The Diary

For Shaun Hamilton and all the books

Ross chanced another look over his cup of coffee. The woman’s legs were long and lithe. Her business suit was immaculate. Her nails were short but painted a bright turquoise. When she wasn’t writing in the book, she was staring at it, the pen twirling idly between her fingers.

The waiter put two cups of coffee down in front of him. ‘Thanks,’ Ross said.

The waiter frowned. ‘You did say you wanted two cups of coffee, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Ross replied in irritation. The waiter nodded and left.

Ross stood up, took the two cups, and went over the woman’s table. He placed one of the cups in front of her. She looked up. ‘Can I help you?’

Ross glanced over his shoulder, leaned forward and in a low voice said, ‘That idiot waiter brought me two coffees instead of one, so I thought it would be polite to share it with the only other person in this dive.’

She looked around. ‘Dive? I quite like this café.’

Ross took this as an invitation to sit down. ‘Well, it’s got a quaint charm to it, I’ll admit,’ he said, hoping that it didn’t look like he was back-pedalling.

‘It’s clean, and above all else, I like things to be clean.’

‘Oh, I quite agree,’ Ross said, pulling his suit jacket a little closer around himself so she wouldn’t see the unfortunate tomato sauce stain from that morning’s bacon sandwich.

She smiled at him. ‘Thanks for the coffee, but I need to get on with my work.’

‘Oh? What are you doing?’

Her smile became brittle, but Ross took it as a positive that she was at least still smiling. He could win her round yet. ‘I’m filling in my diary for the week.’

‘What, like Bridget Jones?’

‘No, not that kind of diary. A work diary, with my appointments for the week.’

He glanced at the book; it was crammed with writing. ‘Business is good then. What are you - a lawyer? In marketing? We’ve a spot going in our marketing team if you’re thinking of moving.’

‘I’m a cleaner.’

Ross was taken aback. He looked at the woman afresh, trying to discern any clue from her outward appearance that she spent her life on her knees in marigolds. Her make-up was flawless and her hair looked like she’d just walked out of a salon. There was a faint floral smell that surrounded her, but Ross couldn’t tell if that might be perfume or the remnants of a cleaning product. After all, he knew little about the mechanics of cleaning. He had a woman come in once a week for that; a chubby, cheerful, rose-cheeked woman who bore no resemblance to the beauty before him.

‘But… you don’t look like a cleaner.’ It was a facile thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else, and the silence growing between them had started to feel uncomfortable.

‘Looks can be deceiving, isn’t that what they say?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Ross, rallying a bit. ‘I mean, to look at me, you might not know that I’m a regular marathon runner.’ It wasn’t a complete lie; he had been a regular runner, just not in the past five years or so, unless it was running to and from the bar at networking events.

She smiled sweetly. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t.’

He frowned, caught himself doing it, and forced his face to relax. ‘Well, by the look of your diary alone I can see you must be good at your job. Do you have any appointments in the next week.’

The woman ran her finger down the page before her, turned over a couple more pages and said, ‘Next Thursday?’

‘Perfect.’ His own cleaner would have been in the day before, so she could turn up, do a little light dusting, then maybe stop for a glass of wine, a bite of dinner.

A sudden, dreadful idea rose up in his mind. ‘You do actually do the cleaning yourself, don’t you? I mean, you don’t contract it out to…’ He faltered, not wanting to say “foreigners” or “chubby, rose-cheeked old women”.

Her smile was dazzling. ‘Nope. Just me.’

‘Excellent. Do you have a business card I can take with me? I’ll drop you an email back at the office and we can sort out access and so on. I’m not very keen on handing out keys to strangers so would you be able to clean while I’m there, just for the first few sessions?’

‘But of course,’ she replied, handing over a scrap of card. Written on it in a flowing font was:

Lilian
Death to Dust

‘No last name?’ he asked, glancing at her hands for the tell-tale sign of a wedding band. She shook her head. ‘Next Thursday then. I’ll be in touch.’

Ross walked out, his head spinning with a dozen ideas of what he could cook for her and which wine would be cheap enough, but still make a good impression.

The woman watched him go. She sipped her coffee then took another book out of her bag. She opened it at a fresh page and began to write.

Ross was just getting the wine glasses out when the doorbell rang. He placed them next to the open bottle of Rioja and then hurried to the door. Lilian was standing there, a bucket in one hand, and a box of cleaning supplies in the other. Her business suit had been replaced by a pair of pristine white overalls but her hair and makeup were still as perfect as when he’d last seen her. ‘Come in, come in, I’m all ready for you,’ he said, knowing that he was gushing but unable to stop himself.

She walked in, looked around then nodded approvingly. ‘It’s compact, but neat. And it already looks very tidy. I’m not sure that my services are going to be required for very long.’

‘Oh, there’s loads of filth if you look hard enough,’ Ross said, making his way towards the wine.

‘So I often find.’

Ross hesitated as he reached for the bottle. Something in the tone of her voice had made him uneasy. He pulled his hand back. Maybe it would be best to wait a while before bringing out the wine.

‘Shall I get started then, Mr. Dennison?’ she asked as he turned round.

He beamed at her. ‘Please, call me Ross, not Mr. Dennison.’

‘No, I like Mr. Dennison. It makes you sound less human.’

‘It what?’

Ross saw the knife in her hand only a split second before he felt a white hot heat at his throat. The grin fell from his face as another bloody smile opened up under his chin. He grasped at his throat, his hands slithering against his slick skin.

His head began to spin. The world became dark at the edges. He just wanted to lie down. If he could lie down and think about things, he’d be sure to figure out what was going on. After all, he couldn’t die. Not here. Not like this.

Ross slumped first to his knees, then keeled over. His arms were so heavy he couldn’t move them. He watched the pool of blood spreading across his vanilla-white carpet.

But… she’s a cleaner… and there’s so much… mess…

The woman not called Lilian ran a gloved finger across the work surface; it came away clean. She nodded in satisfaction. This would be her third victim. Would the police publicise it this time? Or would they keep quiet about it, like they did with the other two? Maybe they didn’t even know the killings were connected. After all, she chose her victims at random, with no pattern. The person didn’t matter; only the thrust of the knife, the gush of the blood, the beauty of all that red against such bright, white cleanliness. Maybe she would be kind and leave the police a little clue. She glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight and she was tired. Maybe next time.

Her business card was by the landline phone. She picked it up and placed it in her bag, sparing a scowl at the wall-mounted phone. Who had one of those these days anyway? Why not just use a mobile? She shook her head; there was no fathoming some people.

With her gloved hand resting on the front door handle, she turned back to take one last look at the apartment. The clean, sharp lines of it and the lack of clutter gave her a deep satisfaction. She let her eyes wander to the bright red flower of blood on the pristine white carpet, and a delicious shiver went through her. It was art, of a kind. She patted her pocket, reassuring herself that her phone with all its wonderful, decadent pictures was safe inside to enjoy later. Then she opened the door and quietly slipped away.

The Diary

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