fingers.

  “Red doesn’t mind that there aren’t a lot of customers?”

  “Think he likes it that way to tell the truth, it’s more of a hobby than a way to make ends meet.”

  “Well that’s good.” He took his pint over to a booth and she followed and sat down opposite him.

  “Not working tonight?” He asked, a hint of sarcasm, but purely friendly.

  “Those pigs can get up and walk to the bar for all I care, not like I ever get a ‘thank you’ from them.” She smiled hoping she had made him laugh, James obliged. He was glad of the company but he wasn’t one for making small talk and it was taking all his effort not to mention her banged up face. As long as she didn’t comment on the bad weather or the local sports team he was more than happy to listen.

  “So how’s the book going, James?” She said, staring up at him in awe. She had a childish innocence about her despite living what James could only guess was a miserable life.

  “I’m surprised you even remember me telling you about that.”

  “Believe it or not I do listen. So, go on, what’s it about?”

  “I’ve barely started writing it yet. I’m taking ideas if you’ve got any.”

  “How about a lonely waitress who meets a millionaire?”

  “Sure, so what does she look like? Blonde hair tied in a ponytail? Baby-blue eyes?”

  Kate threw her arms into the air and cheered at this description of herself drawing the attention of a few legless patrons. They both giggled coyly and James clocked Red staring at them from the bar, he didn’t look too impressed Kate wasn’t collecting empty pint glasses and cleaning the pig’s troughs.

  “You better get back to work, Red’s watching us.” Kate glanced over and caug
ht his gaze. “When do you have your break?”

  She snorted like a pig. “I’m lucky if I get to leave, it’s not unusual for me to do an eighteen hour shift.”

  “That’s illegal, surely.”

  “I’ll take that over sleeping on the street.”

  James looked down into his pint glass, he didn’t know what to say.

  “I guess I should go and wait.” Kate chirruped knocking the table as she stood.

  “Yes.” His head shot up in time to grin like a mad-man. He watched her for a while going back and to from the bar with tray-fulls of empties, her poise fascinated him. Then she stopped and spoke to someone. James couldn’t see who, she was standing in the way, but when she moved he saw it was the large, leather-wearing man on the end stool. The man noticed James watching him, he raised his glass. James raised his too. “Weird.” He thought necking the last mouthful of beer. He caught Kate’s eye and beckoned her over.

  “Could you get me another?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Hey, who’s that guy over there, in the corner?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He just asked me if there was anywhere good to eat, I told him that we serve food here until 8PM but only do grilled cheese or cheesesteak or something greasy, he doesn’t look like he’s into gourmet though, right?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Nope, I’ve seen him in here once or twice before though. What’s this about anyway? Do you know him?” She shifted her weight onto her left leg and rested her hand on her hip.

  “No it’s nothing, sorry, I’ll let you go now.”

  “Thanks, you’ve already got me in trouble once.” A few moments later she came back with his drink.

  4

  When the time came to go home he was reluctant to leave, the bar was like a miniature oven in a large fridge freezer (the fridge freezer being New Hatton in the grips of a record breaking cold winter) but he was over-cooked. He checked his wrist watch, 10PM, later than expected. James paused in the doorway debating with himself one last time. “Should I stay a little longer?” At 28 years old he was already stepping into the prone-to-drink-more-than-he-ought-to age group and with his rent overdue and his writing career over before it had even begun that was an expensive habit he couldn't afford.

  The snowstorm had passed or at least was passing and now only a fine white powder was settling on the frozen ground. The street was completely empty and the road barren of traffic, dead for a large city. His footsteps echoed loudly as they bounced off the flat brick walls and rattled around the boxed-in streets settling in his ears. He swallowed hard, unconsciously quickening his pace. His apartment block was less than ten minutes away from Red’s but his legs grew heavy, it felt like he was wading thought mud. He had a strange feeling he’d never make it back.

  "Stop it." He hissed under his breath, hoping he could bait his imagination into being quiet. "You watch too many horror movies." But the pep talk didn't assuage his fears. He spun his head around. The desolate city stared back at him. It was like something off of a post-card, or a vampire flick. After a noisy outward breath he continued, thinking how repetitive this stretch of road appeared in the black night, it was as though he’d fallen into a lazily made Disney movie where the same stretch of corridor whizzed past again and again.

  The street lights cast eerie shadows on the brick walls and on the roads below; imitating gnarled, naked trees encompassing him, swallowing him up. He became very aware of anything and everything around him. His neck itched, it wanted him to do another perimeter check but James fought it, he wasn’t far from home, if he could just make it back... His chest tightened and each breath struggled to worm its way down his closed up throat. “No, not a panic attack, not now.”

  He caressed his throat vainly thinking it could ease the pain. “I need to get this anxiety under control. There is no one behind me.” With this mental declaration he twisted his body round and in a heart-stopping, choked breath all of his fears were materialised into one hooded man. Deafening shock allowed him to stifle a scream.

  “Give me your wallet.” The man barked. The shadows hid his lips, if it wasn’t for his jaw bobbing up and down James might’ve thought the voice was in his head. “I’ve got a knife.” The man’s hand shot out from beside him on cue and a switchblade caught the light. James’s eyes darted down to it.

  “P-please I-I’ll give you anything just stay calm.” He said, his shaking hand slipped into his back pocket and brushed against the cool leather, his grip was about as secure as an arcade crane but he held it tight until his fingertips turned white and passed it over, the man snatched it. He wasted no time forcing his hand in. A clot of phlegm caught in the back of James’s throat, he knew there was nothing inside. The man looked up confused, his bloodshot eyes jerking about in their sockets as his bony hands fingered every inch of the wallet. He tried to figure out his next move and lifted his hands to his head tracing the long fingers over his prickly buzz cut. The switchblade was in full view now but he looked like he had forgotten he was holding it; he didn’t seem to know exactly what he was doing. He lurched forward once or twice like a cat ready to pounce before shoulder barging past James sinking the knife into his side as he did so. If it was by accident or on purpose, James’s didn’t know and once the blood began to soak through his T-shirt he didn’t care. In the panic the mugger turned back to him, his hood slipped down to reveal a sallow, gaunt expression of sheer- deer in headlights- fear. After taking one last pitiful look he scarpered. James’s legs failed him and he dropped to the ground. He fumbled in his pocket with his clean hand for his phone and dialled 911, the light of the screen illuminated the sanguine fluid that had grown into a gruesome, soaking patch. He lifted his shirt to get a better look but the sight knocked him sick. After hitching himself up into a sitting position under the pale light of a lamppost he watched out for the ambulance, and when it finally came into view he signalled them with his free arm.

  The paramedics did a first-rate job cleaning the wound, with the blood shifted he could see it wasn't so bad, he'd sliced his thumb deeper one year when tiling his mum's bathroom, but under the circumstance it was better to have it checked out and properly cleaned, Heaven knows what was on the end of his blade, if only the remnants of an old wart he’d dug out of his foot. Once the Doctor had had a look at him the nurses put him up in a bed for the night at James's protest, with hospital overcrowding James had expected to be in and out before Midnight but the Doctor had been particularly worried about the possibility of HIV, a notion James was sure to have a good night’s sleep on. Besides, the police would be seeing him in the morning and with the station so close to the hospital James guessed it was just easier for everyone.

  His room was narrow and long with some other occupied beds partly hidden behind thin blue curtains. He didn't know if that meant they were sleeping or if the nurses didn't want anyone seeing their injuries, he wasn't even sure what ward they had put him in; lepers, burn victims, amputees, there could have been any grizzly ailment behind that slip of linen, James couldn’t help thinking of Schrödinger’s box.

  5

  There was a commotion at the bottom of James’s bed. With sleepy eyes he watched two young paramedics wheel a large round object passed him and to the bed next to his, they hastily drew the curtain before his eyes had fully adjusted. He glanced over at the clock next to him, the red glow displayed 1AM. He rearranged himself in the bed and shut his eyes to try to get back to sleep, it was working until the paramedics left then his curiosity got the better of him; he wanted to know who his neighbour was. Again his mind raced at the thought, if it was something gruesome how could he fall asleep next to it? How could he even stay in the same room? “One peek won’t hurt.” He thought. His body agreed. He sat up and stared at the curtain. “But it’s closed for a reason, right?” As usual, he knew he couldn’t convince himself so he didn’t try any further. With his index finger
he tugged at the pale blue fabric, the loops clattered together on the pole. He could see the patient now, a big man, a very big man. “Maybe a heart attack.” He thought, his quizzical and creative nature turning it into a guessing game. Lost in thought he barely had time to react when the man grunted and rolled over to face him, his left eye was black and swollen and the skin around it was torn. His right eye twitched into action and a black pupil peered into James’s.

  “Sorry, I… Wait you’re the man from the bar.”

  "Do I know you?" The man spoke, although he was more bear than man.

  “No, but I saw you earlier this evening.”

  The man frowned, then smiled. “Oh, yeah, I think I recognise ya.” That was most likely untrue.

  “So what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I should ask you the same thing.”

  “Mugged on the way home, you know, he probably wouldn’t have stabbed me if I’d had some money on me.”

  The man laughed, it was hoarse and broken by the occasional cough but sincere,

  “so, I'm curious to know what happened at the bar.”

  “Well now, I consider myself a bit if a story teller, lemme start at the beginning. The name’s Stacey. I grew up in a trailer park with two brothers an’ two sisters, I was the youngest and my daddy liked bikes –” He paused and glanced at James who forced a smile. “You’ve got me started now. So, my brother Leroy liked bikes too, raced ‘em down at the dirt track. I used to go watch on Saturday’s after I done all my chores an’ I started liking bikes as well, got my buds into bikes an’ we’d ride up to the junk yard to try an’ find spare parts or anything to make ‘em look cooler or make ‘em louder or run faster. Thirty years down the line an’ I’m still into bikes, I just come back from a run with my buds, stopped at the bar to get a drink.”

  “That explains the leather I suppose, and the beard.” James said, Stacey ignored him.