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| Car Crash Thriller |
She
unscrewed the flask of London gin and a miasma of Glebe Hollow engulfed her. Don’t dwell upon it. With gritted teeth,
she detached the hem of her dress with a searing rasp and bunched up the lace.
Once doused in gin, she drew the rough surface over her hands.
Three minutes.
She
tipped out the contents of her bag. A murky side of her had pilfered pens and
more from LossLess. Subversive revenge, she’d told herself – for taking
something from her: freedom of choice, a higher wage, years from her life.
Nancy
grappled at an all-black pen that did not bear the LossLess’s bullfrog logo.
She quickly detached the bottom and removed the ink conveyor inside. She then
grasped each end of the casing and snapped it in two. She angled the gin flask
over the tube and doused the inside. Briskly, she twirled the tube between both
palms, spreading the alcohol over the casing. She placed the tube next to her
glass dagger. A knot spasmed tight in her gut and nausea slapped the back of
her throat.
But
Nancy moved without pause. Hair bobbed in her eyes as she clambered towards
Vince and climbed onto his lap, knees astride as before.
Don’t look at him.
Nancy
grasped the dagger and transferred it into her other hand.
Always clean last.
She
seized the gin bottle. She loosened the cap and basted the tip of the dagger.
She could still see his face in the background, reclined against the seat.
He was mad at her.
He
was unconscious, he can’t wear an expression.
He was mad at her. Just wait until he awakens.
A
tremor rattled through her fingers. The bottle slipped in her clasp but her
hand stiffened around it. Time was pulling tight, ready or not. She splashed a
thimble of gin over Vince’s throat and screwed the lid. She dropped the bottle
onto the seat next to him. His eyes were closed yet he was watching her with
contempt.
Wait till he awakens.
With
her fingertips, she pushed the gin around the contours of his neck. With that,
Nancy realised she had done the easy part.
By
now, the dagger had worked a nick into the palm of her other hand. She drew the
glass tip level with Vince’s throat. Nancy’s grasp stiffened. Her gut pulled
tight all over again. Crico or tracheo…?
Always clean last. The past was
breaching the present. Please God no one would find out how she knew of this
procedure. Dr. Croyd’s velvety brogue of the west coast caressed her ear. In the crease, Nancy, it’s all about the
crease.
Dr.
Croyd’s smooth fingertip had drawn a little line just below her voice box. He
had done so many times.
But
it hadn’t ended there.
Nancy
inched the dagger closer until it made contact with Vince’s Adam’s apple. The
voice box.
‘Where…? Where..?’
Dr.
Alexander Croyd, not Alexander, not Alex, not Al. You have a pretty face, Nancy. His thin lips lurked within an Errol
Flynn moustache. But no one should ever
attempt an emergency airway puncture. Only a fully qualified practitioner as myself.
Dr.
Croyd’s fingertip had concluded its little travels with a circular motion. Only I can do this, Nancy, no one else but
myself. Do you understand me?
Crico…Tracheo, the membrane between.
The crease.
Nancy
withdrew the dagger and rested her fingertip upon the top of Vince’s throat.
She followed the gristled hillocks downwards until the first lump vanished into
a small valley atop a larger lump.
That’s right, Nancy just above the crico.
She
teased the lump downwards and brought the dagger to the spot.
Now make a neat little slit, nice and tight…nice and
tight.
She
blinked his innuendo away. She exerted pressure and the cab vanished around
her. A bloody full-stop emerged.
She
emitted a thick croak. ‘How deep?’
Just a little deeper now. Not too deep. Deep is for
other procedures, Nancy. I will show you. You would like me to, wouldn’t you?
