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Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Mary Cook Shading his eyes against the sun, Rodney Howe leaned on the promenade railing. In lace-curtained guest houses, cafes and amusement arcades cash registers were playing his tune. This bucket-and spade seaside town could be the last resort; his final port of call. If his bespoke blazer fitted badly, it was because the man who "bespoke" it was long dead. And if the initials on his belongings were not his, neither was his name. He'd picked it from a book of naval history. For years he'd made a lucrative career of preying on lonely women of independent means. His biggest regret was that he'd had to marry Florence in order to get his hands on her divorce settlement, though he willingly traded on her memory. "My dear wife Florence died," he'd say, dabbing his eyes. They fell for it every time - that and the blazer. What he conveniently omitted was that she'd died when he left her for a well-to-do little widow. And "died" was a euphemism. She'd taken an overdose the night he left. As he fled their shared bungalow, Florence had yelled: "You can keep the red-haired cow!" In fact it was the widow who kept Rodney in some style. But when the money ran out, so did he. He moved further up the coast, working his way systematically from one resort to the next. This holiday town had a faded elegance behind its "kiss-me-quick" facades. The clock had stopped at half-past 1930 and the seafront bar was like a gentlemen's club where regulars defended their seats against summer visitors. A sad-eyed woman with auburn hair sat at the bar, chatting to a middle-aged man who kept watch in the mirror behind the optics. Through clenched teeth he muttered: "Don't look now, Pam, here comes 'the Admiral'." Hastily downing his pint, he said: "Right, I'm off. See you later - and good luck." Her reply was a discreet thumbs-up. The previous evening, Rodney had thrown out stories from the officers' mess as ground bait. Tonight he expected a bite. But, unwittingly, the hunter was being hunted; the predator about to become prey. His naval career had been brief and uneventful, but it was the springboard that launched his business of charming women of a certain age into parting with their money. Pamela took in the blazer and flannels while mentally clothing him in a dirty raincoat. His skin was crumpled, like a shirt he'd slept in. A roll of what was once muscle hung over his waistband. Rodney fingered the cravat that bolstered his jowls and fixed her with the leer he fondly imagined to be an engaging smile. "Good evening, my dear. Would you care for a drink? I do so hate drinking alone." Gracefully, Pamela accepted a vodka and tonic with none of that "I shouldn't really" nonsense. If he'd caught the barman winking at her, Rodney would have seen it as no more than a friendly gesture towards a regular. But if he'd known her drinks were really straight tonic he'd have realized something was up. Attractive in an understated way, Pamela could have been any age between thirty-five and fifty. If the color of her hair owed more to the bottle than to nature it was because she knew Rodney's weakness for redheads. His eyes flickered to the ring-free hand she laid on his arm as they talked. "Divorced," she told him, anticipating his question. "Aah!" he said sympathetically. "My dear wife Florence died…." Next came the patter of tiny lies: "I was born too late for Dunkirk, too early for the Falklands. I'd have liked to see a bit of action before I retired…. "But that's enough about me - tell me about yourself." "Well, this is where I spent family holidays as a girl. When my marriage broke up I decided to make a fresh start. "I bought a shop - something I'd always wanted to do. It's just around the corner from here. It has its own flat and it's really quite comfortable, though it can get lonely at times…." Rodney gazed into her eyes. Before the night was out he'd have a job to count them. She could certainly knock it back. He, on the other hand, was beginning to feel a bit squiffy. At closing time, the wind off the sea hit Rodney in the face like a wet flannel. He reeled sideways towards the taxi rank. Holding tightly to his arm, Pamela trilled: "No we don't need a taxi. It's no distance at all." Placing one foot in front of the other, Rodney teetered unsteadily along the pavement like a tightrope walker in a force eight gale. He wondered what sort of shop Pamela owned. A little dress shop, perhaps - or a patisserie? He was partial to the occasional éclair. And she was really quite striking…. "Home is the sailor, home from the sea…." he declaimed raucously while Pamela "shushed". * * * Day didn't just break - it shattered! Rodney found himself alone in an unfamiliar double bed, his head throbbing and his skin on fire. That would have been a night to remember - if he hadn't been so drunk. Pamela appeared at his side. "How are we feeling this morning?" she asked solicitously. "A bit sore," he admitted. "Where's your lavatory?" Gesturing to a door she stood, arms folded, waiting for the howl she was expecting. She found him slumped at the bathroom mirror, shocked speechless, every visible inch of skin covered with women's names and accompanying dates. It had taken months of detective work to trace all his victims. "You didn't ask what my business was, did you? Well, as you can see, I'm a tattoo artist." Jabbing a sharp fingernail at her handiwork, Pamela added: "That's for your 'dear wife Florence' - my poor aunt who let herself be taken in by a vile conman." people have rated it so far. is the current average. |
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