Write Way to Die

Jo Bavington-Jones

Description

'The Write Way to Die' is a fast-paced and intriguing blackly comic tale of murder in the creative quarter of a seaside town where the bodies are mounting up amongst the art installations.When Amy joins a writing group, it's murder. On paper, at least, as the eclectic members pen their perfect killings. The planner, the housewife, the pantser and the classicist all contribute their stories, some darkly comic, others simply gruesome. Then there's Robert, who wants to write a killer worthy of a nickname. Enter The Exhibitionist, the stuff of nightmares, and the darkest of all.

Informations

• Publié par: Distributed by eBookpartnership
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839782930
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Write Way to Die
Jo Bavington-Jones


The Write Way to Die
Published by The Conrad Press in the United Kingdom 2021
Tel: [phone] www.theconradpress.com 
[e-mail]
ISBN 978-1-839782-93-0
Copyright © Jo Bavington-Jones, 2021
The moral right of Jo Bavington-Jones to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley..


For Sam. Always for Sam.


It takes two to make a murder. There are born victims, born to have their throats cut, as the cut-throats are born to be hanged.
Aldous Huxley


Chapter 1
One door closes
I t was my last week working at the vet’s, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. It was almost exactly a year since I’d started, foolishly believing it would be my dream job of cuddling puppies and cooing over kittens. With a little bit of admin and phone-answering thrown in. And there had been puppies. And kittens. There had been some amazing, heart-warming moments. But many more awful, heart-wrenching ones.
I think back to my interview when they asked how I would feel about assisting the vet with the ‘occasional euthanasia’? I’d said I thought I’d be okay as I’d been through it with my own pets in the past, and felt I could handle myself well in that situation. ‘Professional, but empathetic’ were the words I used, if I remember rightly. They obviously believed me, because I got the job, and I really needed a job at that particular time in my life.
It was two years since my marriage had ended and I’d muddled along on my savings and part-time income until I had to admit that I needed more money coming in. When I saw the advert for the Veterinary Receptionist job, I didn’t hesitate to apply. As I filled out the application, I took stock of myself and my life. Amy Archer, age fifty-one, divorced, no children (it had just never happened for us… I think that’s what destroyed us in the end), shared custody of an Old English Sheepdog called Dexter, and a gnawing feeling that life was passing me by.
I’m sitting behind my desk in the reception area of one of the branch surgeries, leaning back in my rather ancient swivel chair, which feels as if it could give way at any moment, and twirling my long brown hair around my fingers. This branch is very much the poor relation of the group and is furnished with stuff that wasn’t good enough for the others. The client chairs in reception are a prime example, having been cast out like unwanted kittens, their un-wipeable fabric covers making them wholly unfit for purpose. Personally I wouldn’t sit in them, and regularly sprayed them with flea-killer. The young vet, Cameron, is not as squeamish and is sitting in one of the client chairs opposite me, eating a Magnum Ice Cream and, in between bites, telling me about the disastrous date he went on the previous night. We have no appointments booked in for another hour or so and are enjoying the peace. Cameron is the newest of our team of vets and as camp as a row of tents. I adore him. He’s a drama queen of RADA standards and makes me laugh just by walking into the room. I do love being on shift with him, and he’s without doubt one of the reasons I will be sad to go.
But there are so many more reasons to leave: the awful split shifts, the minimum wage, the abusive clients, and the endless heartbreak and pain. I’m sure there are many more greys threaded through my hair now, and there are definitely more lines around my green eyes, and deeper furrows between my brows. One thing they hadn’t mentioned at my interview, was that most new receptionists lasted less than a month. I could feel proud I’d lasted a year then.
I stick my hand in the bag of sweets on the desk in front of me, pulling out a Colin the Caterpillar and biting his head off. That was another thing about the job – we all seemed to run on sugar and caffeine. My five feet eight, size twelve frame had more curves than it had done twelve months ago. My muffin top was exactly that. Cameron finishes his ice cream and holds out a hand for a sweet. I throw one over to him and he chucks it in whole, while spinning his legs around and putting them up on the chair next to him. I follow suit and put my feet up on my desk, silently praying that the chair survives the manoeuver and no one walks in off the street to catch us. We feel like we’ve earned the right to this time out after a stressful clinic earlier in the day.
‘That’s it! I’m joining the gym,’ Cameron exclaims, pulling his dark green veterinary top down over his belly, which can be seen protruding over his waistband.
‘I’ll believe it when I see it. You’ve been saying it every day since you started here. Proof’s in the pudding,’ I say, breathing in as I munch on another jelly sweet.
‘Pudding’s in my belly,’ Cameron groans. ‘I’m such a pig.’
I reach into my bag underneath the desk and pull out a packet of Percy Pigs, tearing it open and holding one out to him. ‘You are what you eat,’ I grin at him.
‘You wicked temptress, you!’ he says in his best West End voice, but holding out his hand for the sweet anyway.
‘I know, but someone has to save me from myself, and it might as well be you. You’re so easily led. Anyway, you only have to put up with me for another few days.’
Cameron sticks out his bottom lip. ‘God! It won’t be the same without you here. I really wish you weren’t leaving. You’re the best receptionist we have, and you bring sweeties. And you make me laugh.’ His bottom lip protrudes even further.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll miss you too, but it’s time. I’m done. And we can keep in touch. I still owe you a trip to the pub to introduce you to the gorgeous gay landlord.’
Cameron claps his hands together like a small child. A girl child. I do so love him. ‘Yay!’ he says, his bottom lip forced to partake in an open smile.
I smile back. ‘If I’d had a son, I would’ve been very happy if he’d been just like you.’
‘What? Short, tubby and gay?’
‘You know what I mean. You have a good heart, young Cameron Clarke. Never change. Apart from out of that scrub top. It is WAY too small and your wee belly is peeping out!’ I’ve slipped into a Scots accent for some reason. Cameron’s name may be Scottish, but he’s very much Home Counties, like me.
‘Well, you know you’re my surrogate mama. Even if you are abandoning me.’ The bottom lip is back in play, and he turns his head away with the back of his hand drawn across his darkly bearded face in feigned distress.
‘Muppet. If you ever give up being a vet, you should be on the stage.’
‘I know, dahlink, I missed my calling.’
‘You certainly did,’ I agree, just as the phone rings.
‘Rude,’ Cameron says huffily.
‘I know! Do they think we’re here to work?’ I answer the call as professionally as I can with a half-chewed caterpillar in my mouth and a grin on my face.
It’s the finance officer from the main branch, asking for Cameron. I pull a face at him and mime cutting my throat. He doesn’t need to be told who it is as I pass the handset to him. Never was a person more aptly named than Mona. She usually phones at least once a day to tell one of us off. Today is Cameron’s turn. He’s probably used a paperclip inappropriately or stapled something at the wrong angle. I try to put him off with my best moany Mona facial expressions. Naturally, I’m mid face-pull, and Cameron silently mouthing obscenities down the phone, when the door from the street opens.


Chapter 2
Another door opens
I recognise the client coming through the door straightaway, even though her head is down as she focuses her attention on manoeuvring her slim frame and the cat buggy through the doorway. It’s the bright pink hair that’s the giveaway.
I wait until she’s in and closing the door behind her before I greet her.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘And hello, Marmite,’ I add, trying to peer inside the cat carrier on top of the buggy. ‘Have a seat, you’re all booked in.’
Cameron had made himself scarce as soon as the front door opened, closing the inner door between reception and the consulting room as he tried to pacify Mona. At least he now had an excuse to end the call quickly.
‘Sorry I’m a bit early,’ pink-hair lady says, looking up at me through her black-framed glasses.
She is VERY early. ‘No problem. Luckily we’re not too busy, so you should be able to get in and see the vet a bit earlier. How’s Marmite been?’ Marmite is a new rescue cat, and pink-hair lady is a very committed pet owner.
‘She’s been okay until now. Very nervous still though. Won’t come downstairs. I have to feed her in the bedroom. She’s just got a mucky eye today,’ pink-hair lady says quietly. She always seems anxious somehow, and never very animated.
I smile reassuringly, thinking for a second that Marmite and her owner are well-suited. ‘Well, we’ll get Cameron to take a look. Hopefully it’s nothing to worry about and a few days of ointment will do the trick.’
Pink-hair lady smiles back. I can’t keep calling her pink-hair lady. Her name is actually Jenny Jones. She’s been a regular visitor to the surgery while I’ve been working here, and sadly we had to put her previous cat to sleep not so long ago. Jenny Jones is one of those people you form impressions of quickly. Quiet, quirky and shy. Unassuming, and maybe a little socially awkward. She adores her cats, though, and is dedicated to their well-being. She’s the perfect client, really. When I first met her, and on all the subsequent visits, it never occurred to me that we could possibly have anything in common. Apart from a love of cats.
‘I probably won’t see you again, I’m afraid,’ I say to her as we wait for Cameron. ‘I’m leaving to write my