Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

“Where are we?” she asks as we come to a stop.

“A park.”

“Why are we stopping?”

“Seemed like a good idea.”

She smiles. “Oh?”

I smile. “Yeah.”

“I like the park. Don’t you, Joe?”

Actually I don’t really care for it. It’s just a big field with a load of grass planted in it that could be ripped up tomorrow and I wouldn’t give a damn. “I guess so,” I say, mustering up some enthusiasm.

“I like coming out at night. When there’s nobody around and nobody to see what you’re doing. I’m a night person, Joe. I like being out when people are asleep. They’re in their world and I’m in this world. Their world has people with jobs and mortgages who can’t afford to take the time to do what they really want to do in life.”

She sounds soberer than I thought.

“Do you know what I mean, Joe?”

I’ve got no idea. Maybe if I listen to her rather than picturing her naked body on the cold grass I’d have a clue. “Sure. I know.”

“You ever been inside somebody’s house at night when they’re sleeping, and you’re just walking around taking a look at their stuff?”

Odd. “Um, can’t really say I have.”

“No?”

“No.”

She leans up and kisses me. Hard. Drops one hand down to the front of my pants, the other down the back. She thrusts her tongue into my mouth and for a second I wonder what she would say if I bit it off. Probably nothing, though not by choice.

The hand at the front of my pants starts moving around. It has a lot of area to cover, especially now. While she’s kissing me, she can’t be talking, but I’m curious as to what she was just talking about. This is fun. Immense fun. And it will be even more fun when I show her my knife.

She stops kissing me and pulls away. Her hand disappears from my crotch.

Her other hand appears as she takes another step back, and in her hand is my gun. It’s pointing at me.

My mind’s registering what’s happening, but failing to process it into the proper information to make me scared. In seconds, I’ve been reduced to a victim. Of all things!

No, wait. Surely there’s something I’m missing. .

I’m being looked at by my gun. I’m seeing why people don’t like it from this angle. Is this for real? How could control have slipped away so easily? I take a small step back, and my arms rise up to my chest with my palms facing her.

Melissa says nothing. We both stay silent, the gun the noisiest thing between us even though it’s offering no sound. I try telling myself this is a joke. Her hands are steady, any traces of drunkenness gone. Was she ever drunk? When she carried her drink with her into the ladies’, was she really drinking it? When I used the toilet, was she pouring hers out? Why would she do that?

I could be only seconds away from dying. Then it will be a matter of hours till I’m found, and then not long till I’m linked to the killings. I try to imagine the look on Mom’s face when she finds out. I try to imagine the look on Detective Inspector Schroder’s face when he discovers my IQ was actually higher than that of the potted plant in the corner of the conference room. I think about how hurt Sally will be. Imagining their reactions gives me some pleasure. It is all I have.

Melissa seems to be waiting for me to say something, but I don’t want to be the first one to talk. I know she’ll break the silence because women can’t stay quiet for long, and I’m sure she’ll feel the need to point something out before she shoots me.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks.

I shrug. “What’s to say?”

“I thought there would be plenty for a man in your position.”

She’s right. I have plenty of things I want to get off my chest. “Like what?”

She smiles. “Like ‘Why are you pointing the gun at me?’ ”

“Okay. That then.”

“What then?”

“What you said. About pointing the gun at me.”

“You don’t like it?” she asks.

“Not really.”

“What’s this little baby loaded with?” she asks, taking a quick glance at the gun.

“Bullets.”

“That’s very clever.”

“Thank you.”

“What sort of bullets?” she asks.

“Nine-millimeter Luger.”

“Yes, but which type?”

“Jacketed pre-fragmented.”

She takes a few steps back so she can throw a longer look at the gun and not be too close for me to jump her. “Ah. Metal jacket, separate projectiles compressed inside. Reliable feeding, and fast too.”

How could she know that? I try to add up the distance between us. I’m guessing it’s about fifteen feet. Too much ground for me to cover. Way too much ground when the person holding the gun knows how jacketed pre-fragmented bullets are made. I’m sure she wants me to compliment her on her gun knowledge. Well, she’s going to have to wait.

“Take your pants off,” she orders.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

My heart’s beating hard. It’s really slamming away, both from fear and excitement. I feel woozy, as though all the blood in my body is draining down to my feet. A good amount of it is pooling up in my crotch. I lower my hands to my waist and undo my belt. I keep my eyes on her face. Her blue eyes, even in this purple light, are sparkling. She looks excited.

The gun stays rock steady. She’s calm and collected. She knows what she is doing. I have no idea. Has she ever done this before? I keep looking into her eyes, and though I may be wrong, they appear to be getting bluer. They look stronger now that she has all this power. She’s getting off on it. Her breathing’s becoming louder.

I unzip my fly. Lower my jeans. Then I straighten up and stare at her.

“Take ’em off.”

“You gonna shoot me if I don’t?”

“I’m going to shoot you either way.”

She’s being honest. Nothing wrong with that. Guess her mother taught her not to lie too. I bend down and untie my shoes, flicking them off with my feet. I pull my left leg out, then I manage to remove my jeans without falling over.

“Toss them toward me.”

They land in a heap at her feet. The belt jingles and my keys fall out. I’m hoping she’ll get distracted and look down at them, but she doesn’t. I’m left standing in my shirt, boxers, and socks. Oh, and an erection. I’m standing here with a huge one of those.

“Shirt.”

“What about it?”

“Send it over.”

I pull the polo over my head, screw it into a ball, and toss it over to her. The morning gray is no longer gray, and the purple is fading to blue. She doesn’t look down at the clothes.

“How did you get those scars?”

I look down at my chest, my stomach, my shoulders and arms. Scars from women who disagreed with dying.

“Can’t remember.”

“Catching criminals, was it?”

“Something like that.”

“Socks.”

I pull them off, wind them into a ball, and flick them over to her. They land on my shirt. The grass is cold and I’m shivering like crazy.

“Boxers.”

I don’t even hesitate.

She looks at my erection. It’s bouncing slightly. She keeps looking down there, and slowly she takes a wider stance. She keeps one hand on the gun, but uses the other to flip her hair back over her shoulder. Then she touches the tip of her finger against her lips. Runs it back and forth slowly as if she is thinking deeply about something.

“Is that all you have to offer?” she finally asks.

“I’ve had no complaints so far.”

“How could you? You probably gag them first.”

“What is it you want?”

“See that tree to your left?”

It’s a skinny tree, but the only one there. “You want the tree?”

“Head over there.”