Fast Fiction: Partners In Crime
When he looked through the peephole there were three of them at the door, dark-suited, looming, threatening... Richard Mallinson's story reveals the grim consequence of crime.
I looked out through the peephole of my rented flat and there they were, the three of them, dark-suited, looming, threatening.
They shouted to be let in or they’d break the door down. I opened the door and they came in and pushed me aside.
They ransacked the place, all because of the missing money.
Yes, I’d had it - at least until a few weeks ago when it had gone, along with Greta, my partner in crime.
Now they asked me where it was. I said I didn’t know. They asked again, louder, fiercer. Again I said I didn’t know.
‘What can I say to convince you?’ I asked.
‘Drop the bullshit,’ said the one with the lined face.
‘Or we’ll drop you,’ said the big-eared one.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘if I had it I would certainly hand it over.’
‘Lah-di-bloody-dah,’ the third one (plump, hairless) said. ‘You can tell he used to be a vicar, can’t you?’
‘And a very good one, too,’ I said, under my breath.
‘Now,’ said the big-eared one, producing a machete, ‘the time has come for some real action, not like your vicarage tea parties.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ I said.
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ he mimicked. ‘Did you hear that? He thinks he’s still in the bloody pulpit, wearing his -’
He chopped savagely at my collar bone and I cried out in pain.
Horrible, sickening pain.
Well, I’d been warned what to expect from this particular (or not so particular) crime squad but it still came as a shock.
