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Short stories for The Bradbury Challenge |
The sickly green water from the famous Roman Baths steamed in its non-transparent rectangle of unnatural sludge as the tourists snapped their photos with glee. Irene hated museums and touristy places and had only come for the unattended wallets and purses. On a good day, she could get a couple of hundred pounds and a passport or two. If it weren't for Jordan insisting she pay him half of everything she stole, she'd be able to make a better living for herself. She could travel on her own, take all the unguarded valuables she could, and in no time at all, decide where in the world she wanted to live, and make all her own choices. Jordan was scoping out the upper level of the bath complex, blending in amongst the tourists as they perused the museum exhibits. Irene hoped she'd calculated correctly. She hoped this was the end. Irene fingered a gold watch in her pocket as she waited for Jordan to finish the tour upstairs and head back down to the large sludge pond on the ground level. Jordan was a sucker for museums. She could picture him right that second, wearing headphones and using one of the handheld virtual guides that UK museums were so proud of. Soon, the clomp of his clunky boots sounded on the steps. Even among all the tourists, she could still hear his unmistakable gait. She remembered his clumsy swagger the first time he hit her. How he’d put all his strength, and hatred, and disgust into that one punch that knocked out three of her teeth and broke her nose. He’d wobbled afterward, almost falling himself. She clenched her fists at her sides, her resolve to end it all stronger than ever. Irene watched as Jordan scanned the crowd. Her ability to blend in could sometimes make her feel completely invisible. He couldn’t see her, which made her feel powerful and in control. As soon as his right boot hit the main floor, she screamed. The tourists stopped chatting and shuffling their feet along the stone floor. Heads swiveled around every which way, trying to locate the source of the ear-shattering scream. In the confusion, Irene approached Jordan with a deftness and speed she’d never known before, pulled his satchel from his shoulder, and shoved him with all the strength she could muster toward the bright green bath. “You stole my bag, you creep!” She screamed, her words echoed off the stone walls. Irene turned and ran. She heard the splash of Jordan’s impromptu swim as she pushed through the crowd to freedom. No one came after her or stopped her. A new commotion broke out behind her, as the tourists tried to help Jordan. No one even paid her any attention. Later, in the hotel room she’d rented under a fake name, she flipped on the television to see a very familiar sight. “In the news tonight, a London man was killed at the Roman Baths this afternoon. Onlookers say the man was pushed by an unknown woman into the geothermal water. The victim, who couldn’t swim, drowned. However, police found several pounds worth of jewelry and other stolen items in his coat pockets, which caused him to sink to the bottom. When onlookers were asked about the mystery woman, no one could describe her, but some closest to the scene claimed he’d stolen her bag. Irene clicked off the television with a small chuckle. “Leave it to Jordan to drown in less than two meters of water.” She headed to the small bathroom to make sure she’d packed up all of her toiletries. She wanted to get an early start in the morning and didn’t want to leave anything behind. And to think, she’d done hours of research to kill Jordan slowly, and her plan failed in the most wonderful way. She’d brought Jordan to this lovely town in Somerset because of the forty-five thick sheets of lead lining the Roman baths. With Jordan’s kidney failure, she figured a push into the hot drink could be a shove in the direction of death, but the reaper wouldn’t arrive immediately. Irene crawled into the full-sized bed and stretched her limbs like a satisfied cat. If only she had better taste in men, she wouldn’t find herself in these situations all the time. “That’s it. No more men. It’s just me from here on out.” She whispered the promise just as she could hear splashing and shouting from the swimming pool downstairs. She left the comfort of the bed and slid apart the floral curtain to see what caused the ruckus. A group of guys in swimming trunks cavorted around the pool with a case of beer in plain view. Irene headed for her bag and pulled out her bikini. “So much for choosing better,” she mumbled as she slipped on the slinky swimwear. “Next time. Next time, for sure,” she giggled as she headed to the party.  |
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