Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

ditched her clothes in the laundry
basket, wrapped the white
towelling gown around her, tied the
belt at the front and walked back
into the living room, her nose
wrinkling at the faint smell of
something rotten.
A hand clasped itself over her
mouth, killing her scream.
In the middle of the room, both
hands held behind his back and
with a big smile on his face stood
Franco.
‘Hello, Janine.’
The scream died in her throat,
the chemical-soaked rag clamped
across absorbed it along with her
consciousness.
Janine came round with a jerk, her
head snapping back involuntarily
trying to put as much distance as
possible from the unbearable
ammonium smelling salts under her
nose. That was all she was able to
move though, the rest of her was
bound to her armchair. She sucked
in air through her nose, her mouth
unavailable as she was gagged.
Through blurry eyes she saw
Franco put the smelling salts back
in his pocket and settle back on the
sofa opposite her. Beside him her
little Pierre, also bound and gagged.
Her heart twisted in her chest and
for a moment she felt as if she was
going to throw up. She fought the
nausea down with the unbearable
sadness that cracked her heart; she
had failed him, her little baby. She
looked into his little eyes, wide, like
a rabbit’s, full of fear. A stream of
tears fell from her face and even the
gag was not enough to stifle a
wretched moan of despair.
A slight movement caught her
eye and she saw that there was
someone else in the room. Her eyes
widened as she took him in.
He was all wrong, he had all the
things that made a man in the right
places, but he looked wrong all the
same, like a man with too many
joints.
The cut of his tailored black suit
was expensive, his shoes were brand
new and spit-polished shiny, his
crisp white shirt, although buttoned
up to the neck, still left enough of a
gap for Janine’s hand, he was so
skinny. He looked like a dead man
dressed up for a wake, the pallor of
his skin, the bloodless lips, the
wasted frame. Only this one was
walking, a walking cadaver. His
receding hair was slicked back and
she could make out pitted and
scarred skin visible between the
greasy strands. But it was his eyes
that would have made her scream
out loud had she not been gagged.
The pupils were impossibly small,
almost black dots against the
bloodshot eyeball.
Other objects resolved
themselves around the room, a
camera on a tripod and a large white
light on a stand, like those found in
television studios.
On her dining table, the table
that she shared with her little boy
was an open case; there were things
in the case, they were all shiny and
sharp. Janine jerked her gaze at
Franco and mumbled urgently
behind her gag.
Franco looked over to the other
man. He considered for a moment
and then nodded his head slightly as
if giving permission.
Franco got up and walked over
to her. He bent down and
whispered in her ear.
‘You make a sound and that little
nigger is dead, you unnerstan’ me?’
Janine nodded quickly.
Franco removed the gag. Behind
him the man folded his stick-like
arms and perched himself on the
28
postgraduate fiction
edge of the table. His glittering eyes
seemed to suck the light from the
room.
Janine coughed clearing her
throat. When she spoke it was with
a trembling high pitched voice.
‘Franco, please don’t do this...’
she pleaded. ‘Look, I’ll come back,
I’ll start working again, make all the
money back that I took from you.
Please don’t hurt him...’. The words
tumbled desperately from her
mouth, dashing meaninglessly over
Franco’s ears. Even as she spoke
them, she knew it was of no use, but
she continued nonetheless, hoping
that perhaps that he heard
something, that something would
pierce, resonate, ring, and open a
path in his mind, a future possibility
that appealed to him and would
make him see that there was a value
to her life, something that he could
exploit, make money with, that she
had a future value greater than what
he had in his pocket now, a simple
financial comparison appealing to
his greed that for her and her son
meant the difference between life
and death.
‘I...I... still have most of the
money left, it’s in the toilet behind
the cistern, I used the same hiding
place as you did, baby. Go-on, look,
it’s there.’
Franco just stood and looked at
her, an almost pitiful look on his face
and she begged.
‘Please, baby, I’ll work hard,
makes lots of money. I’ve kept in
shape, I look good, please, if you
hurt me, then you’ll make no money
right, no-one wants damaged
goods, right?’
Franco smiled faintly at this.
‘That’s what you’d think...,’he
said more to himself than her.
‘What, what...what are you
talking about...?’ She entreated, her
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
Chicken Jack
Perry Bhandal