IN LOVING MEMORY

Mel ran the candle along the bottom of the curtains. Everything caught beautifully at the merest lick of the flame. She loved good quality materials - they burnt so well. This job was one of her easiest yet - no murders, no bodies, no tell-tale bones or ashes. Almost clinically clean. Ah, well, she had always wanted to be a doctor as a child. Dousing the sofa with kerosene, she moved on to the kitchen.

She loved kitchens. They brought out the artist in her. She doused the stove with oil and turned on the plates. Then the filled the microwave with metal shards and set it going. Again a candle took care of the curtains, which in turn dealt with the ceiling and built-in cupboards. The stove was a pillar of fire. The microwave exploded, furthering the chaos. A miniature hell was born.

***

An email arrived the next day requesting her services. After checking that the deposit had found its way into her bank account, she began with her research. Years in the orphanage had taught her the value of smooth talking early on. Soon she had all the extra information she needed. The subject, Mrs Cindy Theron (née Jacobs), had only one interesting irregularity to her otherwise deadly boring life : 25 years ago, at the age of 17, she had given birth to a child who was given up for adoption. She had never seen her child again. It was only of interest to Mel because she was 25 this year. She sent an email off to a friend who would be able to find out, although it would take some time. Then she began surveillance.

Since it was a simple murder, with no mass destruction of property to be made seem accidental, a relative minimum of observation was required. She soon determined that a Thursday night would be the most opportune : the subject always came home directly from work (6pm) and only worked alternate Fridays. Pure luck decided the specific date - some workmen were coming in to lay carpets that Thursday. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

***

It was Thursday. The workmen finished a little before 5, but one hung around for a while. Mel slit his throat, but made it appear to be a DIY, carefully catching his blood. It would be of use later on.

Mel was hiding in the subject's bedroom when she arrived. She walked in, tossing her jacket onto the bed, completely unaware. The first stab came in the back. She twisted round and received a barrage to her chest. Still she continued to fight. Only when the bed was saturated with blood did she eventually flop to her sticky death. The artist in Mel surfaced again. She arranged the scene to look like a murder-suicide, laying the workman out on the floor near the subject body and then emptying his blood onto his chest and the surrounding area. Despite the perfection of the scene, she shivered as she left. That involuntary gesture worried her more than the fact that she had just brutally murdered two people. She had never felt anything before this. Her apathy was her greatest asset. She couldn't lose it now.

***

The email from her friend arrived the next day. The child had been a girl, adopted briefly, but the death of her adoptive parents resulted in her being moved to an orphanage - well, a succession of orphanages. Mel didn't have to read to the end to know the truth : the child had been christened Melanie by her mother before she was adopted.

She never shook the picture of that room. The two bodies. Her mother. She never forgot the feeling of the knife going in and out. She never killed again.