Vixen

23

Angie was fond of poison. In the club, the girls kept a store for awkward punters. A guy got stroppy, he got a tiny amount in his drink, not enough to do serious damage but ensured he’d have stomach cramps from hell and the runs, plus maybe a jolly to the hospital. The cheap fucks, the ones that tipped like misers, they got a shot of it too. Some of the girls believed a tiny amount kept your weight down and aided the complexion; it’s not for nothing they’ve been called poisonous. Angie had helped herself to a wedge on leaving.

Now she was holed up with a stripper named Rachel in a studio rental off the Balham High Road. Rachel was a pain in the ass, always whining, checking the fridge and going:

‘Did you touch my Evian?’

And her low-fat yoghurt… God forbid you looked sideways at that shit. Angie wasn’t entirely sure but it did seem as if there was a pencil mark on the booze bottles. Rachel was a big girl, had been round the block a few times and was showing the mileage. She’d had her breasts inflated and was forever checking for droop. Angie thought she resembled Jordan’s mother but reassured her she was foxy. The rental seemed to shrink as the days passed — it had been a week since the copper got shot.

Rachel, looking at Angie, had asked as Ray’s photo flashed on the telly:

‘Hey, didn’t you hang with that guy?’

And got her first dose of arsenic.

What Rachel liked was to sit down for breakfast, the whole works. Little chintz tablecloth, a lone flower, grapefruit juice and muesli, decaffeinated coffee with low-fat milk. Angie went along with this crap as she needed the hideout.

She took her time, then:

‘Ray? Not any more, I blew him out.’

Rachel was curious and persisted:

‘I thought he was kinda cute. You think he really shot the policeman?’

Angie asked for a napkin and when Rachel went to fetch them, she sprinkled a little of the poison on the muesli, stirred it in.

When Rachel returned Angie said:

‘No, it’s a mistake, Ray wasn’t the type to carry. He hated guns.’

Watched as Rachel spooned the cereal and made a face, said:

‘This tastes a bit bitter.’

Angie was ready and relished the fun, always it was the game and she sure loved to play, said:

‘It’s the lemon juice.’

‘What? We don’t have lemon.’

‘See my complexion, isn’t it great?’

Rachel looked at her with admiration, gushed:

‘Oh yes, how do you do that?’

‘Lemon juice, a few drops daily and you can cut your cosmetics in half.’

Rachel dug in like her life depended on it. Angie had never seen anyone die from poisoning and was hot to see how it’d go. She’d do it nice and slow, see how it went. If Rachel got any more curious, she’d just up the ante and finish the cow off.

Sure enough, the next day, Rachel was sick as a parrot — vomiting, diarrhoea, the works. Angie was the soul of comfort, plying her with water, cold faceclothes and dancing attendance.

Rachel, groaning, said:

‘It must be something I ate.’

‘Kebab. You have to pack those in.’

‘But you had one, no, you had two.’

‘See, Rachel, I can eat anything, but you’re so delicate, you have to be careful. Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll take care of you.’

Would she ever.

Angie had completely altered her appearance. Shorn the blonde hair, applied a jet-black colour and added hornrimmed glasses. When Rachel saw her she shrieked:

‘Oh my God.’

Sounding like Phoebe in Friends… which is sounding like horror.

Angie, pleased with her appearance, said:

‘I’ve met a new guy and he’s sort of conservative. I want to fit in with his job.’

Rachel’s reply was cut off by another bout of throwing up.