Now We Are Dead

Halfway Down the Stairs

Jack whistles as he works his way downstairs, one step at a time: the ‘Funeral March’, but the tune falls apart because he can’t — stop — grinning.

OK, so today started out pretty bad, but it’s going to end absolutely perfect. Class one. Grade A. Whoop-de-bloody-doo. Terrific.

It’s a nice house, maybe a bit on the frumpy side, but big. Bet it’s worth a lot of money. No way an honest cop can afford all this. But then she isn’t honest, is she? No, she’s a dirty lying, corrupt, BITCH.

Jack shifts his grip on her ankles and looks back over his shoulder. Keeps hauling her down the stairs, nice and slow so the Bitch’s head bounces off each and every step.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

Could she be dressed more like a dyke if she tried? Dungarees? Honestly, some people have no sense of style at all. She’s even wearing comfortable shoes, for Christ’s sake. What a cliché.

And what’s with the hair? Looks like someone tumble-dried a Scottie Dog then stapled it to a wrinkly chimpanzee. Lesbians in porn films look nothing like that. They’re all lithe and young and pert. Compliant. Willing. Grateful. Completely unlike Detective Sergeant — Oh I’m So Special — Roberta Bloody Steel in her bulldog-dyke dungarees.

Still, she’ll not be wearing them long.

Her eyes flicker open as her head bumps against the next step down. Mouth moving like it’s not been wired up right. ‘Unnnngggghhhh...’

Gwah... The smell coming off her: like someone drowned a tramp in cheap chardonnay and cheaper perfume.

Still, Jack’s prepared to overlook all that, cos he’s a gentleman. And this one’s been a long time coming.

He gives her a smile. ‘Oh, we’re going to have so much fun!’

Bump. Bump. Bump.