The Viper

Hampton Chodwick: the quintessential English village; with its sleepy streets lined with thatched cottages; their manicured gardens full of blooms that were dripping with the colors of Spring. The whole chocolate box image surrounded by neat white picket fences, nestled peacefully in the leafy heart of the Somerset Levels.
The bar in the Village Pub (The Bulhaggle) was busy with rosy-cheeked dinnertime drinkers.
“Ooooargh Sally wench, geez a cider, ooooargh.” Said old Bert as he passed his empty tankard over the top of the pulls.
“So Bert! Who do you think committed the murders?” Asked Sally as she passed Bert his pint of cloudy scrumpy.
Bert nodded his appreciation to Sal, slurped the top off his brew then smacked his lips before answering. “It’s that bloody German fella – what’s his name? Bloddy – that’s it Bloddy. – It’s got to be. – I mean – the killings only started when he turned up.”
“Ere ere.” Piped up, Ted. The other six men around the table chuntered and nodded their agreement.
Sally picked up a towel and wiped a glass. “Surely not. Bloddy’s a darling. – He wouldn’t harm a fly.”

“Third one this month Guv, and were only halfway through it, such a pretty lass n’all. Who’d do such a thing?” Asked Sgt Jarvis as he pointed to the two holes in Emily’s neck, before turning his head to look up at Det Crake. “And what’s this?”
Det Crake snapped from his daydream. “What’s what.”
“This!” The Sgt pointed to a business card laying on Emily’s pale, bare chest. In bold print lettering, it read: THE VIPER.
“And what in God’s name is a yellow sponge doing here?”
Emily’s wide, blank, staring eyes, and her face frozen in a silent scream remained expressionless, oblivious to the busy Bees as they buzzed in the morning Sun, moving from one Bramble Blossom to another. The brambles that only hours earlier had scratched and drawn blood from her body, as she struggled for her life at the hands of THE VIPER. A Song-thrush sang, leading a choir of Birdsong that filled the May morning. A small black fly landed on dead Emily’s face and danced the dance of death and decay.
“What’s that scribbled on the back Sgt?”
Sgt Jarvis carefully picked up the card so as not to destroy any evidence and turned it over to read the biro written reverse. He straightened up, then read the card aloud.
“DBB gleis 16. – What’s that all about then Guv?”
“Jarvis! – You never cease to amaze me. Didn’t you learn anything at school you plank?”
“S’cuze us Sir’s if you will. We’ll just cordon off the area then we’ll be out of your way.” It was PC Mcgrew, rolling out blue and white Police Stop tape.


It was late Afternoon; The Bulhaggle was still busy with inquisitive cider swigging locals. Their tongues loosened and their ego’s emboldened by the amber scrumpy.
“Oi tellz you – it’s that bloody German fella!”
It was old Bert, bumping his gums, rabble-rousing again.
Nods of agreement and a chorus of arghs came from his companions.
Just then – the bar door opened; and who should walk in, but, none other than Baron Von Schuttlehausen. The Bar fell silent, as everyone watched the tall, athletic, Arian Baron (AKA Bloddy) dressed in his Tanzanian safari suit walk towards the Bar. He stopped at the Bar and Supported himself with both clenched fists to the fore and a foot raised on the brass foot-rail, then removed his monocle.
“Hello, Sally, you look radiant. I vill have a pint of ze Badgers please.” Turning at the waist to face the other customers, Bloddy gestured with a sweep of the hand.
“And a pint for each of zeez good fellows please.”
The harsh grating sound made by Bert’s chair on the tiled floor as he swiftly rose to his feet attracted everyone’s attention.
“We don’t want your bloody beer, nor your bloody charity, now bog-off home!”
“Bert – Bert. Come now, vy the hostility?”
“You know bloody well why you murdering git.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, and I vould be very happy if you’d keep a civil tongue in your head.”
For the next few hours, much to the annoyance of Bert and his gang of Wurzels, Bloddy flirted with Sally. As darkness fell, Bloddy left.

“TIME – GENTLEMEN PLEASE!” Shouted Sally. “Ain’t you got no homes to go to? DRINK UP!”
Sally wiped the table tops with a damp cloth and straightened up any empty chairs. Men emptied their glasses in gulps, some helped each other don coats and one by one they said goodnight and left. Sally was alone. All the coziness left with the last goodnight, shadows appeared, a sense of menace prevailed.

Sally poised with her finger on the light switch as she glanced around one last time. What’s that? She thought.
A yellow sponge lay on the floor under the table where Bert had been sitting. The cleaners will sort that out. And on that note, she flicked the switch, pulled the door shut and left.

Apart from herself and a Fox that crossed the road ahead of her (or was it a Cat), the street was empty. With only the sound of her own footfalls for company, she headed home. She continually checked left and right, expecting something shockingly horrible to pounce from the shadows. Get a grip now Sally girl, there’s nothing to be afraid of. She quickened her step and soon reached her front gate. Before she could open the gate a noise stopped her in her tracks, sending shivers down her spine and turning her blood to ice. It was the sound of water, splashing water, the sound of a sponge being rung into a bucket. Quickly, panicky, she pushed open the small picket gate, but before she could continue through a gloved hand reached from the shadows and seized her throat. A dark figure emerged from the shadow into the streetlight.
“Bloddy – it’s you!” Sally gasped. “But why the bucket and a sponge?”
Bloddy tossed his head and tightened the grip on Sally’s throat making her choke and cough. He pulled her towards him until they were almost kissing, then he said the words that stopped her heart.
“I’m The Viper! – And I’ve come to vipe your vindows!”

 

Categories: Short Stories

thestork245

I'm a disabled ex-Soldier, just entering my Autumn years. I write purely out of enjoyment about anything and everything. My main interests are Nature, especially birds and history. I enjoy reading, fiction or non-fiction, it doesn't matter, any genre pleases me.

3 Comments

  1. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to lose those things you loved to do Mick, but I am glad that you’ve found something you enjoy, which I think is the most important thing about writing. I never know what you’ll post, but that’s great!

    • Hello Andrea. Just to put you in the picture, my stroke of nearly nine years ago removed a lot of my pass-times: Birding, long-distance walking (Hadrians Wall twice and many more), photography, the list goes on. But I didn’t lose the use of my right index finger. So, writing has replaced these pass-times, allowing me to wander off where ever I wish. I hope that explains my inconsistency in the subject matter that I write. The connection from the brain to the right-hand index finger is still good. As always, thanks for reading and take care.

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