March 2007

THE BUNDLE
By Deborah Pass

"Don’t worry; take your time. Have a good look and pick out the one you think it was."

The policeman seemed calm. Too calm. I suppose this was an everyday routine in his life. The men in the line-up stared out with menace, as if they could see through the one-way mirror. Shaking with fear, I walked up and down the length of the mirror as each man appeared to stare me down. I could tell the ‘red-herrings’ straightaway--the middle three of the five, presumably other cops from the precinct. The other two men looked very similar, like twins, and I tried my best to recall the events which occurred that terrible night in the dark country lane that lead down to the river.

I wrapped the bundle in black bin bags, tying the ropes securely. It was dark, and the neighbours were doing what neighbours do in this part of the woods: drinking liquor, beating their wives, or raping their daughters. I slipped out of the house, package hoisted over my shoulder as I made my way down to the river. This was the ultimate destination for trash in the village; burnt out cars and rusty fridges floated like dead metallic fish on the brown scum.

As I approached the river bank, the sound of heavy footsteps forced me to stop. I slipped the bundle off my shoulder and rushed into the bushes. A man swaggered into sight, reeling as though invisible cords were maneuvering him > like a giant puppet. He clutched a bottle of scotch tightly to his chest.

The man stumbled, falling onto my abandoned packet. I could hear him mumbling incoherent sentences as he tore at the plastic bin bags. He let out a hoarse cry when my bundle's arm fell across his knee, painted nails eerily bright against the pallid flesh of the hand.

The drunk tried to stand, but keeled over in a dead faint. I delved into my pocket and took out the keepsakes: a key and a gold chain with a tiny engraved heart attached. I placed the trinkets in his shirt pocket, then took hold of the escaped hand and scratched blood from the drunk's face with those perfect nails.

I rang the police as soon as I returned home, informing them of a man with a suspiciously shaped package. News of the arrest of the River Dump serial killer was on everyone's lips the next day. Then they called me in.

I stopped shaking, the fear of being suspect replaced by the elation of fooling them all. I walked the line again, making a show for the cops as I stopped in front of the man on the far right.

"That's him." I pointed at the drunk. "That's the man with the bundle."

THE END

Originally from Manchester , UK , Deborah Pass has been living in Paris for over 15 years. She's worked in everything, from barmaid to online Game Master for an RPG game. She teaches chess to children and adults. THE BUNDLE is Deborah's first published story. She can be reached at d.pass@free.fr.