Issue Three

CHRIS CASTLE
Richard Keane waited in the empty
house and thought about his life. For a
moment he remembered his young wife,
both aged eighteen, running up a
seaside boardwalk, hand-in-hand. Old
people looked on, disapproving, and
Richard felt invincible as he gripped her
hand tighter in his. That was the
moment, when the time came, that he
would hold onto, above all others.
The knock on the door was gentle and
that surprised him. It was the apologetic
tap of a neighbour, not a killer. ‘Yet’,
Richard reflected as he pulled himself
out of the chair, ‘what was the man on
the other side of the door, if not both?’
“Hello, Mr. Keane,” The man said,
waiting to be invited in. Richard nodded
and stood back, waving him in. No
scent came off him, which should have
been peculiar but Richard felt was in
perfect keeping with the man and his
idea of him as a ghost. The two of them
walked into the sparse room and again,
the man waited to be offered the
seat. Again, Richard waved his hand,
almost finding humour in the ridiculous
situation, before re-claiming his own
seat.
“So, it’s time,” Richard said and felt his
voice crack. He hated himself for the
weakness, though was unsurprised at
it. The man nodded solemnly and
again, Richard was interested to see the
compassion in his eyes. Richard had
known what a killer looked like- all he
had to do was look in a mirror- and yet,
there was a kindness in this man, a
softness that just did not fit with his
actions.
“It’s time,” the man said, looking around
the room. The bottles were all emptied,
the women now removed. Richard
gazed after him, reflecting how dull vice
could be after a time. For a moment he
understood the concept of the idle rich.
“Will it be filmed, like the others?”
Richard asked, feeling a sudden, bizarre
need to tidy up the room, to make the
place look presentable. He wondered if
the man’s gentile ways were somehow
infectious, like some sort of benign
virus. Maybe, before his heart stopped,
he might indulge in a little light dusting.
“Streamed only to The Owner and
nothing else,” the man said, bringing his
gaze back to Richard. “You have my
word. The contract is binding, no
exceptions.”
“How would I know anyway, right?”
Richard shrugged, for a second feeling
helpless and weak.
“I’d know,” the man said and the sudden
flash of indignation in his eyes revealed
the killer in him. Richard flinched but felt
oddly reassured at the same time. His
death would be a vile thing but only
seen by a paying few and not the
masses. He took solace in that, he
realised. The sort of comfort only a man
with a death sentence could take.