THE LIGHTNING

“Did you report the death?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “it said on your web page not to.  I kept her in a freezer, put her in there when I ...” his voice faltered, “when I ... found her.”
I felt sorry for him.  He looked so heartbroken.  A well presented sort in a Saville Row suit.  His tie was knotted perfectly, but his hands shook and his wide, sad eyes were red rimmed.
“How did she die?” I enquired more gently.
He stared at the floor; “She couldn’t sleep.  She made a mistake with barbiturates, took too many, mixed them with alcohol – so easily done.  They should never have prescribed ...” he broke off again, then added, “can you bring her back?”
“You saw how much it would cost.”
“Money is no object.  I’d spend anything, do anything.  I love her so much ...”
“We must wait for the lightning,” I said, “keep her preserved.  I will call you.”

The thunder was rumbling in the distant dark when he pulled up outside.  I helped him carry her in and we laid her out.  It wasn’t her beauty that took my breath away, it was the look of pure peace on her face and even in death you could tell she’d been a sweet person.  He gazed intently down at her; then at me, with such an expression of hope that I knew I couldn’t bear it if it didn’t work.  Lightning flickered through the windows as he helped me wire her up.  Every now and then he suppressed a smile of nervous excitement as if he didn’t want to raise his own expectations.

The storm came overhead and the lightning struck the conductor in the tall tower.  We stood well back, watching the current passing through the tubes and running through her body.  The monitors sprang to life, her heart was beating!  The machines I’d made forced oxygen into her lungs and administered the necessary chemicals to resurrect her.

“It’s working!” he cried, “I thought it was a con, but it’s not!”
“Don’t touch her yet.”  I disconnected her body and gave her an injection, “she will wake now.”
He leaned over her with a tender expression.
I saw her complexion warm up, heard her sigh, then she opened her eyes and that beautiful look of peace on her face turned to one of horror.
“It’s OK,” I said hastily, “you’re safe.  We’ve brought you back.”
“No!” she screamed, “oh God no!”
He put both hands round her face; “Sylvie!  This time it’s forever.  You won’t run away from me again.”
I recalled his explanation of her death – a mistake involving barbiturates and alcohol and her look of despair and fear on waking.  As I turned to him, the storm crashed overhead, the lights guttered and dimmed, but I could still see his hard bright eyes and the evil triumph of his smile.

THE PRIVATE SELLER

“Welcome! ... Yeah, having difficulty selling my house, buyer backed out, cost me a fortune, trying to sell it privately now. It’s newly decorated in magnolia as instructed by the late estate agent.  This is the living room, lots of space, with an original feature – the fireplace ... Yes, that’s a human head you can see dangling upside down from the chimney space.  The chimney is blocked so I was able to cement in a hook, from which the estate agent I referred to is dangling ... He told me this property was worth £140,000, so I went with his company.  An insulting offer was made, but he told me I’d get no more than the £125,000 because any higher and they’d have to pay stamp duty. He didn’t inform me of that during his sales patter.  I subsequently used his tie to strangle him unconscious and gag him, then I hung him upside down.  It took him some time to die.

“May I steer you quite insistently to the dining room.  I’m glad you’ve noticed the giant target I put over the wall.  My uncle was a knife thrower in the circus, taught me all he knew ... The guy stuck on there, suspended by the long bladed knives?  He did a valuation for the buyer, charged her a fortune, then told her I had subsidence.  He was so intrigued by my circus skills, I decided to show him, unfortunately my aim’s not good.  I’ll have him removed when I’ve plastered over the crack in the wall he's hiding ... You’ve gone ever so quiet.

“Into the kitchen, lots of units, let me open them.  Do forgive the smell.  These body parts stuffed in the cupboards are of my solicitor.  If he’d acted quicker I might not be in this situation, but he dragged his feet.  I thought it’d be funny to cut them off and watch him bleed to death, after all, he was bleeding me dry ... then I went a bit mad with the saw ...

“What am I going to do with the gun in my hand?  Let’s see what you think of the rest of the property.  Would you like to do upstairs or see what’s in the basement? ... Upstairs.  This is the master bedroom ... Oh you like the canopy!  It’s made of the flesh of the buyer’s solicitor, the one that told her this house is bound to the religious law of Chancel and she shouldn’t purchase it.  That’s the vicar in the bath of the ensuite, do say a prayer for him, it was satisfying to lure him upstairs and hold his head under water, after he told me I’d be liable for £100,000 to repair the Church roof.  God can decide if he was truly a Christian.

“That’s the guest bedroom, just a box room really ... There’s nothing in that box except the buyer that backed out, I think she might still be alive, I’m currently starving her ... Sue!  Are you all right in there, love?  ... No reply.  That’s it, you’ve seen the garden out the kitchen window, I don’t think you want to see the shed ... Ah, almost forgot, the basement! ... What?  I don’t think you’re giving this property a fair examination.  I’m afraid I must insist that you come to the basement and see what’s there.”

PHEASANTTSSZZZ

At the end of Friday, Roger opened the office hole puncher and scattered little paper circles over the floor, lazy ass of a cleaner wouldn’t vacuum otherwise.  Strange gypsy creature, came from Eastern Europe, country was full of foreigners, didn’t feel like England anymore.  Roger replaced the hole puncher and turned, there the cleaner was looking at him.  Had she seen what he’d done?  Embarrassed he made conversation; “Ah, you’re in early.  It’s the weekend, what?  Off to do something interesting tomorrow?”
“I am working.  What are you doing?”
“Shooting, supposedly, weather’s stormy, damn birds may not fly.  They’re very stupid - pheasants,” he looked at her, thinking of pheasants with the h missing and putting her into that category.
The cleaner hesitated a moment, then said; “They’ll fly at sedaH Park.”
“Cedar Park?  Never heard of the place.”
“sedaH Park.  They need birds culled, shooting is free.  You can eat them afterwards.”

It was blowing a gale and raining at Roger’s friend’s estate.  He wasn’t perturbed, in fact the weather challenged his marksmanship, but the birds didn’t fly.  He mentioned sedaH Park to his friends, but they wanted to go to the pub.  So he drove alone as directed, down a tiny country lane that got narrower and narrower, until he reached a large entrance.  On the pillars either side were two statues of large scary looking pheasants.  As a man pulled the gate open, the window of Roger’s Range Rover slid down; “Hello there, come to shoot, told it’s free.”

The man said nothing, he pointed down the lane with a thin gloved hand, his body completely covered by waterproofs and his face concealed by a large hood.
On Roger drove, he saw a sign for a car park and pulled in; his was the only vehicle there.  Normally his chocolate labrador, Buster would come bounding eagerly out when he opened the boot, but Buster cowered whining.  “What’s wrong with you, old boy?  Fed up of the weather, what?  Out you come!” ordered Roger.
Buster emerged reluctantly.  He padded at Roger’s heels, tail still, into a field surrounded by woods, the only sound was the hoarse cries of pheasants calling to one another.
“Where are the bloody beaters?” wondered Roger, but at that moment, a pheasant broke cover and flew into the windy sky.  He raised his gun and fired, first kill of the day.  The bird fell into the trees.
“Go on!” Roger ordered and Buster loped off to retrieve the body.
Pheasant after pheasant followed.  Good old whatshername the cleaner, she’d given him an excellent tip.  “Buster!” he called into the rain, suddenly aware his dog hadn’t returned, “Buster, where are you, old chap?”
Suddenly he noticed something, the sky had blackened and appeared to be moving.  He realised what had caused it, hundreds of pheasants were overhead and flying towards him, wings whirring, to his horror he saw the corpse of a pheasant he’d just shot suddenly, awkwardly take flight and join its comrades.  He rubbed the rain out of his eyes; “Can’t be,” he muttered, raising his gun.  He fired again and again, but the enormous flock of birds kept on coming.  “What the ...?” the first one swooped at him, knocking off his hat and bumping his head hard; “Ow!” shouted Roger outraged, he couldn’t believe it, these stupid pheasants were attacking him.  “Help!” he yelled, but his cry was cut off, a pheasant dived straight into his face and pushed its head and neck into Roger’s open mouth, beak tearing at his throat.  Roger fell backwards, dropping his gun and they were upon him, his body a mess of pheasant feathers, blood pouring into his windpipe, he couldn’t breathe.  The last thing he saw was the beak of a pheasant coming down towards his eye, he tried to close it, but the beak tore on through the lid and the pheasant grasped its prize, Roger’s eyeball.

Once the pheasants had finished their meal, they dispersed, wandering around the field idlely, pecking at seeds, like game birds do when they’re being left alone.  Buster came back from the woods and dropped the corpse of a pheasant his master had shot next to what remained of Roger.