Page 34 of Razors & Ruin
“Tell me,” I ask, leaning down to look at him, “you fancy your judgement now? Because you misstepped here, my stupid friend.”
Needless to say, the regretful Uriah has little to add to the conversation. I regard the blood-spattered floor ruefully; if this is going to be a regular occurrence, some cheap rugs might be in order.
One body now, but somehow I doubt I’m done. How many more before someone starts asking questions?
Piss and blood staining my floor every week, the stench of death hanging over my shop. There’s got to be a better way to clean up this mess. Something more permanent than burning or burying.
My erstwhile blackmailer may be the first of many; if so, I will need a system. Bodies are significant, and yes, they burn, but running a prominent charnel house on Fleet Street is not a long-term strategy.
Uriah sways unsteadily, and I give him a kick. He topples from the chair like a sack of shit, and I notice he pissed himself.
Great. Adds to the ambiance, I suppose.
The door opens. Nellie looks from me to the dead man and back again.
“For fuck’s sake. Just like that, eh? I have so much on as it.” She shakes her head. “But I suppose you’ve got your reasons. Tell me it wasn’t just because he was rude?”
“You killed Marianne forwhatexactly?”
“Oh.” She has the grace to appear chastened. “Alright. I have to say, though, Mr. T—you’re gonna have that problem more often than I do. I don’t have any fucking customers anyway, and you hate everybody.”
I have to concede her point. “Reasonable. I’ll put some rush matting down.”
“And thepiss.” She gestures at the chair. “All over what I’m sure was once Marianne’s left arse cheek, and he didn’t even buy her a drink!”
She slaps her forehead as she looks down. “And the ruddy floor! I don’t even have sawdust. And how are we going to get him out of here? It’s the middle of the day!”
Her domestic concerns amuse me, but not as much as seeing the hapless Uriah geysering his precious life force all over the place.
I could get used to it. Such satisfaction there is in silencing someone forever with one poetic gesture.
A flash of steel, and it’s tatty-byes.
As I stand over the body, something primal surges in my veins. The room is heavy with death, yet there’s something else beneath that. The heat that coils in my gut, tightening like a noose.
I look at Nellie, at her pale throat slicked with sweat and the way her eyes darken when she steps closer. And suddenly, I need her. Need to claim her, just as I claimed him.
The blood still drips from my fingertips, warm and thick, and it quickens my pulse. I look at Nellie, and all I can think of is how soft her flesh is, how it would yield beneath my hands. It’s not love—it’s hunger. Pure and simple.
“Jesus, love.” Nellie’s voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “I think you enjoyed that a bit too much. Fucking look on your face.”
“Literally.” I take a step toward her, dropping my razor in the congealing pool. “Come over here and give me some relief, my treacle. You’ll do that for me, won’t you? Let me work it loose.”
She drifts as though borne on a pillow of air, gliding toward me like a ghost. Her feet slosh through the blood at our feet, and she pirouettes prettily, drawing a chuckle from me.
Such a deviant. What joy she is. What a beautiful, precious horrorshow.
As her face turns back to me, I grab it, printing her face with my ruby fingertips. She freezes, and my other hand wraps her throat, lifting her onto her tiptoes.
“Let’s dance, my pet.”
19
Nellie
Ilean my weight into Sweeney, but he holds me aloft, enjoying the tension in my neck. A choked sound escapes me, and he removes the hand gripping my face and slides it around my waist.
It’s a perverse waltz; we need no tune to accompany it save the gentle pattering splashes of the warm blood at our feet. The flow is slowing down, thickening, and the former guttersnipe is a lifeless mannequin, lying on his side like a gutter drunk.