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Cal Marcius
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Five Hundred a Week


by Cal Marcius



Alex looked at Emmy and grinned. “You look the part, babes,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Go get him.”


It had been her idea. All of it. Alex always told her how young she looked. At twenty-two, she still looked the part in a school uniform.


Alex gave her a slap on the backside. Emmy turned around, giggled, and left for next door.


The guy opened on the first knock, looked her up and down, and stepped aside.


“Right on time,” he said.


Emmy flashed him a smile and walked over to the armchair. She put the tattered old schoolbag she had on it and sat down on the bed.


“What you wanna do?” she said.


The guy came over, kissed her, pushed her back on the bed. He didn’t mess about. Emmy thought of Alex and champagne.


Half an hour later, she slipped back into her clothes. She grabbed the schoolbag and pulled out her phone. She turned back to the guy, still naked on the bed.


“Got it?” she said into the phone.


“All here, babes,” Alex said. “Now get out of there.”


The guy’s up, and out of bed. “What the fuck’s going on?” he said.


“For fuck’s sake, put on some clothes,” Emmy said.


He looked at her and for a second, Emmy wasn’t sure if he was going to hit her, but then he went over to the chair and retrieved his clothes.


“Five hundred a week and you transfer it to this account,” Emmy said, handing him a slip of paper. “You don’t pay, the tape goes public. We know you’ve got the money.”


“Who the fuck you think you are? You don’t blackmail me.”


“You wanted a schoolgirl. That’s what you got. I’m fifteen. Know what they do to guys like you? Read the papers.”


“I never said I wanted a fifteen-year-old.”


“You didn’t say no.”


“I could break your fucking neck.”


“But you won’t.”


He tore the slip out of her hand.


“When?” he said.


“Every Monday. If it’s not there by the end of the day . . . well, you’ll find out.”


Emmy slung the bag over her shoulder and left the guy standing as she let herself out.


Alex was waiting. When she walked in, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off her feet.


“You did it, babes,” he said.


“Told you it would work. This face gotta count for something.”


Emmy walked over to the minibar. Mixed vodka and coke. A little extra for Alex.


“To us,” Alex said.


“To being rich.”


Showered and changed, Emmy looked like a woman again. Alex was sleeping when she came out. She climbed into bed beside him, wrapped her arms and legs around his body. He stirred, turned, and looked at her. Traced a line on her arm. He was good at the little things. The small details.


 For now, that was okay with her.

Dead Of Night


by Cal Marcius



I’d watched him walk past twice already, looking for a seat. Black overcoat, jeans, and a baseball cap. His face clean shaven. He comes by again, a third time, stops, slides open the door and says, “Hi.”


I return the greeting, then look back out to the dead of night. I can see his reflection in the window. He sits down next to the door, looking up and down the aisle, looking at the people walking past.


I’m tired, but I don’t want to fall asleep. It’s been a busy week, two very long nights and just four hours’ sleep. My mother says I work too hard. Says her little girl shouldn’t be out so late at night. Maybe she’s right. I should get another job. One closer to home. Better paid. One that lets me have time off at the weekends.


My eyes feel heavy and I close them for a second. The train is lulling me to sleep. I’m dreaming of tunnels, of sinkholes, blood. Dreaming of lying on my back in the wet grass, looking up at the stars.


A voice. From far away. Calling. I wake with a start.


“You like this?” the guy says.


I look over. He’s still sitting by the door. His coat is open. So is the zipper on his jeans. He’s hard, and he’s got his hand around his cock, stroking it lazily.


“You like this, don’t you?” he says.


I turn back to the window, but all I see is his reflection. He smiles, slides further down the seat. His legs are blocking the exit, and only now do I realize he’s drawn the curtains.


I try to ignore him. Hope he’ll stop. Wish the conductor would come and check the damn tickets. My perv’s got other plans though.


“Don’t you want to look at it?”


“I’ll pass,” I say.

Want to say, I’ve seen better.


“C’mon. Look.”


His strokes are more insistent now.


I get up. I have to leave. I reach for my bag from the overhead storage. Hope he won’t grab me while my back is turned, but he doesn’t move. He just sits there, still holding his cock, and lets me leave. I look for the conductor, spot him at the end of the next carriage. Checking tickets. Taking his time.


He’s too far away to notice me, to care, and I walk toward the doors.


I get off at the next stop. So does the guy in the overcoat, a couple of carriages further along. It’s almost one. No one’s around.


I walk faster. Look back. He’s quickening his pace. The underpass is coming up. There’s no other way to go and I start to run. My bag bounces up and down, but I’ve packed light.


I’ve gained some distance and for a moment, I can’t see him, and I slip behind some bushes at the entrance to the underpass. When he runs past me, I watch him stop and look both ways.


“Fucking bitch,” he spits. “Fuck.”


He starts to walk through the underpass. He’s given up following me.


I open my bag. I take out the rubber gloves and the hunting knife. The knife has a drop point blade and serrated edge, perfect for someone of his size.


It’s going to be another long night.



Cal Marcius is a freelance writer who lives in the frozen wastes of northern England. He has been published in Shotgun Honey, Out of the GutterNear to the Knuckle, Spelk, and Horror Sleaze Trash. He also has a story in Near to the Knuckle’s “Rogue” anthology, as well as Aidan Thorn’s Palladins anthology.


You can find Cal on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

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