Short 500 word piece for a competition on the Authonomy Website for The Jerusalem Puzzle by Lawrence O’Bryan – found here.
Made it through to the next stage, here, but no further.
—
My Submission…
The temperature had dropped since I’d left home, dark grey
clouds glowed orange from streetlights, their weight muffling nearby sounds; it
felt like snow.
I’d been walking an hour trying to clear my head. Four deaths in this evolving saga, Alek, Kaiser,
the body in Elliot Way, and now Susan Hunter, all
murdered; too much of a coincidence.
Thoughts turned egoistically to Hunters report. Had she even finished it? It could be another year before we can get it
translated. Beresford-Ellis
is going to be overjoyed with investigations by English and Turkish authorities. Hope to God she didn’t take the manuscript to
Jerusalem; it could be anywhere.
Shoving freezing hands deeper into my jacket pockets, I retraced
my steps back to the house. Perhaps Isabel’s
connections could help, convince someone in the foreign office to extract the
manuscript as a matter of urgency, perhaps then it will be safe.
On passing, warmth and noise of O’Gradys pub spilled out on
to the pavement. Stopping, momentarily
contemplating a pint, my phone buzzed against my knuckles. I pulled it out and opened an email.
From the late Dr Hunter, my heart skipped a beat, except a
different email address.
“Sorry can’t explain, compromised, I not implicage u in last
mail. I AM alive. Be on guard n get out of London. Set up new mail address n contact me @ Gmail my
name is fast food restront where we first met last May. B careful, and trust no one. NO ONE!
SH.”
I swallowed hard.
Getting a message from the deceased is a little odd. The McDonald Institute’s not a restaurant I
thought, ah, McDonalds without an “s” that’s it, but what was “I not implicage
you” about?
I hurried back, suddenly worried about Isabel’s safety. The door was ajar when I arrived at the
house, was she expecting me? Did we have
visitors! I anxiously thought back to news
bulletins and burnt corpses. Listening
for any strangers voices, I entered slowly, all seemed calm. I closed the door quietly behind me and made
my way down the hallway to the kitchen.
The radio muffled in the background. Crossing the soft hall carpet to the hard
timber floor my rubber soles squeaked. My
brow furrowed.
A syringe lay on the white porcelain floor tiles alongside a
splattering of small raised droplets of blood, it looked empty, my heart now raised
from a casual rock beat to a hardcore drum ‘n’ bass rhythm as its thumping pounded
in my neck.
Then I caught sight of Isabel slumped on the kitchen sofa.
‘Sean,’ she slurred.
‘I’m here,’ I said crouching down touching her quivering
shoulder. ‘Everything is going to be
alright, sit tight.’ Tapping the phone,
I called 999. Dry blood streaked down
her arms, black bruised circles forming on her forearms to her biceps caught my
attention.
‘Ambulance please,’ I stood.
That was when I noticed it reflecting in the mirror. I turned.
“Ring-a-round a rosie,” scrawled in black on the wall.
