February 26th
And so we count down to the final three days of the February Femmes Fatales showcase. The standard of writing has been extraordinary, and these upcoming pieces are by no means last in quality. On the contrary.
Dorothy Davies; author, editor, mentor displays herself here in a literary sense. Hers is a matter-of-fact declaration of intolerance. There is no moral high-ground, simply a territorial case of 'this belongs to me, and if you break the rules - you pay.' That's the way it is; if you don't like it...
Of course, as a piece of fiction we do like it very much. I've already read Do You Happen To Have... several times, but I still want more. How about you...?
Do You Happen To Have... by Dorothy Davies
Do you happen to have...
No, before I ask you that, let me explain why I need to know. You know the best way to dispose of a body? Dump it in the cellar and let the rats feed. Simple, isn’t it? How come no one seems to have done it? Oh, there’s the small problem of what to do with the bones but – well, come night and a mallet, you can smash bones into tiny fragments which can then be tossed in with the household refuse and who knows what goes into the back of the refuse lorry and then to the landfill site?
That’s what I did with the charity worker who refused to accept ‘no thank you’ as a polite way of saying ‘I don’t care about your charity; I have enough to do catering for my own, thank you very much’. He would argue, so I invited him in. Fool that he was he came in, too, thinking he would convince me with his superlatives and his greased hair and his false teeth. He didn’t, he just gave me a good deal more to smash up. Good job I don’t have neighbours.
The rats fed well that night.
It’s not that I enjoy killing, you understand. I am not that heartless. I just – like the power of life and death. I like to survey the person standing on my doorstep and decide whether they should live or die. Are they of any use to mankind; are they better off being disposed of? Those who come to deceive and steal, they are of no use to anyone so they become – well, rat food, basically. Other people go to the supermarkets and buy cat food and dog food; I get rat food delivered to the door. On foot. No effort involved.
The rats are multiplying, though and they need more food than they did when I began. Oh, when did I begin? Who was the first to meet his fate in my cellar? I think it was the simpering irritating canvasser for the local Tory party. I don’t vote. Don’t believe in it. Why waste time and effort putting a pencil cross – and how demeaning is that, I ask you? Make your mark, peasant! No signatures needed here! – to vote in someone who you will never hear from again. No, I refuse and I told this simpering twit I refuse.
‘Suffragettes fought for your right to vote!’ he insisted.
‘No,’ I said, ‘you have it entirely wrong, little man. They fought for the right for women to vote. Not for me. I came into this world a long time after that right was given – and remember this, they didn’t win the vote; it came about through the war.’
At this point he put a foot in the house as if to attack me, so great was his rage, so I stood back and let him in. Not a thought in my head at that moment of anything but – shall I be honest? Pure malice. I wanted to confound him; I wanted to flatten the ego with which he came. Instead I flattened his head and threw him down the steps... No I didn’t, I rolled him down the steps into the cellar.
You see, I knew there were rats down there and I had done nothing about them. Animal lover, you understand, can’t bear to kill anything. No traps or poison for me. So they lived there quite happily, cohabiting with me. I didn’t bother them, they didn’t bother me.
Until they got the taste for flesh.
It’s a bit of a job keeping them supplied but I can do it, if I work hard enough at it. No sign on my door about no callers, I welcome them.
Then I invite them in to talk. And tea. And a visit to the cellar – that’s not optional, by the way, that’s compulsory.
I started a new game last week. Not killing them first. Oh the fun I had hearing the squeals and shrieks and screams and hammering on the cellar door. They don’t know I bribed the local builder to reinforce that door with steel. Looks like old battered wood on their side. What a joke, I laughed myself silly first time it happened.
I just have this small problem. The rats are multiplying and like I said, no traps or poisons for me, animal lover that I am.
There’s only one solution and you might be able to help me with that.
Do you happen to have the mobile number for the Pied Piper?
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Bio:
Dorothy Davies, writer, medium and editor, lives on the Isle of Wight, that small haunted island off the south coast of England. There she writes her very strange stories and channels books from spirit authors about their lives and loves and their need to put the record straight.
Dorothy Davies Author, 'Death Be Pardoner To Me', the life of George, duke of Clarence.
Dorothy Davies Author, 'Death Be Pardoner To Me', the life of George, duke of Clarence.
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