Free Goody One Shoe by Julie Frayn Page A

the office, the weasel, and the witch. That damn
six-hundred-page behemoth of shit had already screwed with her schedule. Cost
her four workouts and ruined the first Sunday sermon she’d attended in months.
She had to get back on track. Back to ordinary. For Billie, ordinary meant
strict adherence to the plan. To her daily outline. Her story and plot. She
knew the narrative of her life. She knew the outcome. And vampire dreck and
distractions like Bruce What’s-his-name didn’t fit. Freelancing. That was the
new plot. Freedom from the manacles of Katherine’s employ and undesirables on
the subway. That was her happily ever after.
    Her earbuds slid against the sweat that pooled at the entrance
to her ear canals. She wiped the sweat, poked the buds back in, and flipped
through the early morning gym-TV choices. She’d loved the day the gym popped
for new machines with personal screens. No more satellite soaps or being forced
to watch Dr. Phil. She scanned through national news, music channels, and old
sitcoms — too old — before finding a local news broadcast. She didn’t need the
big, wide world. She wanted to know what was going on right here. Right now.
    A picture of two clowns popped up behind the newscaster. The
two who had raped that little boy. The ones from the newspaper article. The
same guys she saw outside Doc Kroft’s office.
    Billie turned up the volume and slowed her pace.
    “Colin Jenkins was murdered. Roger Graves, with the rainbow
wig, was castrated.” The news anchor cleared his throat.
    Billie turned the treadmill off and stared at the tiny
screen.
    “Police are looking for a man wearing a dark hoodie and
dark, oversized pants.” The man seemed to be struggling to keep his serious newsman
face on. “If you have any information, please call the tip line at the bottom
of your screen.”
    A lump in Billie’s throat refused to go down no matter how
many times she swallowed. She ran to the locker room, raced to remove her
running blade, and hastily returned her flat-shoe prosthesis to her stump. She
tossed her gym gear into her locker, snapped the lock over it, and ran out,
hurrying up the block to her apartment.
    Once inside, she pulled the recycling container from the
pantry. She ripped empty takeout containers, all washed and dried and stacked
neatly, out of the bin and tossed them on the table, followed by a wine bottle
and the flattened and stacked empty boxes her favourite chai tea came in.
    Peg Leg mewed at the mess, backed away, and slinked under
the couch.
    About halfway down she found the newspapers. She flipped
through them until she came across the one she was looking for. She ran her
fingers over her red-ink edits.
    Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
    The anchor’s story matched her edited version of what
happened. Though not castration. Full on penile excision. But no one was
supposed to die. She fell back onto a kitchen chair and ran her hand over her
damp hair. Nausea rolled up her body. She dashed to the kitchen sink and
vomited, her hands gripping the counter’s edge. She ripped a section of paper
towel free from its roll and wiped her mouth. She rinsed the sink, stared at
the chunks of her breakfast swirling in a vortex of puke-water and disappearing
down the drain.
    She wiped the sink dry, gathered the newspaper, ripped it
into tiny bits and tossed it into the stainless-steel tub. Matches. Where were
the matches? With the emergency candles in the cupboard over the microwave. She
found two packs, lit one match after another after another and threw them on
the paper. She watched the evidence of her imagined justice burn. Flames danced
and black smoke curled into the air until each red mark was devoured and turned
to char.
    The smoke alarm screeched above her head. She covered her
ears. “Damn it all to hell.” She turned on the cold water, stepped her good leg
on the chair to boost herself up and twisted the smoke alarm off its base. She
ripped the battery from its gut and pitched it onto