A LIFE OF MONEY AND MURDER

MARTIN'S COLOUR

The light hung low in the chamber-like room, as though it too was tired. The room wasn't too big, and it housed a small desk to the right with a large chair, and to the left was a tattered beaten leather seat which could sit two people. The door was cream but had been worn so much it had become beige-y brown. There was also a foot by foot wide window that looked out over bushes outside the building going through a new development. The one man, dressed in dark grey turtle-neck and loose black trousers gazed out of the window, his eyes heavy and dying for rest. He looked into the bush and saw what looked like a piece of strangely shaped, dirty fabric hanging on one of the leaves, no bigger than two inches. He knew what it was, because not long before he had seen it form. The caterpillar inside was now just waiting to be set free and show its new form to Martin Goodfellow.

"Well, isn't this wonderful?" emanated the low voice of Harlem Coverhay from the other side of the room. Martin unwillingly turned to look at the new old-comer, "We're all over the newspapers, and I'm back in charge. This is the epitome of my infamy."

"I'm sorry?" questioned Martin, a stern look finding its way onto his face.

"This is my finest hour, not only did I steal the gang back off of Gene, but the name is all over the press and the radio!" he gleamed towards the two women sitting on the worse-for-wear sofa in the corner, the yellowish light swinging on its unsafe wire from the ceiling in the winds, "This is cause for celebration! Fetch us a drink will you, Mart? Thanks," his deep Welsh accent forcing its way through the red-faced head of Goodfellow.

"Excuse me?" he replied bluntly as the two women tensed up, sensing a raging heat coming from one side of the room.

"A drink; Something, strong, exciting, I don't know. Surprise me!"

"Harlem," pronounced Martin, with no intentions of 'fetching him' a drink, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you for a long time now," Martin forced, waiting for Harlem to look toward him, "A sensation inside of me I've felt since the second I met you. And Harlem, now that you're back here with me, I think you ought to know."

Harlem turned suddenly, anxious of the reply that was to come out of the lips of the manipulative man who's forehead had started to produce wrinkles long ago, and who's brown hair started to reflect lighter greys day by day. Harlem took a breath and swallowed hard, "Yes, Martin?" he stuttered.

"I hate you." The words lifted and flew out across the room until finally alerting Coverhay. "Since the first day I met you, you undermined me, manipulated me and changed my future forever. And since that first day I've had this loathing feeling inside of me I just can't keep under control. Hatred. Utter hatred for you. And then when I find a way to get rid of the greatest bane in my life and things finally start to get better, it slumps its way back in, unwanted, unneeded, taking everything I have and claiming you own this. Well, let me tell you something," Harlem looked up at the figure standing before him, and rose in outrage out of the chair and in front of the desk to confront him, as the two women on the chair watched wide-eyed and scared, "I hate you, and every single thing about you, I always have. And now you'll listen to me, you'll answer to me. Because, without me, you'd be nothing. Right now, you'd have nothing. So be thankful, get out of my way and listen to what I tell you to do. Have you got that?" Martin looked down at the man, pulling out the knife from earlier on and resting it vertically into his side, not applying force.

The opposition nodded as Martin circled the desk and let his weight occupy the chair.

"Fetch us a drink, will you Harl-y?" he said as the cocoon opened and the butterfly flew away.

"Martin's Colour,"

By James Stone