Read Online Why You Were Taken by JT Lawrence - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: JT Lawrence
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discussion than a proposal, and then he, like, blurted it out. Not as a question, but as what we should do, and I agreed.
My mind is swirling right now. I mean I feel bad that he is going to leave his wife, that’s so gnarly, but it has been over for a long time and I know that he will take care of her. Still, I feel sick about it. I hope she never finds out the truth. But I’m going to have his child and that is the most important thing right now. I hope that she will forgive him/us one day, and that I will be able to forgive myself. I am going to be a better person. I am going to stop being selfish and be the best wife and mother that I can be. I’m going to make P so happy.
BRIDE
IN THE BATH
7
Johannesburg, 2021
A well-built man in grimy blue overalls waits outside the front door of a Mr Edward Blanco, number 28, Rosebank Heights. He is on a short stepladder, and is pretending to fix the corridor ceiling light, the bulb of which he had unscrewed the day before, causing the old lady at the end of the passage to call general maintenance, the number which he had temporarily diverted to himself.
He would smirk, but he took himself too seriously. People in his occupation were often thought of as little brain-to-brawn ratio, but in his case it wasn’t true. You had to be clever to survive in this game, to stay out of the Crim Colonies.
Clever, and vigilant, he thinks, as he hears someone climbing the stairs behind him and holds an impotent screwdriver up to an already tightened screw. The unseen person doesn’t stop at his landing but keeps ascending.
The man in overalls lowers his screwdriver and listens. He is waiting for Mr Blanco to run his evening bath. If he doesn’t start it in the next few minutes he’ll have to leave and find another reason to visit the building; he has already been here for twenty minutes, and even the pocket granny would know that you didn’t need more than half an hour to fix a broken light.
At five minutes left he checks the lightbulb again and fastens the fitting around it, dusts it with an exhalation, folds up his ladder. As he closes his dinged metal toolbox he hears the movement of water flowing through the pipes in the ceiling. He uses a wireless device in his pocket to momentarily scramble the access card entrance mechanism on the door. It’s as simple as the red light changing to green, a muted click, and he silently opens the door at 28, enters, and closes it behind him. In the entrance hall of Blanco’s flat he eases off his workman boots, strips off his overalls to reveal his sleeker outfit of a tight black shirt and belted black pants.
The burn scar on his right arm is now visible. The skin is mottled, shiny. He no longer notices it; it’s as much part of him as his eyes, or his nose. Perhaps subconsciously it is his constant reminder as to why his does what he does. Perhaps not.
He stands in his black stockinged feet, biding his time until he hears the taps being turned off. Mr Blanco is half whistling, half humming. A small man; effeminate.
What is that song? the hefty man wonders. So familiar. Something from the 90s? No, a bit later than that. Melancholy. A perfect choice, really, for how his evening will turn out.
He hears the not-quite-splashing of the man lowering himself into the bath. Tentative. Is the water too hot, or too cold? Or perhaps it’s the colour of the water putting him off. Recycled water has a murkiness to it, a suspiciousness. Who knows where that water has been, what it has seen? The public service announcements, now planted everywhere, urge you to shower instead of bath, to save water. It does seem like the cleaner option. If you do insist on bathing, they preach, you don’t need more than five fingers. And then, only every second day. His nose wrinkles slightly at that. He takes his cleanliness very seriously.
Mr Blanco settles in and starts humming again. The man with the burnt
My mind is swirling right now. I mean I feel bad that he is going to leave his wife, that’s so gnarly, but it has been over for a long time and I know that he will take care of her. Still, I feel sick about it. I hope she never finds out the truth. But I’m going to have his child and that is the most important thing right now. I hope that she will forgive him/us one day, and that I will be able to forgive myself. I am going to be a better person. I am going to stop being selfish and be the best wife and mother that I can be. I’m going to make P so happy.
BRIDE
IN THE BATH
7
Johannesburg, 2021
A well-built man in grimy blue overalls waits outside the front door of a Mr Edward Blanco, number 28, Rosebank Heights. He is on a short stepladder, and is pretending to fix the corridor ceiling light, the bulb of which he had unscrewed the day before, causing the old lady at the end of the passage to call general maintenance, the number which he had temporarily diverted to himself.
He would smirk, but he took himself too seriously. People in his occupation were often thought of as little brain-to-brawn ratio, but in his case it wasn’t true. You had to be clever to survive in this game, to stay out of the Crim Colonies.
Clever, and vigilant, he thinks, as he hears someone climbing the stairs behind him and holds an impotent screwdriver up to an already tightened screw. The unseen person doesn’t stop at his landing but keeps ascending.
The man in overalls lowers his screwdriver and listens. He is waiting for Mr Blanco to run his evening bath. If he doesn’t start it in the next few minutes he’ll have to leave and find another reason to visit the building; he has already been here for twenty minutes, and even the pocket granny would know that you didn’t need more than half an hour to fix a broken light.
At five minutes left he checks the lightbulb again and fastens the fitting around it, dusts it with an exhalation, folds up his ladder. As he closes his dinged metal toolbox he hears the movement of water flowing through the pipes in the ceiling. He uses a wireless device in his pocket to momentarily scramble the access card entrance mechanism on the door. It’s as simple as the red light changing to green, a muted click, and he silently opens the door at 28, enters, and closes it behind him. In the entrance hall of Blanco’s flat he eases off his workman boots, strips off his overalls to reveal his sleeker outfit of a tight black shirt and belted black pants.
The burn scar on his right arm is now visible. The skin is mottled, shiny. He no longer notices it; it’s as much part of him as his eyes, or his nose. Perhaps subconsciously it is his constant reminder as to why his does what he does. Perhaps not.
He stands in his black stockinged feet, biding his time until he hears the taps being turned off. Mr Blanco is half whistling, half humming. A small man; effeminate.
What is that song? the hefty man wonders. So familiar. Something from the 90s? No, a bit later than that. Melancholy. A perfect choice, really, for how his evening will turn out.
He hears the not-quite-splashing of the man lowering himself into the bath. Tentative. Is the water too hot, or too cold? Or perhaps it’s the colour of the water putting him off. Recycled water has a murkiness to it, a suspiciousness. Who knows where that water has been, what it has seen? The public service announcements, now planted everywhere, urge you to shower instead of bath, to save water. It does seem like the cleaner option. If you do insist on bathing, they preach, you don’t need more than five fingers. And then, only every second day. His nose wrinkles slightly at that. He takes his cleanliness very seriously.
Mr Blanco settles in and starts humming again. The man with the burnt
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