The Lady In Mink

The Lady In Mink
By Stephen Abell

Number of Words: 6609


She looked at the dead town from their window. They lived on the top floor in the small block of flats. "The Penthouse." she had once joked and Martin had crudely tagged it onto a piece of cardboard, from the back of a shreddies box, and posted it outside their door. Friends loved it. Clients laughed humourlessly at it trying to please, maybe the score would be cheaper. Neighbours never saw it, both the floors below were occupied with elderly couples and they kept their doors locked, all the time. Joanne felt sorry for them, they reminded her of her Nana and her Family. If she was clean, she knew, she would not want any druggies living near her, let alone, next door or even upstairs.

Her gaze focused on the market square. That was where Marco had been found. Shivering under one of the stalls, last Christmas, cold, afraid, and with half his head kicked in. The poor bastard did not have enough money to pay his boss, he had even snorted half the product before trying to sell it. Marco had a problem with cold mornings, afternoons, evenings and nights. He liked the warmth that his bed and the duvet offered him. He used to joke "Now the social pay the money straight into my account that gives me more time for Serious Relaxation." The boys had relaxed him permanently. He had died on the way to the hospital.

She knew the reason for the towns demise, it was not them, the addicts, it had been the closing of the pits. It had been a small mining town and when they had finally closed, everybody heard the coffin lid drop. The town did not die straight away though, it had tried to push that lid open, but when you have a council sitting on top it is almost impossible. The council had funded a project to inject more life into the town. Some of the empty shops were turned into flats with nice shining combination keypad locks outside. After a few weekends it became evident that these were not the best kind of locks, when inebriated some people find it hard to remember a sequence of number. The burglars had found out that 1234 and 0007 were very popular. They brought in more trade to fill the other empty shops. Then in their bright idea, they brought in the troubled families with their rebellious kids to fill the council houses. The kids started to get bored, they roamed the streets, broke shop and house windows all in the name of boredom. Druggies were the last nail in the coffin. Now the kids got high and their crimes escalated to burglary and mugging to feed their habit. The businesses moved out as did some of the richer residents. House prices in the area plummeted, the empty properties turned into squats or places where the youth met to fuck or shoot up. Joanne had been one of these teenagers.

She had not come from a broken home though, unless the fact that she broke it counted. Joanne had hit puberty around the age of nine and had found it hard to control the feelings, the emotions and her own sexual needs that grew in her. Sex education was covered in school, but nobody talked to her personally. Not her Mum or Nana, even Dad would have done, but nobody sat her down and told her that everything would be all right. She had mood swings and constantly argued with her parents, their response was to send her to her room. Because of this she learnt she was alone. Then along came Martin, with his low crotch jeans, his Adidas trainers, dirty grey Rebok hooded top, unkempt hair and winning smile. His eyes promised more, they spoke of sex and secrets and fun. He was twenty one.

She could not remember when but he had started to catch the school bus in the afternoon. A couple of weeks later she started to notice him around the outskirts of the school in the morning, lunch break and home time. The kids had been talking and she knew just what business he was in. One day she got up the nerve to wonder over to him, that was when her life changed. Two weeks of freebie's had her wanting more. The drugs coursed through her body and mellowed her out, even her parents thought she was the perfect little daughter again. Joanne had not noticed that her school work had started to deteriorate. She had noticed nothing, she worried about nothing, she floated through the days. Martin wanted very little for the stuff, he told her that he put the price up with the other kids to cover her fix, she was special to him, he liked her. Then, one day Martin withheld her fix. She told him that she would get the money, even if she had to steal it. Martin had coaxed her to calm down, he caressed her hair, her face, all the while speaking to her in a soft gentle voice and staring with those sexy eyes right into her soul. He had played her like a guitar. So when he unzipped his jeans and pulled out his swollen manhood, she did not pause, she took it gentle in her hand and then in her mouth. He came in seconds. She swallowed it all. As she snorted a line, Martin pissed against the wall of the school, shook it off, zipped up and strolled away. "See you in a couple of days." He shouted over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Right. See ya'" She replied. Then vomited his sperm over her shoes.

From then on it had been sex for drugs.

Six months later she had been kicked out of her house and her nice cosy life. Mum and Dad had gone out to a party, it was a friends wedding anniversary or something. She had not cared. What she did care about was that tonight, she would be fucking Martin in a nice warm room and not in an empty house, or some secluded part of the school, in the shadows. She had phoned Martin as soon as their car left the drive, he was there a half hour later. Martin, uncharacteristically, took a couple of snorts that night, he usually preferred to leave the drugs for the punters. If he had been clean then maybe he would have heard the front door open at nine thirty. Neither of then heard the argument that Joanne's parents were having. Unfortunately, her parents could hear the heavy breathing and the dirty talk coming from upstairs. The first thing that Joanne and Martin noticed was the door to her bedroom being kicked open with such force that it slammed into the drawers and knocked off a couple of porcelain figures that Nana had bought for her. They smashed on the floor, never to be replaced.

Joanne had been on top of Martin, his hands fondling her breasts when suddenly rougher hands grabbed the top of her arms and pushed them into her rib-cage. She was heaved up and off him, she felt his hardness leave her wetness, then she was thrown onto the floor. Martin was frozen on the bed, his eyes wide with fear. Dad took hold of his ankles and yanked him to the foot of the bed. Suddenly Dad had a hand full of Martins hair. He pulled Martin to his feet and dragged him over to the doorway. Joanne screamed at her Father to stop, she thought he was going to launch her lover down the stairs. Joanne's Dad stopped in the doorway. He began to repeatedly smashed Martins head into the door frame. It was only when his nose exploded in a bright white of pain that Martin started to fight back but by this time it was too late. Joanne's Mum stood in the hallway looking at the sexual carnage that had taken place in her house. Dad spun Martin around and started to pummel him in the stomach, the first punch winded him the others took the fight out of him. Martin slipped down the door jamb and curled up in a foetal position on the floor. Her Dad walked to the foot of the bed and slumped down, drained now that his adrenalin rush had passed. He began to cry softly. Mum strode across the body curled in the entranceway. Saw her daughter on the floor, next to the wardrobe, naked and crying; she noticed her dishevelled husband on the bed and could just make out the tears on his cheeks. She placed a hand on his head and lovingly stroked the hair from his eyes. "I love you." She sighed, turned and started kicking at the prone body on the floor.

Nobody remembers how long it took for things to calm down, all Joanne can recall is the hurt in her parents eyes. Hurt had been replaced with pain, fear, hate and disappointment when they had found the drugs. Dark shadows that she was instantly sorry to have caused. Joanne and Martin had both gotten dressed and Joanne talked her parents into letting her phone a Taxi to take Martin to the hospital. Not only did he have a broken nose but a couple of ribs had also snapped in the attack. Her Dad had disappeared, while they waited. Mother sobbed on the couch, not answering her daughters questions. The taxi beeped its horn ten minutes later. As they moved down the hall to the front door her Father descended the stairs, suitcase in hand. He walked past them, opened the door, placed the suitcase on the drive and walked back into the house. He ushered Joanne and Martin outside and in a dead, emotionless voice said "It would be best, for you both, if I never see you again." The door closed, the latch clicked loudly into place. She could hear Mother screaming her anguish and pain as she closed the taxi door.

That had been a couple of years ago. After they had gotten Martin sorted out, she had moved into the flat with him. Within six months the newness had worn off and he had sent her out to get money. "How?" She had asked him indignantly.

"Anyway you can, I don't care." He had replied. "Your free ride is up."

"Even if I have to fuck for it?"

"Baby." He smiled, the contempt in the one single word was clear. "It's your life. If you want your fix, and, if you wanna stay here, then you gotta get some cash." He really did not care.

She took a couple of buses to her parents house. She would beg their forgiveness. They were good Christians, and never missed a church service. They would take her back in, forgive her. They were Mum and Dad after all.

She knew before she got to the drive. The "SOLD" sign in the front garden was visible as she came around the bend. The tears were flowing freely by the time she reached the house. The windows told the story. There were no net curtains, no flowers or vases stood on the sills. The house was void of life. They were gone.

She crossed the street and knocked on the doors of her, once, neighbours. Only Mr Aliston opened his door, looking surprised at his guest.

"Mum and Dad!" She sniffled. "Where have they gone? If you know, you have to tell me. I need to see them, I need to say that I'm sorry, for everything." Mr Aliston, stood there dumbfounded. "I need them." She grabbed the old man by his cardigan sleeves, the pressure brought him out of his lethargy.

"I." Started, still shaken. "I'm sorry Jo but they left no forwarding address. No body here knows where they are." He was beginning to get a grasp of the situation. "You don't know then?"

"No!" Her temper at this bumbling pensioner was escalating. "I wouldn't be here if I did, would I?"

"I'm sorry, it's, just that, well." He paused and she saw genuine concern in his eyes. "They just took off, must be a few months ago, didn't speak to any one. We didn't even see 'em leave." His mind thought of a question and his eyes registered mistrust. "So, you didn't go with them then?"

Joanne started to back away as the cogs in Mr Aliston's mind began to work overtime.

"How old are you now Jo? Fifteen? Fourteen?" He came out of his doorway and onto the drive, making to follow her. "What did you do? Eh!. What did you do that would make your own parents leave you behind?" As soon as he had vocalised the question his mind heard it, yeah, what had she done. The first threads of fear coldly spread through his body. He spun on his heals and quickly marched back into his home. Slamming the door hard and securing the latch into place.

This feels familiar, she thought. It felt as if everyone was shunning her.

She walked past her old school. The bus fares from her new home were too costly so she had just stopped attending. Besides there would have been all the awkward questions, the sly looks, the taunts, the bullying. "Fuck!" She muttered under her breath. She had really messed things up.

Emily and Amanda were standing in the playground with bunch of other kids. One of them noticed her and pointed. All the others turned around and started to point and laugh, just as she had expected. The thing that hurt the most was that her two best friends joined right in. She picked up her pace, heading for the bus stop and the short journey into town. Not the one infected by the druggies but the larger one where people walked the streets, talking and laughing, She needed money.

That was the reason for her standing here, looking out over the dead town from her dump of a flat. She had tried her hand at everything. Begging, selling her body, pick pocketing, burglary, shop lifting but her forte was mugging. She had excelled at track and field events in school. Nobody could touch her. The memories were pushed to one side with the gnawing of her hunger. "Fuck." She slammed the coffee mug down on the window sill. The fix was lasting less and less, it could not have been a couple of hours since she last shot up but the monkey on her back was screaming for more. Not yet, she thought. She turned, marched out of the room, down the hallway, reached out and scooped her coat off the hook while effortlessly opening the door. Time to go to work, she thought.

She jumped off the bus and scanned the people around her for a mark. A few spots of rain splattered her face. There were a couple of people that took her interest. One was a middle aged woman of around fifty-five years, well dressed, expensive coat, black designer handbag draped loosely over her left shoulder. The other was a man, in his late seventies, early eighties. Dressed in a brown suit with a tweed cap perched on his head. Joanne wondered why these people even set foot out of their doors, did they not know how dangerous it was for them. Well one of them would soon find out.

She opted for the lady, it would be a simple push, grab, pull and leg it. She did not like to mess around in old men's pockets, it wasted time, it was sloppy. But sometimes in life you have to do things you do not like. She stayed at least three to four people away from the mark, just waiting for the right opportunity to arise. She followed her into the Co-op where the mark sidled up to a tall burly man and grabbed his arse. "Fuck." Joanne breathed out as the mark and her date went towards the lifts. There was still a chance to get away with it. If the woman was not careful Joanne thought she might be able to snag the handbag in the lift. She rushed over and pushed into the lift beside them. They stayed arm in arm all the way to the top floor, women's fashions, with the handbag in between their bodies. This was not her day, not only was she on a downer, her habit was eating at her from the inside, her mark had turned out to be a waste, and now, as she stood looking out of the large window opposite the lift, it was pissing down. "Fuck."

Joanne decided to look around the store until the rain eased off a little, who knows, she thought, there may be some one else around here, after all these clothes ain't cheap. She moved slowly around the displays, watching and observing. Nobody caught her eye, everybody here was with someone else. She reached into her coat pocket and drew out a packet of fags. That should ease the hunger for a few minutes, she hoped. She knew that the store was non-smoking so she turned and looked out of the window, still raining hard. Remembering the stairway, she turned and walked towards the rear wall. She saw the fire door and walked through it, popping the cigarette in her mouth and fondled the jacket pocket for the lighter. Flame erupted on the first flick.

Footsteps echoed up the stairwell. My God, Joanne thought, some body is actually using the stairs. She was intrigued as to what type of person would climb three flights when there were lifts and escalators in the store. What she saw caught her off guard. She did not know that she was smiling until the old lady with her grey hair pulled, expertly, into a bun, smiled back and wished her a "Good Morning." The old dear looked to be in her seventies, she had crows feet around her eyes and her face had the sallow look of the elderly, but she climbed the stairs as if she were twenty or thirty years younger. She had a long umbrella in her hand and Joanne noticed that she never put any weight onto it. When I'm your age, I hope I'm that fit, she wished. It was the coat that grabbed Joanne's attention, it looked to be fur, a dark brown mink if she was not mistaken. Her Nana had one similar and had always told her how expensive it had been. This coat was clean, it had been well kept and the hand bag that the woman was carrying looked like soft buck leather, also very expensive. "Morning." Joanne replied. She had a new mark.

Stubbing the cigarette out on the bannister she flicked the half smoked butt down the stairway. It bounced on the landing below and skidded into the corner. She turned and followed the mark through the fire door.

The old dear spent a good hour looking at handbags and trying on all shapes and sizes of hat. She would put on one hat and then look for a bag to match or she would spy a bag and then search for a hat. Joanne wandered around the floor, always keeping an eye on the lady in the mink. Unfortunately she was starting to draw attraction to herself. Sales staff had come over and asked if they could help her. "It's OK, I'm just browsing." She would say politely and turn her back on them, excusing them. Then she saw that a group of them had gotten together and it was obvious they were talking about her. They would break from their huddle and look in her direction. A couple of times they pointed. If she did not leave immediately she knew security may be called, she may even be removed to a private office and searched. This had happened before.

She strode purposefully toward the lift. As she passed the group of women she turned and wished them a "Good afternoon," and finished the sentence with "I hate shopping for my Nana I never know what to get her, she's just so, you know..." She waited for one of the women to agree, or nod their head, a couple of them did. "Picky." She finished off.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, my Mothers the same." A blonde assistant in her thirties chimed in and, just like that, everything was normal. "If she doesn't get what she wants she takes it back. She doesn't believe in "it's the thought that counts.""

"I guess I'll just give her money. She can buy her own present this year." Joanne carried on to the lift and pressed the call button. As she waited she listened to the debate she had started behind her.

She got out of the lift on the next floor down and took the chance that her mark would leave the way she came in, she rushed over to the stairs and climbed upward. Adrenalin pulsed through her, it made her habit seem week in comparison. She always became excited at these moments. The door into women's fashions opened and the lady in Mink came striding through. She paused when she noticed Joanne stood in the same spot as when she climbed up.

Joanne smiled at her and pulled the cigarettes out of her pocket. "Bad habit, this. But, they won't let you light up in there so I come out here for a couple of minutes."

It seemed to work, the lady smiled back, nodded, then continued to the top of the stairs.

Joanne moved fast. She charged forward and planted her left shoulder into the marks back, between her shoulders, her left hand snagged the strap on the bag, she planted her feet so as to stop, but carried the push through with her shoulder. The lady was launched into the air, out and over the stairs. Joanne pulled hard on the strap, yanking the marks arm backward with it. Joanne watched in horror as the lady started to turn in mid air falling all the while. Her foot landed on the bottom step but due to the awkward angle she had no balance. Her arms pin-wheeled in the air, her body twisted, searching for her balance. She never found it. Her foot slipped off the step and skidded along the landing, she fell straight back. Joanne heard the crack as the back of the lady's head caught the angle of the bottom step. "Fuck."

She moved quickly, sliding the strap of the handbag onto her right shoulder, she ran down the stairs. The lady's eyes were staring lifelessly at the ceiling. "Fuck." She bent down and retrieved the umbrella from the floor. "Sorry, but, I don't think you'll be needing this now." She ran down the rest of the stairs and into the pouring rain.

She made her way to the nearest cafe, bought a cup of hot coffee and sat down to view her prize.

There were the usual things in the bag, purse, keys, make-up, mirror, photographs. Flicking the clasp on the purse, she opened it. It was filled with notes. Damn, she thought, Jackpot, and smiled. As she placed the purse back into the bag she saw a couple of envelopes, she fished them out. Both had the same address and were to the same person. The lady in Mink was a Mrs Ivy Tilgrew. She stared into the empty cup of coffee and fought to keep the tears back. She had never killed anyone before. She had hurt plenty with her grab and run technique, but never killed, until now. Dead people did not scare her, she had seen a few bodies in her time, a couple of Martins friends had overdosed, and one pusher had been shot in the head when he did not pay his boss. It surprised her though, that she really did not feel any different inside. Was she upset that the mark was dead? No not really, if truth be known, she had not been anything to her. Was she upset that she had killed? Again, no. It was the lack of any feelings that scared her.

Her adrenalin fix was over and the hunger was back, and much worse. Her hands had started to shake. Pushing everything back into the bag, she snatched up the umbrella and headed for the taxi rank and home. More importantly to Martin and his stash.

The three hundred and seventeen pounds that she found in the purse did not last long. It lasted until Martin came home. He picked up the notes and coins from the coffee table, pushed them into his pocket and called it rent. When Joanne started to scream and threatened to trash the place he chucked a couple of baggies on the table, he called these U.O.Me's.

In the week that followed Joanne sold the handbag on the flea market for five pounds. A couple of days she caught the bus to the address on the envelopes, on both occasions she saw that the house was occupied. She thought that she may have created a widower, a loved one left behind, just like herself. She felt sorrow flood into her heart, not for Mrs Ivy Tilgrew or anybody that was left behind, but for herself. Nobody cared about her. On her second visit though, she eavesdropped on a conversation that three women were having outside the newsagents, as she pretended to window shop. It seemed that Mrs Tilgrew had lived alone since her husband had died. Her funeral was to take place the next day, in the afternoon. There had been more chat between the women but these were the only points of interest to her. She smiled as she lit a cigarette and walked away, jangling the keys in her pocket.

One o'clock and the procession was leaving from the house. She had turned up just ten minutes before and she thanked God that she would not be waiting around. She heard a couple of men talking to each other before jumping into their cars and joining the procession.

"So, where's the wake goin' t'be 'eld?"

"At Mick an' Jill's place, straight after the cremation. Do ya' remember where it is?"

"It's been a long time Dave, I'll follow you. Come on, lets get in line, they're leavin' wi'out us."

She waited five minutes, her anxiety growing with every second, lighting her nerves with electric fire. She moved over to the front door and tried the handle. Locked. The key below the handle led to a mortice lock, the key above was a Yale. There were two of each on the key-ring. 50/50, she thought. Quickly she jabbed the first key into the mortice lock and turned, it gave. Next she pushed a Yale key into the top lock. It would not go in. She changed for the second Yale key and tried again. The key slid in easily but would not turn. Her anxiety had reached fever pitch, her anger was not far behind. Calm down, she told herself, take a deep breath and turn the key. It would not turn. She could hear noises coming from the terraced house on the left. Damn, some ones in, she thought. She jumped a foot off the ground when the dog barked at the door to her right, and the owner shouted at it to shut the fuck up. Joanne could feel her control of the situation slipping away. Fuck No, she screamed in her mind as she pushed down on the door handle. It opened just as the neighbour to the right flicked the latch on his door. She quickly slipped inside, closed the door quietly as the neighbour opened his. "Look ya' dumb mutt, there ain't nobody about so shut ya' fuckin' trap." The door slammed and the dog barked for a few seconds more. "Just like ya' fuckin' mother. Yap, Yap, fuckin' YAP" Then all she could hear was the muted sounds of televisions and radios from either side.

She let out a long sigh of relief.

The door had opened directly into the front room. Joanne quickly looked around for any valuables, as she slipped off the backpack. She did not want to stay too long, she did not know when anyone would be back. The fireplace was in the middle of the left wall, alcoves stood to the left and right. In one alcove was a shelving unit filled with books, thrillers mostly and some figurines, in the other was the TV. It was too old and worthless, not worth risking a second trip for. The carrier bags in her pockets made loud crinkling sounds as she pulled them free and opened them up. She picked up the brass ornaments on the mantle and quickly placed them gently into the bags. Looking closer at the figurines, filled her with a sadness, a couple were very similar to the ones her Nana had given her. She was sorry that she had not taken more time to remove the personal items from her room at her parents house. She took the figures. These are not for sale, she thought to herself as she looked through the book collection. She had been correct, they were mainly Agatha Christie novels, interspersed with some newer looking volumes. There were a few well thumbed books on the middle shelf, she pulled one out and saw a bald, plump man wearing a black suit, white shirt and black tie. In his hand he held a butchers knife, dripping with blood. She thought that the smile painted on his face made him look a little simple and this vision sent a shiver through her.

The bang came from upstairs. A dull thud came from the front room as the book fell to the floor. She froze. Holding her breath she listened for any other sounds. All she could hear were the muffled noises coming from the neighbours.

She picked up the book and placed it back into its slot. Books were worthless, even on the flea market, the traders would only swap.

In the cabinet below the television she found an old video unit, she quickly uncoupled it and pulled it free. She wrapped the cables around it and slid it into the backpack. Looking back into the cabinet she saw a load of videos, once blank, now recorded with favourite shows, all worthless. Nevertheless, she took another look. There was Miss Marple, Hecule Piorot, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Alfred Hitchcock movies and Murder She Wrote. None of it interested her, she closed the door. As she walked to the door that led into the kitchen the television came to life in a riot of sound. She let out a scream and covered her ears. The five seconds it took for her to get to the set and turn it off seemed like an eternity.

"Oh, fuck," she muttered, "that's done it." She stood stone still and waited for the neighbours to come round. Nothing happened. No banging of doors, no raised voices, even the dog on the right did not bark. Joanne thanked her lucky stars and headed back to the kitchen entrance. The door closed.

"What the fuck is goin' on?" She asked the empty room. Leaving would be an option, she thought. Just at that moment her hunger flared up. Damn. Her head began to ache, she could feel her hands shaking. OK, I'll make this quick and then I'm the FUCK right out'ta here, she told herself. Her trembling hand fumbled with the door into the kitchen. After a couple of tries the door opened. Another door to her right stood open, she saw that this was the pantry, the sloping roof inside must be the stairs. Down at the far end of the wall was another door, she knew what she would find upon opening it. Quickly she skirted the table and reached out to the door with her shaking hands.

"FUCK!" she screamed as it opened before she could touch the handle.

A cold sweat started at the base of her neck and she could feel it run all the way down her back. She believed in ghosts, she watched most haunted. She vaguely recalled these occurrences happening on the show, doors opening and closing, televisions coming to life. At the end of each show, though, nobody was hurt, not physically anyway. She took a deep breath, let it out and walked through the doorway and onto the stairs. She could cope with this. There had to be jewellery upstairs. On the second stair the door below closed, plunging her into complete darkness. She breathed deep and stayed calm. The door below her would not open if she turned around and descended, she knew this, so she took a step up. The hand ran through her hair. She screamed but all was silent. She let out another fear induced shriek and again nothing interrupted the stillness. She clawed at her throat, shouting all the while, she then rubbed her ears. She was blind, deaf, and mute.

The hand was back, this time it grabbed her around the neck and squeezed. She opened her mouth to pull in some air and felt something crawl out of her and walk over her face. It felt like a spider. She was going mad. She reached up to grab the arm of the hand holding her, all she could find was air. There was nobody, just the pressure threatening to kill her. She felt her feet leave the stairs altogether. She kicked wildly and connected with nothing. A new darkness was threatening to engulf her, she felt as if she could pass out any time if the nothing did not let go of her soon. The hand let go and she crumpled to the floor. The floor beneath her was flat, she was at the top of the stairs.

She was blinded by bright white light as the door in front of her opened. She was deafened by the noise that poured over her. She screamed and could just hear her own voice among the din.

She crawled forward into the room. Everything was normal.

After taking a few deep breaths, she heaved herself up onto shaky legs. This had to be the main bedroom, it was at the front of the house and overlooked the small garden and road outside. The sun was making its way south in the sky, towards the horizon. The ticking of the clock was audible, she
glanced across at it on the other side of the bed and was shocked to see the dial was set to 4:30.

"I'm sorry." She shouted angrily into the room. "Is that what you wanted? Is it? I'm SORRY."

A thud came from behind the wardrobe door. She turned and started towards the exit, she would risk the stairs again before opening the wardrobe door. The hand pushed her backwards, and her exit closed.

Another thud came from the wardrobe.

"What the fuck do you want from me, eh?" She spun around, looking, searching, only seeing normality. Her anger was rising. "You want me to open that door, huh? Are you in the wardrobe Mrs Tilgrew? Will I find a rotting corpse that will reach out and kill me?" She started to shout. "Is that what you fuckin' want? Me Dead? Well, is it?"

A third thud came in answer to her questions.

She strode over to the door. She saw that her hand had stopped shaking as she reached out and grabbed the handle. "Well come on then." She screamed as she flung the door wide.

Out rolled three gravy containers. Joanne was silent. Looking deeper into the wardrobe all she could see were clothes. Above the clothes was a shelf that held jumpers, woollen scarf's and more gravy jars. She leant forward and scooped up one of the three laid on the floor. She popped the lid off the cardboard container and stumbled backwards and sat heavily on the bed. It was filled with money.

Five minutes later Joanne had emptied all of the containers out onto the double bed. She had made small towers of notes, but had not counted it. There were a few fives, a lot of tens, more twenties, and quite a few fifties.

Dumbfounded she looked around the room and whispered a small gratitude. "Thanks!"

She was picked up off the floor and slammed down onto the bed, she tried to fight but found that her arms and legs were unresponsive. She tried to move her body and found, that too, had lost all movement. She felt her mouth open to stretching point, her skin feeling as though it may tear open. Something moved. She looked toward the movement and saw the money dancing in the air. It twisted and twirled, fluttered and floated, she was mesmerised by the complexity of their movements. Then she was choking as the paper dived into her mouth and down her throat. Terror filled her body and emptied her bowels. She did not feel the warmth of urine as it spread across her jeans, she did not smell the reek of her faeces because a new ballerina had taken centre stage.

The umbrella opened and closed, it stood on its tip and pirouetted. Her fear grew stronger as it dropped out of site. Where is it?, her mind screamed, Where is it?

The paper notes ceased their decent into her stomach.

She raised, her head. She had movement. Run girl, jump through the fuckin' window if you have to, but get the fuck out'ta here, she encouraged herself to move. NOW!!! She sat upright just as the umbrella was thrust between her legs. It came with such force and speed that it tore through the fabric of her jeans without any problem. It ripped through the panties she was wearing and entered her vagina. She screamed so loud it felt as if her throat was bleeding from the rawness. The top half of her torso bucked and thrashed about on the sheets. Blood was soaking into the duvet along with the shit and piss. The pain she felt was immense. Then the umbrella opened. Her screaming stopped as the new pain flared it's way through her senses. It ripped open the flesh, it split her clitoris in two. Blood jetted all over the room, spraying Jackson Pollock patterns on the walls and the window. Joanne noticed how pretty and red her blood was as the setting sun lit it up. The umbrellas spokes met the bones of her pelvis and continued to open, slicing into the bones, finally stopping when they were embedded.

Her body was shaking, limply, due to nerves more than conscious effort. I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive. Her mind told her, like a broken record. She was lifted off the bed and carried to the bedroom door, like a magicians assistant in a levitating act. She did not feel anything, her body was past that. Suddenly she was cast into the total darkness of the stairway. She fell into the blackness. The sweet silent blackness, her mind ranted. Then her feet hit the floor below, she fell back, her head hit the last step cracking her skull and sending shards of bone into her brain.

The sweet silent blackness.