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Her throat chokes on clumps of salt and fear. “Susan!” She tries again in vain. Frantically he places a slick liquid hand over her swollen mouth. His other hand goes to the thickness of her neck. She nips at his hand. A fighter she bites and scratches at her target. “Don’t move,” he says angrily. “Help,” she yells out again but it doesn’t matter. All he can hear is lipstick smeared lips whispering to him. The word help is like a cry of a need that only he can fulfill. She tries to run. “What do you think you’re doing?” He says slapping her face hard. Stunned she stills. He hits her again. “Look what you made me do!” He yells. “Now look at you, ruined!” She lies on the uneven ground. Her chest rises and falls in hurried rhythm. Grabbing her by her hands he yanks her upwards. A knife gleams in his free hand. All she can do is watch. The knife gleams. Her world goes black. He lifts the shovel for the second time that night. Cleaning up is a ritual more than artistic prowess. The. Post-Foley Carson cracked open another can, trying to catch the hissing spray of white beer suds which launched into the darkness of the back yard, highlighted by the neighbour’s Christmas lights. Carson scowled in the direction of his neighbour’s party music, and then smiled as he watched the second hand of his Breitling sweeping away the last moments of 2016. “Not long now, my beauty,” he said, patting the fat cylinder lying on the grass. Having chugged the beer in one go and sent another one down his throat to keep the first company, Carson carefully balanced a golf ball on his latest garden ornament, took a full-bloodied swing with his beloved Wilson Staff Triton driver, tripped over his own legs and knocked himself out on the menacing metal cylinder lying on the lawn . *** “What are you doing out here? It’s nearly midnight?” It was the voice which bullied Carson’s brain back into what passed for consciousness, rather than the violence of the shaking. “Dunno,” he slurred.
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