Hooked

Flash Fiction

I wrote a 500-word piece inspired by a photograph by Tadej Turk. ‘Chain of Events’ is a tale of revenge, fomented over a decade, planned with specific timings in mind. Kind readers found it “chilling” and “brilliantly orchestrated” (which warmed this writer’s heart). See for yourself:

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I was swapping notes with the brilliant Meg Oolders who has a fabulous track record for turning ‘stock photography’ into whipcrack sharp fiction. I mentioned how I am addicted to short tales, 100-worders mostly, but that obsession might be holding me back from longer-form flash fiction. Her suggestion was to write a couple of short pieces and to weave them together.

That got me thinking …

What about writing the ‘other half’ of ‘Chain of Events’ - what about a short story about events as they played out, but seen from another’s perspective?

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He always carried the riding crop though his present state of over-indulged corpulence denied him the pleasures of a ride out on his sprawling estate. But the crop came in useful for raining blows on the shoulders of “lazy Irish dogs” as they stumbled off the gangplank, backs bent by bales of goods from the New World.

In the country, where no one questioned his authority and screams could lost in the thick-walled isolation of a stable block, the riding crop striped the naked flesh of whichever housemaid has been selected to satisfy his less savoury proclivities. He smiled lasciviously at the memory of the previous weekend.

Right, to business. Where’s that blessed Cossack, he ponders, fingering the velvet pouch that would be the key to his continued good fortune. His vast bulk spread over the width of his carriage, the upholstered seat opposite awaiting the Tsarina’s representative. He leaned backward, momentarily releasing the pressure on his breeches. Through the back window, he had an uninterrupted view of the blue sky sitting atop the huge brick-built warehouse. Prime bloody real estate, that, swindled into his possession. Ten years on, he could still see the look on that boy’s face as his father fell, mortally wounded by the pistol ball. Trust, be damned. The winner has to still be standing, and he is the one standing tall in a world of commerce that buys him freedoms, privileges, and pleasures. His thoughts drift.

The knock on the carriage door was respectful. His people lived their working lives on a tightrope. One minute they are well-rewarded for their loyalty and discretion, the next dismissed out of hand, ruined.

As the imposing figure of the dark-set Russian mounted the step and settled into the seat opposite, the carriage stooped to welcome him. His face was impassive as he removed his ushanka, the fur hat a necessity on a crisp winter morning. His English was perfect but heavily accented.

A velvet pouch was proffered, and uncut diamonds spilled onto the man’s palm. The Russian leaned forward to catch the late-afternoon light, to study the bounty he was authorised to purchase with gold pieces secured in a small leather purse sewn into the lining of his winter coat.

There was no warning. The rattle of a chain, perhaps, a familiar sound in this thriving dockyard. A whistling sound too. No shouts, no warnings. Silence before. Stunned, blood-spattered silence after. Crimson drops on the glass windows, on his jowled, ruddy face. His blood-soaked waistcoat was strained to breaking point by the shortness of breath that accompanied an uncomfortable realisation. The headless corpse slumped opposite him, a massive iron hook for a face, signalled an end. The trail could not be hidden. Russian justice would be merciless and all paths would lead to his door. The promise of more diamonds could not prevent the unravelling of his carefully constructed empire by a far stronger one.

He laid his head back and looked to the heavens, tears and blood mingling on his fat cheeks. For a moment, just for a moment, he had a vision of a head leaning out from the window below the pulley, a familiar face. He blinked. The head was gone. Then the shouting began, fists banging against the carriage door. Russian fists.

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