I Shot Him.

852_How-Do-You-Feel
There is an excellent chance that this story follows on from GREEN COAT, BLACK GLOVES, RED HANDBAG.

 This story is now part of my new short story anthology, PASSERBY.

You can purchase a copy HERE

If you like what I do, you can help me to keep on doing it by buying one of my books.

PASSERBY cover png

I shot him.

It seemed like the right thing to do.

It rained; and I’d let the universe decide. 

If it had stayed fine I would have given him the money; just to shut him up. 

But it didn’t. 

It rained.

It was a close run thing. 

But in the end he got what he deserved. 

He killed my gentle friend, as surely as if he had forced the pills down her throat. She never hurt anyone. Life frightened her but she did her best to live it until she met him.

His mission in life was to discover your weakness [we all have them] and then to exploit that weakness for money. 

My gentle friend made a tragic mistake when she was very young. He found out [although, I have no idea how] and it was more than life was worth to have it known. 

So, my gentle friend decided to leave us. 

I’m impressed that she made it this far. The world works best for those who can roll with the punches. That was not her. She cared too much. Not about what people thought of her, she could endure that, but about the suffering of others.

 

I’m not similarly afflicted. 

If I try really hard I can care, just a little bit, but generally speaking, I don’t take garbage from anyone. 

I hide it well. 

If you saw me you would think that I’m a little shy, gentle and feminine; and I am, but I’m also determined and at times, ruthless.

 

As I mentioned, it rained. 

It sealed his fate and cleared the park, except for the old homeless guy sitting under that huge oak tree. 

He saw the whole thing and for a minute I think he thought he was next. His eyes told me that he didn’t care much either way; he’d had enough too. 

I sat on the bench next to him, still holding the smoking gun, and explained why I was there at that particular time. He listened intently [no one listens intently anymore, but I guess a recently fired .32 automatic does tend to focus the mind] and when I had finished he took a few moments and said, “Good for you lady. You can kick him in the balls if you feel like it.”

 

“That would probably be pointless, and I might get some of him on my shoe, but thank you for the suggestion.”

 

“My pleasure lady. Now you had better be gone.”

 

He was right, but before I went I gave him half the money. He gave me the biggest smile. I smiled right back. It had been a good day for both of us.

 

“You won’t give me away will you?”

 

He shook his head and I believed him.

 

Before I left, I checked to make sure the blackmailer was definitely dead. 

He was, and he still had that silly look of surprise on his face. 

Didn’t he know it would end this way one day? 

Apparently not, or maybe he had underestimated the determination of a woman to protect her family and her home.

Rather foolishly, he had the letters on him. 

For the life of me I cannot understand why he bought them with him. Maybe he had them in case I didn’t believe that he had them. 

What did he have to lose? 

I would not be strong enough to rest them away from him.

 

I put the letters in my bag, smiled at my new friend, and walked quietly out of the park. I considered leaving the gun at the scene, but what if some children got hold of it before the police arrived? And besides, I rather like this gun; it might come in handy.

 

When I arrived home I took my shopping and put it away. I placed the receipts in the glass bowl on the sideboard where I could find them. When the police finally get around to me those receipts will help muddy the waters somewhat. They would not prove that I was not at the park but they would maintain the impression that I was out on a shopping expedition. 

Simple suburban housewives don’t go around shooting people. 

Why would I need to? 

“What was my motive officer?”

I can be quite convincing.

 

If he did not keep a written list of his victims I may not have to play my part at all, but preparation is never wasted. Keep it simple and smile the smile that has been getting me out of trouble since I was thirteen.

 

The sun has come out and it is a beautiful afternoon. 

I look around at my comfortable house and think of all the things I have to be grateful for. 

My friend can rest in peace; her ordeal is over, but my life goes on.

I’d better get a wriggle on, as my mum used to say, because my husband will be home soon and I need to prepare dinner for us both. 

After all, I am a quiet suburban housewife. 

The kind of woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

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Painting by Kenton Nelson.

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Enjoy my work. Then buy me a coffee?

Enjoy my work?? Then buy me a coffee?

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9 thoughts on “I Shot Him.

  1. I couldn’t put it down – I mean if it was a book, I couldn’t put It down. And you (cunning blighter) have left all sorts of possibilities open for future expansion. (Hopefully the “quiet suburban housewife” was not Dame Edna.) Great stuff, as always.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you. That was the goal…….. for it to stand alone. Obviously it means a bit more if you’ve read the first one but, like all children, it has to stand on its own two feet and toddle out into the world and make its own way in life. I like this character. I like her ‘two-sided’ nature. I will come back to her.
      Glad you found it good [and creepy].
      P.S. I think the homeless guy has got a story in him as well.
      Terry

      Like

  2. Pingback: Red Dress. | araneus1

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