just writing a good old-fashioned adventure story set in the present day... not explaining who these characters are, but fans of BBC Sherlock might recognise them. If you do, don't give it away!! But, even then, nothing is what it at first seems...!
“Ooh, Ricky, I’m so relieved to see you!” Kitty Riley enthused, wrapping her arms around the man she believed was a ‘resting’ actor.
“Are you really?” he replied, Kitty realised there was a different tone in his voice, not one she had noticed before.
“Of course I am! You poor dear, you’ve been so maligned by that stupid man, he was just an ego-maniac! And, I was a bit worried, you know, after the suicide? One of our rival publications said you were the one playing the part of Moriarty and you had shot yourself on the roof! Tell me it’s nonsense, but it must be, you’re here, alive, living and breathing!” Kitty exclaimed, still cuddling him as he stood in the doorway of her flat.
“That’s a silly thing to say, Kitty, of course I’m not dead, and what are you talking about? Who committed suicide?” Richard said, as if suddenly concerned.
“Oh come in and I’ll tell you all about it!” Kitty replied, taking his hand and pulling him inside. “I do like your suit, had an audition did you?” she observed, as Richard sat down on the wooden dining chair in her dingy studio.
“Audition? Mm, no,” he said.
“Ah, ok, let me get the kettle on, it’s Baltic outside, you must be freezing without an overcoat!”
She disappeared into the tiny galley kitchen and he heard the tap and the rattle of crockery. When she returned a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee she noticed how he was sitting, confident, airy, regarding his nails. “Oh, your hair’s different too, that’s quite slick that gelled look, em, did you have a job interview or something? I thought… oh yes, you can afford new stuff now, were you treating yourself?”
“Mm, you might call it that. Now, come here my little friend, tell me about this suicide, sounds very sad,” Richard said, with a smile on his lips that was more like a leer. He beckoned her, “Come on, sit on my knee,” he added.
Kitty stared, then smiled. She put the mugs down on the table next to where he was sitting. “You’re in a flirty mood today, Ricky, er, I thought you wanted us just to be friends?”
“Oh come on, we know it was more than that, I knew the minute I met you that you liked me, tell the truth, you really like me, don’t you?” Richard’s smile was truly disturbing like a spreading crack on a gravestone. He grabbed her hand and pulled her in one motion down onto his lap.
“Ooh, em, this is er… nice, Ricky, I didn’t know you felt this way!” Kitty said, watching nervously as his right arm slid along her shoulder until his hand squeezed tightly on her upper arm. He put his left hand on her stockinged thigh and left it there. “Em, ok, can’t you guess who killed themselves? Took a flyer off St. Bart’s roof. Our mutual friend… Mr Sherlock Holmes!”
“Ah, finally rid of him at last, eh? Good riddance to bad rubbish then,” Richard said silkily. “What was that about you thinking I was on a roof?” his hand slid up her thigh to the hem of her tartan mini skirt.
Kitty felt a little sick, where was the sweet, daffy actor with the tousled hair? “Ricky, sure you don’t have a twin brother? Not like you to be so forward!” she observed.
“Oh dear, is my little baby frightened of the scary man in the suit?” he mocked, leaning his face closer to hers.
“Oh don’t be silly, Ricky, I mean, I’m flattered, but… anyway, where have you been?” she asked, trying to avoid his gaze.
“Found you a new story. A naughty doctor treating criminals at his plastic surgery clinic in Kensington. Talk about two-faced! I’ve challenged him about it several times, and I called him earlier today, he just bleated on about there being no evidence. Isn’t it terrible how someone can smile and smile and be a villain?” Richard leered.
“Oh wait a minute, I get it! Sorry, Ricky, I really thought for a minute…you’re practising, aren’t you? Method acting, getting right into character, right? A Shakespearean villain? Um, Richard III, ha ha, now that would be appropriate!” Kitty laughed, sighing with relief. “Now if there was ever a man with a bad press! It’s a lot of crap, he wasn’t a villain. But the play is great, that hammy portrayal by Olivier, now that’s fantastic! Are you doing the bit where he seduces Lady Catherine over her husband’s corpse? Gee, now there are some creepy chat-up lines in there!”
“Who’s acting?” Richard grinned. He pulled his hand up from her thigh and began to stroke his whole hand down her throat. “You know, when someone’s fulfilled a purpose, they’re kinda surplus to requirements. Just like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Wow, you’re good, that’s worthy of a BAFTA any day, that voice, it’s truly chilling, I could just believe you’re a cold-hearted killer!” Kitty enthused.
“There comes a time when you do have to tell the truth, and I’m afraid this is it for you, Kitty Riley. But you’ll have all the recognition you desire, front page news!” Richard’s voice was cold as ice.
“Really? I mean, I know I work for probably the worst tabloid left in Fleet Street, but yeah, it would be really nice to get recognition… urgh, Ricky…” she fought for breath and tried to strike out at him, but Richard’s hands were tightly around her neck, crushing ever closer, she felt her skin start to burn. Her flailing arms could find no target, and her lungs ached as they were deprived of air. He’ll stop in a minute, he’s just being silly, showing off… she tried to convince herself.
“But there’s a truth you won’t ever know, Kitty… the identity of the man who… RIPPED YOUR HEAD OFF!” he squeezed and twisted, imposing force against the skin, bone and muscle, until a trickle of blood appeared below the rapidly bruising skin. He twisted, and then with a final flick, the flesh on Kitty’s neck tore. Arterial blood sprayed across the room as the veins in her neck burst under the pressure. Then he snapped her neck to one side. A shard of bone protruded under her left ear. He let go and Kitty’s body fell off his lap and onto the floor.
“What a bloody mess, Kitty, you should keep this place tidier!” he said. Standing up and catching sight of himself in the long mirror on the wall by the kitchen door, he straightened his silk tie. The pale face was splattered in blood, as was the shirt collar and shoulder of the jacket. “Still got the old magic, eh? Hmm, poor cow, that’ll teach her to talk to strange men.”