Linda fades in beside me and sniggers.
"Clothes your doing?" I ask quietly.
"Who else cares enough to help him get
ready?" she asks, and sniggers again. "You shoulda seen his face
when he realised that was all he had to wear!"
I smirk.
"You should've seen his face when they called
Lazarus!"
****
The jury come back, and declare a
decision.
Not guilty of murder.
Guilty of manslaughter.
Linda, sitting next to me, sighs.
"He murdered me in cold blood," she says
quietly.
I nod.
"He's getting punished for part of it, at
least," I offer.
She smiles a little.
"I paid off his debt to the mafia-wannabe,"
she says.
"Why?" I ask, shocked.
"Her hitman might not've missed next time...
and I want Mike to be thoroughly miserable," she says, looking
sideways at me and smirking, "the bastard'd probably repent on his
deathbed and go straight to heaven, otherwise – it'd be just like
him."
I snort. She's right, it would.
"What's happening to the rest of your money?"
I ask, remembering the whole reason Mike killed her in the first
place.
"I willed it all to a cat shelter, years
ago," she said, finally cracking out a proper Linda-ish grin. "I
told Mike I'd left it to him, then changed my will to leave it to
the cats – he'd only have lost it on the pokies or something dumb,
you know?" She snickers. "So he killed his golden goose, the
moron!"
I heave a sigh. She's a tough one, but this
whole thing must've hurt her like hell.
"Yeah, it did," she says quietly, looking at
me.
****
(Linda)
So that's it. Mike's in jail, and he's scared
shitless. Out here, he can pretend to be a decent member of
society. In there, everyone knows him for an arsehole, you see.
They won't kill him, though. They'll just make his life hell for a
few years, and that'll do for payback. Unless, of course, wherever
I'm going will let me come back once a year and tattoo come-on
lines on his back. That'd be fun.
You've been sweet. You've sat there and listened to
this whole sordid story, and you've never once told me I'm a bloody
idiot. Thanks for that.
Bye.
===========================
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When Mark first saw me, I made the kind of
impression that good little Christian gals dream of.
“No you can't have my bloody bag, you
bastard!” I yelled as I kicked a surprised bagsnatcher-wannabe in
the shin, then followed it up with an elbow in his face.
“FUCK!” I screamed, as his cheekbone made
direct contact with my funny bone and sent a wave of agony up my
arm.
The man ran away down the street, nearly
colliding with a teenage boy walking towards me. The teen made a
grab for him, but he was shoved away as the snatcher kept running.
The teen approached me warily.
“Uh...” he said, “it's a bit late to ask if
you need any help - but are you OK?”
I nodded weakly and sat down on the side of
the footpath, rubbing my elbow. Damn, that thing felt BRUISED.
He sat down nearby and just watched me,
looking worried.
“I'm OK,” I said, smiling at his
protectiveness, “thanks for keeping an eye on me though.”
“Can I walk you home?” he said,
frowning.
“Ummm... you don't need to - I don't really
want to swap a bagsnatcher for a stalker, you know. Umm, no
offense.”
“Geez, what's offensive there?”
“Thanks for being willing to save me, and
all.”
“Look,” he said, “You've got a bit of a
wonder woman complex, you know. Why not let me pretend that I'm
protecting you? Let me feel all manly and useful?”
I looked him up and down and giggled. Five
foot two of skinny-arse male. Stephen Hawkins would be a better
protector.
“OK,” I said, and nodded. “But if you stalk
me later, I get to beat you up.”
He laughed, stuck out his hand, and shook on
it.
“I'm Mark,” he said as we walked towards
home.