Ms Wood Is Dead

Chapter one

The night was quiet, still and so charming that no one noticed as Makrel stood, leaning on the red-brick wall of a semi-detached bungalow on Roy Street. He leaned there, in his flaming red cardigan, black leggings and a tartan scarf hung around his neck, smoking a cigarette. A light, obviously coming from a television in one of the rooms in the row house across the street was incident on his cardigan, revealing a yellow handkerchief, sticking out of the side pocket of his cardigan and drooping.

He looked calm, as the night breeze creased his spiky hair. He looked across the street: left, right; nobody. Good. A gentle breeze blew, carrying dried leaves across the street, with a rustling sound. He dropped the burning cigarette and stamped on it, whereby extinguishing the dim red light that had once lit the pitch black night. He then faced the wall, jumped and grabbed the top, then in one movement, heaved himself over the wall and landed almost noiselessly on the other side. He could see the house, a few yards away. He stared at it for some time, then, going on his hands and knees began crawling towards it.

A gust of wind suddenly blew, sending particles of sand and dust into his eyes. Cursing, he stopped and blinked his eyes several times, then, with his head slightly bowed, he continued crawling. Soon, he got to the walls of the house, right between two windows. He sat on the ground, leaning back on the wall for some time, breathing steadily, looking around him.

Getting up to his feet, he peered into one of the windows. The dim light of a bed lamp revealed a bedroom. A slender not-so-attractive young woman was sleeping on a bed in the room. Her bobbed hair covered her oval shaped head. Her breasts rose and fell, syncing with the rhythm of her breath. So quick! How easy it had been finding her, he thought.

He opened one of the shutters gently. Careless, young lady forgetting to lock her shutters from inside. So simple, he grinned, no burglar proofs also. In a thrice, he was in the room. He looked around, noticing how modest the room was. Beside the window was a table, with a bottle cork lying on its center. Beside the table was a chair. His left hand moved to his cardigan pocked, pulling out the handkerchief. He whipped it through the air, making a whipping sound. The sleeping woman stirred, then she woke, puzzled.

She looked around the room, before her eyes found and settled on him. Her mouth opened, frightened and was about to scream. But before any sound left her mouth, he had covered the distance that separated them and jumped on her. His steel-strong, glove covered hands covered her neck, as he began strangling her throat. She shrieked, struggling feebly. They struggled for a while, then he suddenly let go. Finally free and coughing, she got up in a rush and made for the door. He went after her and using his foot, he made her stumble over and fall on the hard floor.

Moving quickly, he wrapped his handkerchief around her neck and pulled hard at both ends. She squirmed and struggled wildly. He was stronger and her struggle was useless; He held his grip tight. Soon, she lay still. He let her go. He body turned lifelessly and faced the floor.

He went to the bed and grabbing the sheets, proceeded to make the bed. He went over to where she lay and regarded her for some time. Blood was dripping from her nose unto the floor. Using his handkerchief, he wiped her nose vigorously, the proceeded to carry her up. She was light; not as heavy as he had expected. He put the body on the bed and arranged it.

He went to where she had lain on the floor and using his handkerchief again, he carefully wiped away the blood. He went over to the door and took a look. Good, he thought, a lady sleeping peacefully was what anyone standing in his place would think. He walked over to the table, bent over it and flicked the bottle cork. It hit the bedside and rattled on the floor.

Back on the street, He took out his cigarette case, selected one, lit it began smoking, looking around him. But the night was no one. The street was as empty as he had left it. Carelessly puffing the smoke, he began strolling up the street, away from the house.