Colour run

by Sarah Hilary

I don’t know if you’ve seen a cat in a tumbler, but it’s not a pretty sight. Black and white tabby, though you’d be forgiven for thinking he’s a grey, speed it’s going round. I shudder to think of the hairs it’ll leave on the coloureds; I’d my new tan pullie in with that load.

Now before you get funny, let me say I used to be a cat-lover. Right up until about five minutes ago. I can’t stop to think about a cat when I’ve a dead body on my hands, can I? When I’ve blood and brains all over the lino.

Say what you like about Salford (and who doesn’t?) but there’s never a dull moment. Drive-by shooting at the launderette, bullets flying like rice at a wedding, oh we get it all round here. Plate glass all over the shop and I’m on hands and knees cowering – cowering, mind – under the wooden bench and I think, If my mother Bridget could see me now; she’d have me cleaning under here for a week, muck’s that deep. Oh bugger. Some kid’s Juicy Fruit… That’s a keeper.

Warning bells were ringing soon as I heard the car pull up. Ford Cortina Estate, all shone-up like new brass You’ve got to get up early in the morning to get one over on Bridget Hunt’s little girl, and what’s more I know a sawn-off shotgun when I see one. Straightaway I grabbed for the cat.

‘Right, Mr Fish,’ I said, ‘you’re best out of the way,’

I popped him in the nearest dryer, closed the door. Only the first round they fire off manages to hit all the buttons, doesn’t it, shrapnel or what have you, and now it looks like Mr Fish has cashed his chips. I’m that beggared I nearly get out from under the bench and yell at them. Only this body comes flying through the hole where the plate glass was, turning cartwheels like Olga Corbett, and next thing I know I’m face to face with one of the buggers.

‘Get out!’ I hiss. ‘Go on – out!’

It’s the smell hits me first. Pure abattoir. Then I see his brains, mealy-white, and maybe I go a bit funny for a second because it’s then I hear the sirens and next thing I know it’s, ‘All right, my love, calm down,’ and all I can think is, ‘That shirt’s white, should go in a bleach wash,’ but seeing as most of it’s red, maybe it’d be better off with the coloureds. They can’t understand why I keep asking them to switch off the dryer. ‘Mr Fish!’ I keep saying, and I can see one of them tapping the side of his head and pulling a face at the other, so that’s me off the witness list any rate. Good job. If they think I’m putting myself back in the firing-line, they can get sugared. I’ve had it with Salford.

 

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~ This piece was posted on Tuesday, August 28th, 2007 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~