Pop Goes the Weasel

21

She was back home, safe and sound. Donning latex gloves, she began to investigate her haul. £200 in cash – she put that straight into her purse, then moved on to the credit cards. Snip, snip, snip, her scissors cut through them deftly, but to make doubly sure she gave them ten minutes on a tray under the grill. It was hard to take your eyes off them as they bubbled into a plasticky pulp – someone’s life literally melting away.

Then to the driving licence. She hesitated to look at the name, focusing on the photo instead. Was she scared to see whose life she’d destroyed or was she deliberately holding off the discovery, teasing out every last moment of suspense?

She took a peek. Christopher Reid. Beneath his name, his home address. Her eyes rested on this, calculating. Then she flicked through the rest of the contents of his wallet – his business cards, loyalty cards and dry-cleaning receipts. A thoroughly mundane life.

Satisfied, she rose. Time was of the essence, she would have to move quickly. She opened up the old stove that was burning nicely now, stoked by a fresh log. She tossed his wallet in and watched it burn. Stripping quickly she shoved her blood-stained clothes in on top of it. The fire roared and she had to step back to avoid getting burnt.

She suddenly felt foolish, standing naked in the room, flecks of blood still on her face and hair. Hurrying to the shower, she cleansed herself, then dressed again. There would be time to scrub the bath and floors properly later, she must keep on going.

Opening the fridge, she grabbed the half-bottle of Lucozade from the shelf and drank it down in one gulp. A half-eaten pie, a couple of chicken nuggets, a Müller Light; she wolfed them down now, feeling suddenly ravenous and light-headed. Sated, she paused. There on the top shelf was her prize. A human heart sitting snug in a Tupperware box.

She took it out and put it down on the kitchen table. Picking up the box, tape and scissors, she set to work.

She had a delivery to make.