The Window Seat where Charlie McGavin sat

For the movella mystery 'what's hidden on your street' competition!
Not like your ordinary movella- written with a twist sure to chill you to the bone! (sure did with my family!)
Please read and comment your thoughts- quite a unique way of writing!

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1. Charlie- A murderers thoughts

 

The familiar scent of musky country clothes and fresh ale filled the old tavern as I sat in my usual cushioned window seat, gazing out of the frosted glass into the dimly lit street beyond. I picked slowly at a piece of thread that had unraveled itself from the burgundy workings of the cushion and absent mindedly twisted it around my little finger as I turned my attention to the jostling people entering the pub; men stamping snow off their boots as they entered the warmth of the main room, the comforting crackling of an open fire, women showering each other with hurried hugs and kisses causing the overpowering scent of good quality perfume to spread around the Tavern. I breathed it in, savoring the sounds and smells of normality; normal everyday lives lived by normal everyday people. Not one of them seemed to be at all concerned by the recent absence of several of their acquaintances, although it had only been last week half of the village had been dressed entirely in black and furiously sobbing at the funeral of much loved church caretaker Jack Milligan, supposedly to have took a deliberate overdose of his digestive medication as a way escape from his debt problems. Ha, debt problems my arse. Before I moved here, I thought the term village idiot was merely one of those sayings with no real significance to actual society; how wrong I was.

Vicky the blonde haired bartender beamed heartily at the customers, bending over the scratched wood to whisper things in the ears of men whom she hoped were single, her large hoop earrings jingling as she giggled flirtily. The small beginnings of a smile spread over my face as I studied her from afar. She had six wrinkles that stretched wearily down her forehead, and if you looked really closely, blemished sun marks and faint freckles dotted her face, all of which had been hastily swept over with a foundation a couple of shades too light; an obvious attempt at trying to prolong the process of aging. I’ve never understood the great crime of aging. In my opinion, the older you get, the more wisdom and knowledge of the world you gain, surely something to be proud of rather than try and disguise. For example, I would never now go to slit someone’s throat with a single 5mm blade…a mistake I made once too often in my youth when I was young and naïve about the world. These days I prefer the more subtle approach; the ‘accidental’ overdose, the car accident, even the death-by- rampaging-bull has proven more successful. These thoughts triggered a deep sigh inside me; although these options were safe and kept me out of the radar of the village police force, somehow they could never quite achieve the same level of satisfaction as is possible with the sensation of cold hard metal slicing through soft warm skin.

With a shiver of pleasure, I forced myself to look away from Vicky before my thoughts could get anymore ridiculous. I mean what was I, some crazed psychopath? I turned my attention to the now flat half pint of beer that had been sitting in front of me for a good two hours, a desperate attempt on my part to appear normal to the wider community. Not that it mattered anyway; no one ever gave the lonely balding man in the burgundy window seat a second thought. And I liked it that way. I enjoyed the solace of my own company and thoughts in amongst the chaotic atmosphere of the pub. I enjoyed the way not one of these ignorant citizens expected me for the six deaths which have occurred since I’ve been at the village. And most of all I enjoyed my nightly prowl up the street; the familiar thatched houses which lay dormant in the early hours of the morning, the innocent lives which they contained. I could almost hear the sounds of their breaths now as they slept, their dreams flitting from work meetings to the rose bushes lining the outskirts of their gardens, a far cry from my own dreams.

The thoughts that I was having were beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. My now empty beer glass stared at me from the table, as if taunting me to go and get a refill from Vicky; however I knew that the moment I got anywhere near that bar, the very moment I got a whiff of Vicky’s cheap perfume I would be swept away by the overwhelming urge to kill, and I couldn’t have that. Not yet, not now. The villagers were already suspicious enough as it is, without me going and wringing the neck of another.

Restraining myself, I inhaled deeply and pushed myself out of the cushioned window seat, clicked both sets of my fingers, and proceeded through the old heavy door of the tavern, not one person turning to look apart from a small pale- faced girl in a grey duffle coat who sat on her mothers lap. She stared at me unnervingly, and even as I turned myself away from her glare I still felt the bore of her hazelnut eyes on my back. I tensed, before forcing myself to go on. I had to appear normal to these people, for the safety of my victims and myself. A sharp gust of wind met me as I made my way outside, making my eyes stream and chilling every nerve of my body; an appealing sensation in comparison to the hot twitchy discomfort I felt in the pub. Winter was my friend. It kept my secrets with its darkness, and its cold breath fetched me from the warm safety of my desires and dreams into the reality of the harsh world. The snow glittered under the streetlights as I walked, my breath puffing out in small clouds of nothing, before being swallowed up by the night, just as Jack had been last week, and Fay the week before. And I could feel it again; that bubbling apprehensive feeling that lay dormant in the bottom of my stomach reaching its way through every inch of my body filling every part of me with this electric sensation.  Someone was going to die tonight. And I knew exactly who it was going to be. 

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