It had been a couple of months since Alison had killed Shaun. She was finding it more difficult than she had expected to come to terms wth what she had done - after all, she was generally considered a goody goody, never so much as a parking ticket, physical violence was an anethema to her - but she had looked into his eyes and pulled the trigger.
She tried hard to examine her motivation: She had committed murder in cold blood, planned, premeditated and methodical, without remorse. There was a trace of fear, but if she was truly honest that was the fear of being caught. The overwhelming feeling was excitement. Every time she thought of that evening when she had cooly executed her plan, her stomach tightened a little and she felt a little thrill. This was disturbing. She wondered freely about whether she had some deep seated pyschopathic tendencies, It seemed likely given the way she was dealing with it. And yet the fact that she had a large degree of self awareness seemed to contradict that view.
Whatever, she didn't feel anything for Shaun. In fact the papers had been speculating about a lover being the culprit or cause of his death. They seemed to get hold of various people who were only too eager to spout off about his lying, cheating and womanising, and more significantly his beatings. A column in the local rag had even gone so far as to say "good riddance".
Alison had kept a low profile, not going out and avoiding her usual haunts with her friends, especially the pub where they'd met. It had occurred to her about the taxi driver and hotel staff, but apparently no one had come forward and the media's view was the police were getting nowhere.
The pistol was still in her handbag though. Without it Alison felt alone and unprotected, it was her confidence. She had not come close to using it again. She still had occasional fantasies of killing her work colleagues but reality quickly surfaced during long meetings. Once she'd been in the toilet and her bag had tipped off the basin side and onto the floor, spilling its contents. The butt was half out, but not obviously so she quickly scooped it up and the rest as though nothing had happened. No one said anything so she assumed she'd been the only one to notice its metallic sheen.
Occasionally she surfed the web looking for interesting gun related sites, really out of curiosity to see whether she could find out anything more about her gun, and perhaps to see whether she could upgrade it anyway. The handle was a little scratched and dirty, she'd seen a picture of a pistol similar to hers with a pearlised handle - a bit of a cliche she realised, but it did make it look less masculine. Eventually she decided to take the plunge and buy it - the handle looked as though it was only held on by a couple of screws so it seemed fairly simple to replace and change.
A couple of weeks later and it arrived via a courier. Fitting the grip was probably the most difficult mechanical thing Alison had ever started, but she bought a new screwdriver and began. Within an hour she was admiring the result, turning the gun over in her hand, she even posed in the mirror - pretty cool she had to admit.
One evening she went round to a friend's flat for dinner, Tara wasn't a close pal but Alison was feeling somewhat lonely and the prospect of someone else cooking held more than a little appeal. She turned up at the door a little before 8, ringing the bell she thought she'd heard raised voices. Stupidly she had assumed there would be no other guests but it seemed as though there was at least one other male guest.
Eventually Tara came to the door - she looked a little red faced but seemed composed, inviting Alison in and accepting her proffered bottle of wine. Following her host she walked in to the kitchen where there was only one other, a man, about 40 ish, handsome but in a slightly menacing way. "Ian" said Tara flatly "He's just leaving".
"Hi".
Looking more closely at the scene, there was a broken glass on the sink drainer and was that a little blood on Tara's arm? Alison decided to leave well enough alone and went into the lounge at her host's request. After a little small talk Tara re-visited the kitchen to fetch some nibbles.
The next second she was flying backwards through the door, landing on her bottom in front of Alison. "What happen...?", but all became clear as Ian entered the room. He was holding a letter and his face was bright red.
"You bitch!", it was said with such venom the room seemed to freeze, "all the time you were fucking John, all the
time!", he didn't seem to even see Alison. Another step and he was on top of Tara, he raised his hand and brought it down sharply on her cheek."Please stop", Alison spoke. She glanced down at her bag. She could end this in a second, but all actions have consequences and she didn't know this guy, or Tara well come to that. Any move would have to be considered. Still, she moved her hand down and unzipped the opening.
"Fuck off and keep out of it". Ian's words were said with force that they seemed to cut through the tension.
"Please Ian, No!, " Tara kept her hands up to protect her face. Ian took another swing but missed, his open hand whistling past Tara's ducking head.
"Enough!", Alison stood up, "Please just leave...ugh". With a single twist and flick Ian whirled and struck Alison on the shoulder. She fell back against the sofa. Anger surged through her and with a single thought in her mind she reached down to her bag - except it had gone. Or rather as she fell she had kicked it over across the floor towards Tara. Horrified Alison saw that the butt of her pistol was now half out of the bag. She glanced at Ian who was now refocusing, then back towards her friend.
In an instant she knew what was going to happen. Deliberately Tara reached out towards the bag and grabbed the pistol. Holding it in one hand she pointed it menacingly at Ian. He stared back. "Now what? there's no way that's real, is this a joke!".
Tara said nothing. Watching with rapt anticipation, her heart pounding Alison watched Tara's finger suddenly tighten on the trigger. The gun flashed and popped, more like a cracker than a gunshot and bounced in the girl's hand.
Ian instinctively grabbed his stomach, standing on jelly legs. Through his fingers a red stream was flowing, flooding his shirt, quicker than an ink spot. Nobody said anything.
Ian suddenly sat down on a chair, "What have you done? You shot me!", Tara stayed exactly where she was, still, not moving, not blinking or breathing, just pointing the gun.
Alison moved and quickly crossed to Tara, with a hand on her shoulder she scooped the pistol away and held it.
"No". Tara said, "I want to kill him".
Ian looked up, white and sweaty. "Keep her away from me!".
"OK".
Alison raised the gun towards the man and looked along the barrel. With practice she no longer felt the felt the urge to hurry and she enjoyed the moment. Her finger tightened and flame shot from the gun. She squeezed again, aiming higher.
Ian slammed back against the chair and fell onto the floor, writhing in pain, he looked towards the door and started to crawl.
Following him and scooping up a pillow she buried the gun in it and pressed it into Ian's body. Another, quieter shot and Ian was still. She moved the pillow up to his head and fired again.
Finally she crossed to where Tara was still sitting, staring. "You.., you killed him", her voice trembled, "I wanted to".
"I know, don't worry, he's not going to hurt you". Tenderly she lifted Tara from the floor and helped her to the sofa, "I'll get you a drink". She laid the gun on the table and walked towards the doorway.
Halfway into the kitchen she thought better of leaving the weapon and turned to retrieve it. Tara was cradling it in her hands, staring at it, turning it over. Suddenly she looked up and pointed it straight at Alison.
Her mouth moved slowly, "I wanted to do it". In an instant she had turned it and put the barrel into her mouth. Her head jerked backwards and sprayed the sofa.
Alison stood rooted to the spot, dumbfounded and stunned. She stared at the scene trying to make sense of what had just happened. Then, slowly a plan started to form. Tara had killed Ian, then herself. She had the gun in her hand, with her fingerprints on it - but what evidence was there of Alison's visit? She scanned the room and realised she'd bought a bottle with her, but they hadn't drunk it - did Tara open it? Stepping over the gore she moved back towards the kitchen and located the bottle: unopened. No glasses.
Retracing her steps she looked towards Tara and her own gun, oh well, it was probably a good thing she had to leave it, shame about the handle though. Picking up her bag she exited quickly through the door, almost expecting a neighbour to be there.
Fortunately no-one was around so she snuck quietly out through the exit, avoiding the CCTV cameras at the front door.
Back home there was nothing on the news so she guessed either the neighbours were out, deaf or uninterested, pouring herself a stiff drink she let the evening's exploits wash over her. She had killed again and she felt nothing, no remorse, even a little excitement. Her mind went back to the first time, with Shaun and the look in his eyes when he realised he was being killed by a woman. Ian had been different, but Alison suddenly realised she had enjoyed it. With a last slug of her drink she went into the bathroom and prepared for bed.