Sunday, 1 May 2011

Murder on the 96A. Part 2.

Two ladies over my right shoulder, fattened hens, roosting in the glare of the early morning spring sunshine. One melts into the other, a beige, two-headed mass of trouser suit and blouse.

They laugh in a slow and considered way at the end of every sentence, giving ample opportunity to switch meaning at any given moment. One talks of Madrid, she has done Madrid before. She doesn’t see why she should do Madrid again. Her friend laughs. Slowly. They speak in middle English accents, homely and moral. They talk of travel for around ten minutes. The cities they have visited, how their friends envy the places they have been. But then curse Debenhams for being too expensive to shop in. What are these creatures? The poor holidaying class? Lounging around in the major cities of the world in a Primark two-piece. Further evidence comes when they talk of husbands. He just has a social membership for the golf course. Doesn’t get to play any golf on the course, but gets to attend all the “do’s”. They went on a murder mystery weekend not long ago, it was really nice.

The fa├žade reveals itself. Keeping up with the Jones’s. Catching up with and then sprinting passed the Jones’s. The Jones’s themselves had to re-mortgage the house to afford the full membership and the plane tickets. No one knows who is winning, everyone is running for the line, but keel over and let out an almighty death rattle ten metres from the finish line, wallets bursting with plastic, a well stamped passport and skin tanned to a fine leather, but not a drop of blood left in their veins.

It is Sunday. Judging by their attire and tone I will guess my travel companions are off to church. The churches in St. Andrews are always full to capacity, actual queues form outside, if you get caught up in post-prayer stampede you will suffocate in Avon perfume before being crushed to death, and/or converted to conservative Christianity. I guess the people of this town have a lot to be thankful for, praise be given to the gods of well off comfort. 
I think I have an eye condition, or just really sensitive eyes. Actually fuck it, I just really like wearing big black sunglasses.

So anyway, I’m in my seat, the blob wobbles in it’s seat behind me, the static created by their clothing makes my hair stand on end. I figure that these two old girls are probably going to do some pretty bad shit, I sense it, I envision it, they are team Fritzl, locking their unwanted rape children in the basement of the semi-detached, so I decide I should dish out a sharp pang of justice. I push my sunglasses on to the end of my nose while I rake around in my canvas man-bag for my trusty justice stick. I lean my neck back, almost touch the hands of my new enemies with my hair as they grip the handle of the seat, my sunglasses fall back over my eyes, and in a perfect one hundred and eighty degree pivot, reaching over the back of my seat, without moving my seated lower body, I stake both of them through their shared heart. The bus breaks into sudden applause. I take a bow. And stand over my victims, like a colonial soldier that has just slain his first lion.

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