Nun Shot Dead

The following was originally written for an exercise set by Bernie. The remit was to pick a newspaper headline and, without reading the report, write a short piece of no more than 250 words based on the headline. I have expanded it as a short, short story.

NUN SHOT DEAD

The theme of the party was Saints and Sinners. As soon as I put on the nun's outfit I had hired I felt different. Sort of virginal. Me? Virginal? That's a laugh. But I went along with the image. I applied my make up very discreetly, pushed my long blonde hair under the severe head dress and then practised looking demure. It occurred to me that some of the fellas might find all this a bit of a turn on. The party could be very interesting particularly if there was someone dressed as, say, the devil. What a pair we
would make!

I threw some overnight things into a bag. Drink would be taken and I would probably have to crash on the couch, then I went to my car. Parking being what it is in London, I had to walk some way down the street in full nun's fig to reach it, but as there is a convent close by no one took any notice. Except, that is, for a man lurking in a shop doorway on the other side of the road. I use the word lurking advisedly. He could not have looked more furtive if he tried and I smiled to myself.

It was my ex. It's a year since we split but he won't give up. The last thing he said when I finally found the guts to throw him out was, 'You've not seen the last of me. If I can't have you no-one will.'

It's the full works. Silent phone calls, waiting outside my office, staring up at my windows for hours at a time. You could call it stalking I suppose but I decided long ago that I would not give him the satisfaction of thinking it bothers me. He'll get fed up eventually.

So, I gave him a cheery wave and blew him a kiss. See if I care was the message I was sending. I could see the look of fury on his face even from a distance. Good, I thought, GOOD, and got into my car.

It was a great party. Next day those of us who had stayed over went out for lunch then I went home. As I parked the car, I was aware that there seemed to be an unusual number of police about. Terrorist alert? Demonstration? You get used to it but then I
found that the entrance to my road was cordoned off with one of those ribbon things which said: Police. Do not Cross. There was a young constable standing guard so I explained that I lived there and asked what was going on.

All he would tell me was that there had been an unexplained death. 'I'll escort you to your flat madam,' he said, 'but you must stay indoors for the time being. We will want to talk to you later.'

As soon as he had gone, I tuned into Radio London and there it was. A nun returning from an errand of mercy in the small hours had been shot and fatally wounded. There did not appear to be a motive.

I stared at the overnight bag which I had thrown on the floor. The nun's habit was in there and the full horror of what had happened hit me. I remembered the look of hatred on my ex's face when I waved to him on my way to the party, I recalled what he had said when I threw him out a year earlier. 'If I can't have you no-one else will,' and I knew with sickening certainty just who that bullet had been intended for.

© Ivy Finch 2006