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Salient: Victoria University Students' Newspaper. Vol. 24, No. 7. 1961.

Short Story: Intent to Kill

page 9

Short Story: Intent to Kill

I sat on the edge of my bed, thinking. All that week I had done nothing but thinking. She must die—that was that. I bounced the mattress up and down ... the confounded thing was sagging in the middle ... She sags in the middle. I thought sadly. Moodily, I gazed around my room ... empty bottles, a dirty ashtray filled with dirty bits of chocolate wrappings, old shoes ... I frowned. Not very pleasing. Nothing was pleasing since She began living with me. Oh, hell!!! What am I afraid of? Who would know. Caught sight of the empty bottles again. The party—that wild, hilarious, orgiastic party. Good fun, that. Fun? Was it, though? The wild, flushed face of a girl appeared before me. Other faces ... wild flushed faces. Drunken faces. Intoxicated faces. Bloody red faces. No, perhaps it was not fun. Anyway. It Made me Forget. Made us all Forget. What? that we are Human Beings, that we Must Live? Then that fool Willis threw a glass of beer into Morris's face. Or was it someone else? Doesn't really matter. Then the chap next door banged on the wrong door and an Innocent lodger next to us was pulled out of his bed. He got the blame for our noise. That raised hell, of course. I smiled. A girl's voice came back. Sweet ... then a sickly, crooning voice. The faces, the music, the roar of shouting voices faded into the background and the room cleared once more. Myself smiling in the mirror. A grinning skull. Oh, yes, I was thinking of Her.

I would do it when She is not looking, of course. Then the Body. How would I dispose of that? So much trouble taking it away. It would have to be the back garden. Would Mrs Horse-face be looking? That bachelor chap in the room upstairs. He pried Into my affairs. Neighbours! Damn them. What do I care? But I have to ... I cannot afford to be Found Out! I groaned. What a hard world—we can never do what we like. No! Must be realistic. Think. Gotta be rational in these matters.

My eyes fell upon the bottles again. Must clear the room someday. Tomorrow? That's Impossible. Jane is Coming up Tomorrow. If Jane Finds Out? Anyway, they can wait. The bottles reminded me of Her again. It. Funny how "Her" can become "It" once it is dead. Life and no life. Personal and Impersonal. The time I first killed a butterfuly. Squashed it. Then I was surprised to find out that I could no longer make it move. Lying there on the palm of my hand—dead. Hell! (This is not part of the story. My type-writer ribbon got fouled here). That was my first encounter with death. Her and It.

I could take it away in Jane's car. That would not rouse any suspicions. Bundled up to look like a laundry bag. She does not weigh much. I knew. Had to carry her up to my room—that first time we met—so sick she could hardly walk. She has a slim body too. A Body full of Life ... soon going to be a Body. She did not sag in the middle, then. I must have that horrible mattress changed. Ask Agnes for a new one. I beat a tattoo on it with my fingers. Does she know. I wonder? She must have seen Her round the flat, of course. But does she know that She was living with me? I wonder how Agnes would react to the Killing. Agnes is a decent sort. Heaven knows how many times the others in the flat complained about my rowdy parties ... that son of a gun bachelor ... I suspected that Agnes felt a sort of motherly affection towards me. Poor Agnes. She would be Shocked when she hears about Her. But she must Not. Not If I plan the thing carefully, Jane, though? Jane is such a nice kid. I cannot drag her In. Life has been unkind enough to her. Who else, John Alison. Bob, Screwtape ... I was slightly disconcerted—really no one I could trust. Except Jane. But I had excluded Jane. Perhaps, it would be better If I went back to the old idea—and bury It in the backyard. A large hole. A deep, black hole. Black soil. She would Rot. Maggots. Felt my breakfast coming up. Ran to the wash-basin. Just got there!

I let the water run. She was asking for It, really. Always lying on my bed—not helping. At my desk when I wanted to work. Then running away after the party ... excusable perhaps, for the bitch. Smell of stale drink was pretty unpleasant. And can she scratch! Urrrrghhhh. What a mess she made. My bed ... she must have woken up early. I had been too kind with her, That was it. Ever since I began working for the Society ... it was through that that I met Her. Told them I'd look after her a bit, poor lost little girl. Bitch. Blast the society. I'll resign tomorrow, No. They might remember Her. Better wait a few more months. Joining the Society was the start of my troubles. I'm too soft, that's me ... they all put it over me. But not her, not any more.

Check the revolver. What about that silencer. I took it out from the drawer. Then someone rang at the door. I hid the revolver guiltily. Threw the door open and a bloody bundle was shoved underneath my nose. She was still.

"Is this dog yours, sir? A bus ran over her.

By the way, I work for the S.P.C.A.