British English spelling and grammar.
This is the sanitised version of a previous entry which was taken down for being too violent. Sorry.
***
In the carpark
Pete was reading the evening newspaper, watching Sylvia from the corner of his eye. Dinner was almost ready and she was just returning from the downstairs toilet. 'Spending a penny' as she would put it. She stopped at the dining table, which Pete had laid for two, where she straightened a knife, rotated the centrepiece of flowers, and continued to the kitchen. He smiled. She didn't even know she'd done it.
The fact was, Sylvia was borderline OCD. She was unaware of her little traits and habits, but Pete noticed them with amusement. And he wasn't about to tell her; after all, knowledge is power. He'd also noticed that when she told a lie, or was feeling under pressure, the thumb of her right hand would rub between her fingers; as if she was trying to clean something out of the gaps. If a phrase was needed to describe him, it would be 'people watcher'. He observed everybody, while keeping his own 'tells' well under control.
They had been married three years; comfortable together, but not getting stale or taking each other for granted. And their sex life was still exciting. Anal sex was the only area where she had drawn the line. Pete was disappointed, but could live with it. It surprised him though, because Sylvia had been the one who suggested involving another man. How would he like to watch her having sex with someone else? Perhaps join in for a threesome? Pete was surprised; he thought it was usually the man who brought up that kind of thing. Also, if anal had been part of her repertoire, taking on two guys would give her more scope. He'd told her he understood men's desires to be voyeurs, and that many would love to see their wives getting srviced by another man, but he didn't think that scene was for him.
He had inherited their house from his parents and he and Sylvia had discussed a pre nuptial agreement that would prevent her from owning it if she ever strayed. But he sensed she was reluctant and ditched the idea. They made a pact to be faithful and trust each other. And both hinted at unpleasant consequences should that promise ever get broken. For the time being, they were settled in their jobs and planned on starting a family next year. Their sex life was great, so there was no need to be thinking of affairs.
Pete had started to write a crime story. He didn't have writer's block as such, but tended to bash away at it in a piecemeal fashion. And he spent far more time researching, and jotting down notes on paper, than he did actually writing on his computer. It would probably never be published, and he thought it was developing nicely. But what it needed was a far more disciplined approach. So he ditched his darts nights at the pub.
It had previously been their practice to go out separately on a Wednesday night. Sylvia going to Emilio's wine bar with her girlfriends, and Pete playing darts at his local pub. But recently he'd been forced to admit he wasn't very good at the game, so had no problem giving it up. It wasn't as if the team would miss him; there were plenty of guys who would want his slot on the team. Now, he could research any time he wanted, and make all the notes he liked, but Wednesday would be his writing night. There was nothing interesting on tv anyway. And the novel was taking shape.
One Wednesday, Sylvia was getting ready to go out and Pete turned the tv off. He would probably write straight through till eleven, the time she got home. He couldn't concentrate for more than about four hours anyway. His serial killer was about to attack the next victim. He opened the novel and began, but immediately stopped. There were some notes upstairs in his jacket pocket. He preferred to write random ideas on paper as and when they occurred, rather than mess about entering things in his phone. Recently he'd been checking on how to steal a car. He went into the bedroom and heard Sylvia humming in the shower.
He looked at their bed and almost laughed out loud... classic OCD! She'd laid her clothes out on the bed, in the order she would put them on. On the corner nearest the bathroom was a pair of white cotton panties. They were lying with the waistband nearest the edge so she could pick them up and step straight in. To the right were the flesh-coloured tights, also ready to put on. Then a white bra, which matched her knickers of course, a lemon coloured blouse, and a pleated black skirt. To the right of that, peeking out from under the bed was a pair of black shoes. Finally, draped across her pillow, a black jacket.
Pete wondered what her reaction would be, if he changed the order. Obviously she'd notice, but would she laugh, or get annoyed? Then he had a better idea. He picked up the panties and turned them inside out. Back in their designated position, you could hardly tell the difference. His mother had always told him that if you find your underwear is on inside out, it's bad luck to change it; you must leave it as it is. Sylvia might just put them on. Or spot the mistake and turn them out the right way. But would she think they'd come out of her drawer like that, or guess he was playing tricks? He grabbed his notes and went back to his story.
His killer was waiting in the stolen car; the carpark was dimly lit and almost empty. Pete was using the nearby Rosebush carpark as his model for this part of the tale. He found it easier to develop it, if he could imagine the location. His killer was deliberately nondescript and mysterious; no need for the reader to have a description of someone the police had not seen yet. But the locations, and supporting characters, he preferred to have clear idea of what they looked like.
He'd once seen a movie called Monster. It was based on the life of Aileen Wuornos, an American prostitute who had become a serial killer. Pete's story was set in England where female serial killers were quite rare. Off-hand he could only think of Rosemary West and Myra Hindley. So the police were on completely the wrong track. Conventional wisdom said a serial killer was probably a man, but Pete's was a woman. His murderer was not based on anyone in particular; just a fictitious woman who'd been raped as a teenager and learned how to hate men. She had a private income and could move around the country at will. Currently the police thought their killer was a male travelling sales rep.
Pete's choice for her next victim was well defined. He was a married man who thought he was seducing her; not realising he was the hunted, rather than the hunter. He was based on Mr Wilcox, a handsome man who ran the nearby gift shop. Also married, he had a reputation as a player. Pete knew he was always the last person to return to Rosebush carpark at the end of the day. The carpark in his novel had been renamed Cherrytree, and the man about to die was a Mr Wilkinson. He had a Ford Mondeo, just like the real Mr Wilcox.
The real Rosebush carpark was quite unusual. It served a small supermarket and a cluster of little shops. The barrier came down at six am, and after that you had to pay to enter. Only a nominal fifty pence, but the guy who ran the paper shop arrived at five to six each morning, to avoid the charge. Well, he did open at six thirty. Other people came and went throughout the day, and the barrier ascended again at six pm; then it was free till morning. By six thirty in the evening the place was as dead as a doornail. The shops, including the supermarket, were all closed. And there was no nightlife up that end of town. The lights were not maintained as the council intended to close it next year and sell it to a property developer. Sometimes after dark, a car would go to the far end. Then it would rock to the rhythms of youngsters, or adulterous spouses.
So Pete's fictitious supermarket also closed at six thirty and Mr Wilkinson's gift shop soon after. He opened later in the morning than the other shops as nobody bought souvenirs early in the day, so was usually the last to leave. Truth to tell, nobody bought much during the day either; he was thinking of selling up. He strode out to his Ford Mondeo, blissfully unaware he was soon to be murdered. Pete planned for him to meet his untimely death under Cherrytree's last remaining lamp.
When Sylvia was ready to go she would usually come up behind Pete and kiss him goodbye. But tonight he stopped mid-sentence and jumped up to escort her to the front door.
"What a gentleman!" she said. "What brought this on?"
"Oh, nothing." he replied. "I'm just feeling romantic."
He swung her round till her back was to the full length mirror next to the door. Then kissed her, holding her close and lifting her skirt at the back.
"Nice arse, Mrs Nightingale." he said, squeezing it and admiring the reflection.
"Put me down you brute! Now I have to check my makeup again. And that was lust, not romance."
"You're right!" he said, grinning. "I was just showing you what lust is like. Then if some chancer does something like this tonight, you'll know it's time to slap his face."
"As if! There are no chancers at Emilio's." she countered.
