by Don Stoll
Trigger warning: Descriptions of violence & sexual content
A few years later the Yanks would have their knickers in a twist about Son of Sam, but we had Sam himself.
Sam Hain, papers called him, because after the first murder, in early October, he wrote some rubbish in blood on the sidewalk about being the Druid Lord of Darkness, celebrating early the Gaelic festival marking the end of harvest and start of winter. And going to keep celebrating, he promised.
“Four liters of blood by the size of her,” Chief Inspector Redmond said. “Lucky for Sam, him wanting to write War and Peace.“
Easy to say, “Only kills tarts, I’m all right Jack.” But can he always spot a tart, know who is and who isn’t? And sure he’ll stick to tarts anyway? Not signed a contract. If the pleasure’s in the killing, why not try something different? Bird kept her cherry dies same as a tart.
Coppers started looking for a little chap because the third tart got away and noticed that much about him. Not tiny, mind, big enough to kill that first tart, lass of ten stone. But ten-stone bloke would be stronger, and that’s still small for a bloke.
Tart that got away said “By the grace of God.” To which Harold Morton, most useless Detective Inspector in Brixton Station and like Redmond another sodding comedian, said “Now we know God gives a monkey’s what happens to a
tart.”
Detective Inspector Ellen Flay ignored that. But then C.I. Redmond said Flay had volunteered to play a tart, act as bait.
“Reverting to her true nature,” twat Morton piped up again.
Flay glared at him.
But she didn’t glare at Redmond when he said D.I. Morton would be her cover.
Redmond didn’t take to hard looks from subordinates.
She waited for her colleagues to clear out. Inferiors all, she thought, but with testicles you can get by. Colleagues and their testicles not hanging around anymore — so to speak — she could have a word with the Chief.
Redmond spoke first. Had read her mind.
“Can only spare Morton. Darkies on the warpath, nastier business than a chap killing tarts.”
“Because they’re tarts?”
“He kills a university lass,” Redmond sighed, “Darkies go on the back burner.”
“Or he kills a woman D.I. because the bloke meant to cover her’s useless?”
“Make sure that doesn’t happen,” Redmond said in his conversation-over voice.
Week until Halloween. Freezing her fanny off on Maplethorpe Road, center of the pattern formed by the sites of the attacks, one that failed included. No real tarts in sight. Tart can read a map too. So if Sam did the same, went to the center, Flay would have no competition.
Flay looking for a little chap like the tart that God gave a monkey’s about had said, telling herself little chap’s less scary. But twat Morton with his yellow-teeth grin says “Still likely bigger than you, Ellen, kill you fast. I’ll play hero, gun
him down. But too late for you.”
Flay thought Not sure what I want gone more, Sam or your yellow teeth.
Ginning up a bit of warmth pacing in sodding six-inch heels. Wondering how the tarts did it night after night.
And wondering something else on her pass by twat Morton. Plan was he’d ask how much and she’d say piss off.
They’d have a moment to add more.
Hers was “Won’t Sam think something?s fishy, I say no to every bloke?”
Morton said, “You want to say yes, don’t mind me. Starved for entertainment tonight.”
“Twat,” she said.
Freezing her fanny off. Not seen many blokes to say no to, even blokes staying in with no birds about. Poofters staying in too, thinking Sam’d do me if he can’t find a tart.
Then — hello — little sod pops up at the corner with Saxon Road.
She looked for Morton. Knew where he was five minutes ago. If twat’s having a wank, better finish fast. Worse, he’s nipped two streets over to Hartlepool Road, maybe find a real tart brave enough — stupid enough — to be out, have a quick one. Twat’s the sort to go too fast, leave a bird hanging. But maybe not fast enough if little sod’s Sam.
Mustn’t walk toward him, Flay thought. But too fast the other way, he’ll know something’s up. Walk away the tiniest bit slower than him, let him catch up slow. Give Morton time to shoot his wad then get back here. Don’t like being the damsel in distress, Flay thought. But need twat, and need him at his feeble best.
But get to the corner with Brockhurst Close and Sam’s gone. Where? He rent a bedsit above the shops?
She walked back toward Saxon Road. Light goes on above a shop, somebody draws the drapes. Little sod wasn’t Sam.
But where’s Morton?
Flay thought Hartlepool Road’s the ticket. Any tart out and about would go there because of the traffic, and Sam would go where the supply is.
She continued to the corner and down Saxon Road. Then had second thoughts. Suppose Morton’s not gone to Hartlepool Road. He’s on Maplethorpe, I’m on my own. Bloody hell.
She heard something. Alley up ahead. Coming from there.
She took off her heels. Filthy walking, but best not to make noise. Feels better too.
Turns into the alley and a dark shape’s in her face. She thought later how lucky she was he’d earned the six-inch heel she sunk into his eye not even thinking. Could have been some poor sod taking a slash. Popular spot for it, whole alley stinking like piss.
He dropped to the ground screaming. Then Flay saw another shape: D.I. Harold Morton, the life carved out of him.
Chap whose eye she’d put out confessed to the Sam Hain murders.
And Flay thought Blessed October twenty-fourth that was, got two for the price of one.
Don Stoll’s fiction is forthcoming in THE BROADKILL REVIEW, XAVIER REVIEW, THE MAIN STREET RAG, WILD VIOLET, NORTHWEST INDIANA LITERARY JOURNAL, HEART OF FLESH, COFFIN BELL, BETWEEN THESE SHORES (twice), PULP MODERN, YELLOW MAMA (twice), FLASH FICTION MAGAZINE, and FRONTIER TALES, and recently appeared in PUNK NOIR, THE GALWAY REVIEW, GREEN HILLS LITERARY LANTERN, THE AIRGONAUT, CLOSE TO THE BONE, HORLA, YELLOW MAMA, DARK DOSSIER (four times), A NEW ULSTER, THE HELIX, SARASVATI, ECLECTICA, EROTIC REVIEW, CLITERATURE, DOWN IN THE DIRT, and CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES. In 2008, Don and his wife founded their nonprofit (karimufoundation.org) to bring new schools, clean water, and clinics emphasizing women’s and children’s health to three contiguous Tanzanian villages.
