Scissors - Chapter Fourteen

To say Brian was unhappy about having driven Mark to a client’s house with whom he had recently played a game of hide the salami with would be a classic case of the understatement.

“What did you expect to happen?” he growled at Mark, “You slept with his wife, and then asked him to pay you for the privilege!”

“Ah,” Mark retorted, his finger sticking in the air, “but she was not cheating on him, though I had an inkling that she was indeed the type to be capable of the act, and that inkling was proved to be correct the only way I was able to do so at the time.”

“And you couldn’t have told him she wasn’t cheating I suppose?”

“Well, yes. But who would pay me for finding that out?” Mark asked, a smug look on his face.

“Who would pay you to sleep with their wife?” Brian replied with some vigour. 

“You’d be surprised.”

Brian shook his head and turned out of the estate.

Brian sighed. This was not an argument he would win, nor one that was particularly helping his mood nor his own problems.

“So, where to now?” 

Mark looked in the wing mirror as the car turned from the estate and noticed the absence of a car that was parked there on their arrival.

“Did you notice the police were next door to James?” Mark asked.

The question had reminded Brian of something.

“Come to think of it, I did recognise that woman’s face.” Brian said with an eyebrow raised.

“Did you also happen to recognise the nipple, or just the face?”

“Just the face.”

“Where from?” Mark asked as the car picked up speed.


It was at this point that the car made a screeching U-turn much to the disapproval of the oncoming car, whose horn sounded and breaks smoked and squealed. Mark also found this unsatisfactory as he quickly grabbed the handle above his door and, oddly, screamed the word ‘crumbs’ in the tone of a teenaged girl.

Brian dropped a gear and sped back in the direction of the estate.

“What are you bloody doing?” Mark screamed, his hand pressed on his chest with panic.

“That woman, with the nipple!” 

“What about her?”

“I remember who she is.”

“You’ve placed the nipple?”

“The face! That is Missus Borg.”

Mark blinked, his knuckles white from holding onto the handle of the door so tightly.

“That’s the wife of the man I didn’t kill.”


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