Free Why You Were Taken by JT Lawrence

arm glides over the parquet flooring and enters the bathroom. Even though his eyes are shut, the man in the bath senses his presence and starts, his face stamped with confusion. The scarred man sweeps Blanco up by his ankles in a graceful one-armed movement, causing water to rush up his nose and into his mouth. As he chokes and writhes upside-down, the man gently holds his head under the water with his free hand.
    It’s a technique he learnt from watching a rerun on the crime channel. In the early 1900s a grey-eyed George Joseph Smith, dressed in colourful bow ties and hands flashing with gold rings, married and killed at least three women for their life insurance. He would prowl promenades in the evenings looking for lonely spinsters and pounce at any sign of vulnerability. His charisma, likened to a magnetic field, ensured the women would do as he told them: one of his wives even buying the bath she was to be murdered in. His technique in killing them was cold-blooded, clean: he’d grip their ankles to pull their bodies under – submerge them so swiftly that they would lose consciousness immediately – and they would never show a bruise. But where such care had been taken in the actual murders, Smith was careless with originality, and was caught and hanged before he could kill another bride in the bath.
    A moment is all it takes, and soon Mr Blanco is reclining in the bath again, slack-jawed, and just a little paler than before. The man in black turns on the taps and fills the tub. Turns out five fingers is enough to drown in, but it would be better if it looked like an accident, or suicide.
    Mr Blanco’s face is a porcelain mask; an ivory island in the milky grey water. Perhaps the person that finds him will think that he fell asleep in the bath. Which he did, in a way. He washes his hands in the basin, wipes down the room. He throws on the white collared shirt he had brought with him and within five minutes he is out of the building and walking to the bus station, dumping the dummy toolbox and overalls on the way. He manages to hop on a bus just as it is pulling out onto the road. He’s in a good mood, but he doesn’t show it. That was one of his easier jobs. He wonders if the other six names on the list will be as effortless.
    He slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out the curiosity he lifted from Blanco’s mantelpiece: a worn piece of ivory – a finger-polished piano key. Engraved on the underside: ‘Love you always, my Plinky Plonky.’ It is smooth in his palm and retains the warmth of his skin. A melody enters his head. Coldplay: that’s what Blanco was humming. The man finds this very satisfying.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Journal entry
    28 September 1987
    Westville
     
    In the news: Two bombs explode at the Standard Bank Arena in Johannesburg. John McEnroe is fined for his antics at the US Open. Star Trek: The Next Generation debuts on (American!) TV.
     
    What I’m listening to: Michael Jackson’s Bad album. Superbad!
    What I’m reading: Misery by Stephen King: injured and drugged, an author is held captive by a psychotic fan. So-o-o creepy. Make P get up to switch the lights off!
    What I’m watching: Fatal Attraction. Not the best movie to watch in the week before your wedding! Totally scary, I loved it.
     
    We got married today at a tiny ceremony at Westville Magistrate’s Court. P’s best man (Whitey) was there, and both of our parents. I totally thought my folks would boycott the wedding but they were troopers. Dad put on a brave face and Mom took turns crying and fussing with my dress in front, as if a piece of fabric could cover my huge pregnant belly. I mean it’s totally gigantic! I never thought it was possible to get this big! The ONLY thing that fits me apart from this big meringue of a wedding dress is my old ‘Sex Pistols’ T-shirt. I practically live in it!
     
    When I wrote to Dad about it (the pregnancy) he was very cross and I didn’t hear from him for