Winning Short Story

My head spun around towards the sound of Mary-Beth's voice. ‘How easy is it to murder someone and have you ever thought about it? I mean, I really enjoyed this book but it just made murder seem so pedestrian and by a so-called “normal” person.’ Here Mary-Beth made talking marks in the air, rolling her eyes. We had been meeting in the library for book club, every second Thursday of the month, for years. There were six of us regulars. However, the older we got the more our numbers seemed to dwindle. Poor old Sally Bell, one of our founding members, fell over last week taking the bins out and broke her hip.

Once, a few years ago, we even had a man come and join us. Everyone was very excited about the prospect of getting a different male perspective on the books we had chosen, but poor old Graeme Booth was a great disappointment. He barely uttered a word and didn’t seem to have an opinion on anything, even choosing to pass when Mary-Beth asked each and every one of us our thoughts on the book. Graeme Booth just never turned up at the next meeting. Very rude I thought as we had catered extra cheese and biscuits for him. 

The conversation around me was getting quite heated. Jo Thurgood was arguing with Mary-Beth. I didn’t like the way red spots were beginning to appear on her pale cheeks and I could just tell by the tone of her voice, that little quiver she gets, that she believed she was right. Of course, Mary-Beth always believed that she was right! ‘I would never murder anyone and I defy one of you to say you would,’ she said, stabbing her finger at us all in turn, daring us to disagree with her. Jo Thurgood cleared her throat and replied. ‘So, you're telling me that if there was a home invasion and five fifteen-year-old youths came at you with a machete you wouldn’t defend yourself? You wouldn’t kill?’  ‘Oh, that's a ridiculous analogy. I’m talking about cold, blooded murder. A stab in the heart, a belt pulled tight around the neck, a shot to the head.’ Her eyes were actually beginning to bulge and I think she was enjoying the drama that her words were creating. Tammy Teasdale tried to intervene but good old Mary-Beth hadn’t finished her tirade. ‘And,’ she continued, ‘how do these people get away with it?’ As the arguing went back and forth, I couldn’t help a little smile play on my lips. It was just for a minute that I let my guard down and luckily for me nobody noticed. 

Finally, Tammy barged her words in between Mary-Beth and Jo. ‘Well, I believe if push came to shove, we are all capable of violence. Just think of all the people that die in the world. I’d bet one hundred dollars that one in fifty of them are murdered. An extra tablet here, something mixed into the food there, I mean murder doesn’t have to be stabbing and guns.’ Tammy Teasdale was our own resident writer. She dabbled in short crime stories, always having a funny little twist at the end. She got long listed once for an award, oh the name escapes me, but the title was ‘It happened in the library.’ We were all so disappointed when she didn’t win. 

‘Tammy, you have no statistics to back up that argument,’ huffed Shelly Petersen, from the comfy armchair beside the cheese platter. The thing I’ve learnt about Shelly is that, being a retired accountant, she only works with facts, numbers and loves a good statistic. Shelly reached over dramatically and dunked a savoy into the olive dip. Dunk, dunk, dunking the biscuit into the coal port bowl. I could see Margie Barker’s eyes fly to the heirloom, regretting bringing it, as Shelly tapped her savoy on the edge of the thin porcelain.

I moved my position slightly, getting a little more comfortable, enjoying the debate that was unfolding in front of me. The conversation moved to the main character and what psychological trauma she went through living with a serial killer. All in all, we gave the book a seven out of ten. I was rooting for an eight but, of course, Mary-Beth found flaws in the normalcy of the main character. Trust me, none of us were emotionally equipped or invested enough in the story to challenge her. When the last of them had gone I slowly climbed the floral carpeted stairs that led to my apartment above the library and snuggled into my bed, loving the warm feel of the chenille throw around me.

It was the noise that woke me. I had lived above the library for many years and had got used to the odd noises and creaks that a one-hundred-year-old building could make. All this talk of murder, violence and fifteen-year-old youths with machetes had heightened my senses. I went back down the floral carpeted stairs into the main room of the library. My tongue felt like sandpaper on the roof of my mouth and I regretted not taking a sip of water before I left. The glow from the computer gave the room an eerie feel. Normally this space was one of my favourites, with its large North facing windows, perfect to curl up amongst the books and forget about the world for a while. I liked the colourful displays that dotted the area with the large Fluro bean bags for the little ones to sit on and flick through their favourite picture story books. But in this early morning grey the bean bags looked uninviting piled up together in a mess of colour. 

There it was again the noise that woke me from my sleep. I turned my head towards the back of the library where the bi-fold doors opened up onto the bright and cheerful courtyard. However, this morning with the sun still tucked low in the sky the courtyard looked gloomy and drab. Yes, the noise was definitely coming from that area. I took a deep breath and stealthily made my way to the doors. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. What the goodness, I thought as I looked out into the large area. Were they crows I could see? 

Through the window I saw at least ten crows nesting in the old fig tree. I racked my brain to come up with the name for a group of crows. I remember hearing it once at one of the authors talks that the library loves to organise. It was from a crime writer, I think. As I came out of the building, I startled them and they rose upwards beating their black wings against the early morning light coming through the opening. For an instant the dreary courtyard became a sea of moving shadows, darkening the sandstone pavers and moving across the aluminium chairs and tables that dotted the area. But that wasn’t the noise that gained my attention. There was a black crow flapping its wings at the base of the tree as if it had been injured in a fall. Its shiny wings beating against the coldness of the ground, its stick-like leg bent unnaturally towards its body. I crept towards the creature and felt a shiver of anticipation run down my spine. My lips curled against my teeth as years of instinct invaded my brain. I moved closer to the bird. As I looked down on it, helplessly writhing in pain I pushed down on the pitiful creature's neck. I stared into its beady eyes and waited to see the life drain from it. In the quietness of the space, I heard the tiny crack of small bones as I applied more pressure to its windpipe. Yes Mary-Beth I am capable of murder! 

When it had taken its last breath I took the body into the library, placing it softly on the floor next to the computer. The glow of the computer light illuminated its lifeless black eyes, turning them a milky grey that reeked of death. I turned to the stairs making my way back to bed. Moving slowly into my bedroom I crept under the covers and tried to warm up the cold spots with my body. The crisp Autumn air had stolen the warmth from my blanket whilst I was gone, leaving it cold and icy. I was very close to climbing up and snuggling into Mary-Beth, as she lay snoring slightly in her Elizabethan Four Poster. As I twitched my ears against the frost, I had an epiphany…awe…yes, that's right, it's a Murder of Crows, I purred contentedly, closing my eyes against the early morning light.