Flash Fiction - Sheep's Clothing

Earlier, back home in his neat little flat, Daz had rolled on stockings, clipped them onto the suspenders of his padded corset. They’re hard work, stockings, but they look the part and details are important. It’s how he hooks victims. How he gets away with it. Now he sits on the bus, gloved hands flexing.

Marky’s itching, jigging all over the place. He needs to score but he’s skint. Barely scraped the bus fare from the scabby pocket of his too big jeans. He hunches down in his seat near the door, his hood pulled up and his eyes darting round, hunting.

                Daz’s bag stands upright on his knees. It’s a roomy beige mock-croc. The cosh and knife inside are heavy, but he can deal with that. He’s stronger than he looks. His other bags, plastic carriers, rest against his feet. He gives a subtle tug to his wig.  Wonders if anyone will take the bait tonight.  He wants one who’ll deserve it.

                It’s getting dark now. Marky’s been watching from under his hood. There’s an old granny, miserable looking cow, just the sort that hates him. Nice big handbag as well, easy to grab. She’s been doing the January sales. Lots of other shopping bags to slow her down. He thinks of his mate in the pub, the gear waiting for him. The hit.

                Daz can see the flash of hunger in the pale boy’s eyes. Starts to stand up as the bus nears the edge of town.

                Marky grins. The granny’s getting off. Head down, Marky follows.

                The girl at the back of the bus smiles to herself.  She sees the dear old lady with the saggy stockings, the skinny lad going to help her with her bags. She watches them start to move together down into the shadows of a side road. Thinks how it’s sweet. And thinks about how people can be full of surprises.   

Ell Kershaw