Mr Kill

Mr Kill by Christopher Fielden

1

Mrs Ida Wadworth is looking at me sceptically. I've explained that I can't resuscitate the dead worm she’s produced from her pocket. She seems to be having trouble accepting my prognosis.

'But you’re a vet,' she says.

'No I'm not.'

'It says so on your door.'

'No it doesn't.'

She surveys me with unmasked contempt. 'Are you going to save my worm?'

'It's been cut in half.'

'I know that, you fool. I did it with my trowel.'

'Even if I were a vet, there is no way to reanimate a decapitated worm.'

'So you are a vet.'

'No. I'm a doctor.'

Ida scrutinises me with rheumy eyes, her purple hair rinse glowing with alien phosphorescence. 'You look like a vet to me.'

I've run out of different ways to say the same thing. Thankfully, Ida moves towards the door. As she leaves, I receive a scowl 80 years in the making, but I discern a hint of disappointment in her glare, as though she had expected more from me. The door clicks shut behind her.

I sit for a minute and consider the patient I've just seen. Could she be a potential candidate for The Programme? No. She might be senile, but I enjoy Ida's visits. She isn't a bad person and, although rude, she often delivers the unexpected into an otherwise predictable day. With her walking its streets, the village of Dingle Green is a more interesting place to live.

As I turn back to my computer, I feel an intense pain in my head. It arrives from nowhere. I reach up to rub my scalp. As quickly as it materialised, the pain vanishes, as though it were never present. I investigate with my fingertips, half expecting to see blood, but there is nothing. Feeling slightly disorientated, I reach out and press the buzzer to summon my next patient. The room shifts slightly, taking on a hazy quality. I wipe my forehead, but my skin is dry.

Looking back at my computer screen, I see most of the details for my next patient are missing. I click refresh. Now there's even less information.

I jump with surprise as I notice a man in the room, sitting on the chair Ida vacated. He's watching me intently. I didn't hear him enter the room, or notice any movement. I feel myself redden as though caught in the middle of some nefarious act.

The man is dressed in black, his leather coat long and worn. He has mutton chops on his cheeks, but manages to wear them more like Wolverine than John McCririck. His hair is dark and streaked with grey. Pallid skin is clamped tightly to his skull, making him look ill. In contrast, his stare burns with life. I find it unnerving.

'I'm afraid we're having some computer problems,' I say. 'Can I take your name?'

'Kill.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Kill.' The man's eyes are a piercing grey, the colour of stormy sky.

'Mr Kill... OK. Forename?'

'Slash.'

Marvellous. A joker. Or a fruitcake. I hope he's the latter. It might mean he's eligible for The Programme.

'Middle names?'

'Hack, Maim.'

'You expect me to believe your name is Slash Hack Maim Kill?' I look up and wish I hadn't. Mr Kill's expression indicates two things. One: He is indeed Mr Slash Hack Maim Kill. Two: If he's asked his name again, I might come out of this encounter one testicle down. 'Your parents must have had a sense of humour.'

He smiles thinly. 'My old man likes Frank Zappa.'

Now my computer screen is completely blank. 'I'm sorry,' I say as I pick up the phone. 'Please bear with me.' The phone's dead, too, and I notice the second hand on my clock has stopped moving. Have we had a power cut?

'I hear things,' says Kill. I jump again, this time because his voice is so close. He's pulled his chair towards me, but I didn't see or hear a thing.

'Voices?'

'Kind of.'

'Do they tell you things?'

Kill leans forward, as though to impart a dreadful secret...

2

Do you want to read the rest of 'Mr Kill' and find out what the dreadful secret is?

Then please check out my short story collection Book of the Bloodless Volume 1: Alternative Afterlives, published by Victorina Press.