No. 1
“Two eggs over easy, bacon, sausage and coffee,” Anna says, placing the plate of food in front of a large, bristly-faced trucker before slopping coffee into a chipped white mug.
“You could try to provide service with a smile like it says,” the man replies, pointing to a poster on the diner wall.
“Above my pay grade,” Anna retorts tersely, leaving the man slathering blood-red ketchup on his breakfast.
It’s a quiet, drizzly, grey morning with few customers, and Anna keeps herself busy at the counter, careful to avoid Denny, the restaurant owner come chef. Delores has called in sick again, so there is no safety in numbers today. The diner clock ticks loudly, time passing very slowly, her boredom only disturbed by the sound of the door opening.
“Coffee and a stack to go, darlin’,” a young man with bright green eyes and a dark blue boiler suit says, throwing her a cheeky wink.
“I’m not your darlin’ or anyone else’s, for that matter,” Anna replies coldly.
“Soooorry, only being friendly. Keep your shirt on!”
Anna pours the coffee roughly into a polystyrene cup in front of him, deliberately spilling some over the side. It wasn’t what he’d said that had annoyed her; it was the fact that now she had to go into the kitchen and Denny. The double doors flap back and forth as she enters, the waft of bacon and burnt eggs assaulting her nostrils and the acrid smoke from burnt fat stinging her eyes. Denny emerges from the fat mist, a grubby, greasy version of the Pillsbury Doughboy of the 70s, sweat beading his brow, black hair combed over to conceal his balding head. You work for me, I own you, is Denny’s creed.
“A stack to go,” Anna says quickly, edging her way backwards towards the safety of the diner, but Denny is too quick for her. He corners her like a lion corners a gazelle. She smells him before she feels him come in for the kill, grease mingled with body odour. He leers at her, his stinking breath hot on her neck. She freezes, and he relishes in her discomfort as he slips his podgy hand up her skirt. He knows she can’t say anything, the shifts are long, but the pay isn’t bad, and she’s got rent to pay. She hates him.
No. 2
Patience Denny, I say toying with him, not until closing time. Just one quick feel? He pleads. The best things are worth waiting for, I say moistening my lips. All day he watches me, leers at me. He locks the diner door, turning the sign to closed. Not in here, I say, in the kitchen, more private, more intimate. He follows me, he can’t wait. He sweats as I unbuckle his trousers. How much do you want this? I ask. Very, he replies, his face like a red balloon ready to burst. I toy with him, keeping him at arm’s length as I slowly take off my skirt and blouse, watching him salivating, hardly able to contain himself. As he lunges at me, unable to resist the temptation for a second longer, as I knew he would, I plunge the knife into his flesh. He reels, then sinks to the floor, trousers round his ankles. Like a fish flapping out of the water, he begs me to help him. He’s dead by the time I’ve dressed. Four down, one to go.
No. 3
The lights switch on, bright light cutting through the pitch black. Anna lets her eyes accustom to the brightness. Today’s the day, she thinks, taking in her cell on F-wing of the Mississippi State Women’s Penitentiary. She can see the grey sky through the small, barred window high up on the cell wall, well out of reach. A neat pile of books from the prison library sits on the small, lightweight desk; she’d made the most of her last year, reading everything she could, making up for her lost education. She folds her bed roll and places it precisely on the bottom bunk of the metal bed fixed to the floor. She’d never had a cellmate, murderers, especially serial killers, never do, something about fear of litigation. The familiar smell of the chemical toilet invades her senses. There’s a click as the observation port opens and closes before the door opens wide.
“Moving day, today, Anna,” the grey-uniformed prison guard says seriously, “be ready to move after breakfast. The Psych will see you this afternoon in your new accommodation”.
Anna nods, she can see the guard is uncomfortable as she brushes imaginary dust from her jacket. She closes the door, leaving Anna to her thoughts, the familiar sound of the lock securing it shut. New accommodation, Anna thinks, that’s one way to describe death row. A smile forms slowly on her face.
No.3
Maya exits the lift, looks at the long corridor stretching out in front of her and sighs. Second floor, room 2.11, they had told her at the reception on the impressive ground floor of this recently opened Nottingham University Neuroscience Research Building, all glass and polished chrome with flashes of teal blue on the predominantly white walls. It would’ve helped if they had at least managed to put room numbers on the office doors before opening, she thought to herself, looking at the numerous identical doors on either side of the corridor, stretching out ahead of her, sighing again. At that moment, a door opens, and a young man with a mop of messy dark hair, jeans and a dark green t-shirt emerges.
“Don’t tell me,” he says with a grin, “you’re lost, aren’t you? Maybe I can help, who are you looking for?”
“Thank you, you’re a godsend.” Maya replies, “I’m looking for Mr Davies, room 2.11.”
“Mr Davies, his office is the fifth door on your left.“
Thank you again,” Maya says, turning to leave.
“One piece of advice, though, I’d knock first and wait for him to say come in before opening the door.”
“Thanks yet again,” Maya says puzzled.
“You’ll soon see why,” the student says stepping into the lift.
Maya knocks on the door of Mr Davies’ office and waits. She hears something that sounds like glass shattering, followed by a few choice words before the person inside shouts, come in. As she enters, she sees a man, golf club in hand, inspecting the shattered glass door of a large, modern bookcase, shards of glass at his feet.
“Mr Davies?” she enquires.
The man turns.
“And you are?” he asks.
“I’m Maya Patel, Lucy Solomon’s Psychiatrist,” she replies, extending her hand to shake his, “you should be expecting me”.
“Of course, of course, I am,“ he says, firmly shaking her hand, “I just didn’t realise it was 3 PM already. If I’m honest, I thought you might be the office police, again. Please take a seat. Coffee?”
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