Free Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 3) by Black Treacle Publications Page B

Elena.”
    She's
tiny--five foot and a fag paper at most--with short, dark blonde
hair. Nicely curvy. Other circumstances, Dom might have shown some
interest.
    Marc stares at
her like she's a cockroach that's dropped into his beer. Terry puts
down the crate he was hauling and puts his hand on his gun.
    The woman,
Elena, just stands there. She's still smiling, like she's waiting
to be asked if she wants a glass of wine or something.
    Dom's gun is
in a shoulder holster, but it's easily visible. Marc's is tucked in
his waistband.
    She acts like
she hasn't noticed. Or doesn't care.
    “You must
really have a death wish,” Marc says, and she laughs like that's
the funniest thing she's ever heard.
    “Shut up,” he
says, but she just keeps laughing.
    All the guns
are out now, including Dom's, but it doesn't seem to bother her.
Maybe Marc's right. Maybe this is what it's all been about. A death
wish.
    Well, if she
wants to get killed, she came to the right place. After Jimmy, Dom
had a nice slick metal floor put in, with a drain in the middle.
There's plenty of plastic sheeting on the shelves, and they own, in
one form or another, all of the other units on the estate. No
neighbours to worry about any strange noises.
    “I heard you
wanted to talk to me,” she says.
    She's got a
bit of an accent, but Dom can't place it. Vaguely American, vaguely
Irish, vaguely something else.
    “Yeah,” Marc
says. “Something like that.” He looks her up and down. If she's
armed, it's well-concealed. “So you thought you'd drop in, eh? Come
and have a nice chat?”
    She grins.
“What can I say? I'm a thrill-seeker. Sometimes you feel the need
for an adrenalin rush, you know?”
    “Well,” Marc
says. “I'm sure we can oblige.” He raises the gun. “How's that for
starters?”
    She looks at
it critically and makes a so-so motion with her hand. Marc's face
darkens and Dom knows this is going to get ugly.
    “Hope you
enjoyed yourself, then, love,” Marc says. “Hope it was worth it,
because now it's time to pay the bill.”
    “Wow,” she
says. “Anyone ever tell you that you sound just like the guy off
that show about the--”
    And then Marc
shoots her in the face.
    The force of
it knocks her off her feet and throws her back against the wall.
She hangs there for a second, pinned against the spray of her own
blood, then crumples.
    “Fuck,” Dom
says. He didn't even get a chance to put down the plastic
sheeting.
    Terry puts his
hands on his hips and looks down at the body. “That was a bit of a
waste, wasn't it? She weren't a bad looking lass. And we still
don't know how she was getting away with--”
    “It doesn't
matter now, does it?” Marc says. “It was getting on my nerves, just
listening to her. Well? Don't just stand there, get the--”
    His voice
fades out, becomes muffled. Dom's ears pop and his stomach clenches
as if he's just gone down the drop on a rollercoaster. He hates
those fucking things.
    “Hi,” a voice
says. “I'm Elena.”
    Dom swings
round and nearly falls over, because his feet aren't where he left
them. He's back standing by the shipping crates, instead of over by
the door. Over by the body.
    Which is gone.
Or, to be more precise, is back standing upright and smiling.
    “What?” he
says.
    Marc is next
to him again. Terry's back where he was, about to stack another
crate on the pile. He drops it.
    “What?” Dom
says again. The smell of smoke and blood is gone.
    Marc stares at
his hand, which is empty. The gun is in his waistband. He snatches
at it, nearly drops it.
    “Careful
there, cowboy,” Elena says. “You don't want that to go off while
it's still stuffed in your pants, do you?”
    Marc gets a
proper grip on the gun, lifts it up and points it at her again. To
his credit, it doesn't shake. Dom still feels as wobbly as fuck.
Like he's just been through an earthquake, or something.
    On the other
side, Terry is smacking at his head like he's trying to shake
something loose.
    Elena eyes the
gun and