Duncan Chisel by Daniel Shooter

He introduced himself like a Yorkshire James Bond.

‘The name’s Chisel. Duncan Chisel.’

‘Polly Mantis.’

Firm handshake.

‘Do you do this often?’ he asked.

‘Oh no, I’m very particular,’ she said, and watched him grow taller with pride. He bought drinks and they found a corner table away from the bar. She performed the standard routine: job, where she was brought up, a couple of hobbies (caving and cross-stitch this time). As usual none of it true, just in case. She threw in a couple of hair flicks and let a dress strap slip down her shoulder. His eyes darted towards her chest a couple of times.

‘I’m a detective. Private detective,’ said Duncan. He looked exactly like the pictures from her research. ‘Doncaster born, Rotherham raised.’ He struggled with hobbies. ‘I go hiking occasionally,’ he said. ‘Mostly I’m busy working’. Explained the dating app, she thought. This was going to be easy.

‘You hear about that property millionaire getting caught by private detective recently? she asked. ‘Found, pants down, with a girl half his age! In the divorce courts last month, I think. The wife got a massive pay-out.’

He looked sheepish and made a show of looking around the pub, then leaned across the table. ‘Actually, it was me on that case,’ he whispered under a cupped hand, ‘shouldn’t really say, but I guess as it’s all over’.

‘Really?’ she raised her eyebrows and looked around furtively too.

‘Easy money. Men like that never think they’re being followed.’

She listened, watched. Salivated. Broad shoulders in a slim-fitting black t-shirt and jacket. Solid, earthy face with a strong jaw, neat goatee with a hint of grey. He chewed precisely, full lips and tongue wrapping hungrily yet efficiently around burger and triple-cooked chips. His napkin was used properly. It all boded very well for later.

She hoped Duncan couldn’t see her right leg jiggling uncontrollably underneath the table; rather than make her nervous, these days anticipation seemed to energise. When he went to the lavatory, she undid the top button on her dress. On his return she leaned across the table and took his hand, making sure he could see down her top. Time to go in for the kill.

‘I always book a hotel when I’m in town, just in case,’ she said, ‘Out by the motorway. My car’s just outside. Would you like to join me for a nightcap?’ Puppet meet string.

She led him outside. Once in the car he seemed nervous and started asking about the make and model.

‘Is this the estate version?’

‘More practical than a hatchback,’ she replied. ‘With the seats down it’s good for pretty much anything.’

As they waited at traffic lights by an industrial estate, she pulled her dress up further and put her hand between her legs.

‘I don’t think I can wait until we get to the hotel Duncan,’ she said, turning to look at his startled face. She put her other hand on his thigh and squeezed. ‘There’s a quiet road just around the corner.’ He gulped.

She turned down a single-track lane, flicked the full-beam headlights on, and a minute later pulled into a tiny lay by at the entrance to a wood. She turned the engine off, turned to Duncan and said, ‘I want you in the back. Now.’ She slipped her shoes off, pulled her dress over her head so that she was completely naked and clambered into the back where the seats were already down.

‘Er, okay. Wow. You’re not wearing underwear!’ he said. He took off his jacket and climbed, then fell into the back. ‘It’s lined with plastic!’ he exclaimed.

‘Not my first time Duncan,’ she said, and pulled him on top of her. He was already aroused. She kissed him hungrily, tasting beef and vinegar. She pushed his head away firmly and opened her legs. He could obviously see enough in the moonlight, and knelt awkwardly next to her, twisted and pressed up against the boot. His tongue clearly wasn’t tired from dinner.

She unzipped his fly and ordered him onto his back, straddling him as he grabbed her around the waist. She manoeuvred him inside. He hugged her.

‘Lovely tool, Mr Chisel,’ she giggled in his ear. The car filled with a symphony of slapping, wheezing from Duncan, and creaks from the suspension. Anticipating his finale, she stretched up until her head grazed the roof and pinned his arms against his sides with her knees. She accelerated and squeezed him like a vice. Duncan grunted, she groaned.

They rested, rising and falling together, gasping deep breaths.

‘Oh God. Oh god,’ he said after a while, ‘I didn’t…expect…that was…that was…’

She felt for the pocket in the rear passenger door, retrieved the gun and put the muzzle in his mouth. The look on his face was priceless. It almost set her off again. He went limp inside her, blood rushing back to his vital organs in a futile attempt at self-preservation. He tried to speak. She pulled the trigger.

What an invention the silencer was; made her job so much easier. She dismounted, emptied his pockets, retrieved the jacket and rolled him up in the plastic sheet before too much blood seeped out. Not having to worry about clothing fibres, in case the body was ever found, made the clean-up simpler. Duct tape, pond liner, then more duct tape.

She got back in the front, put her dress on, brushed her hair, and turned on the burner mobile to text the millionaire.

Dispatch confirmation update: Your order has been delivered.


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Daniel Shooter

Daniel is a stay-at-home dad and part-time High School Music teacher in the UK. His short fiction has been published in Spadina Literary Review, The Fiction Pool, Lunate, Emerge Literary Journal and in a forthcoming issue of Reality Break magazine.

Twitter: @DanShooter2

Website: www.danielshooterauthor.wordpress.com