Sex and Murder Magazine

By Sean Greenhill

Clifton Maxby stumbled along the hallway, singing and mumbling happily to himself, until he came to a halt in front of his apartment door. He leant against the doorframe, supporting himself with his left hand—the hand that clutched his award—and his right hand fumbled in his pants pocket. He juggled his keys, almost dropping them, and as he did so, the black backpack slung over one shoulder slipped down his arm, and landed heavily on the carpet.

“Shit,” he chuckled to himself, as he stooped to retrieve the bag. “Sorry about that. Had a few tonight.” He picked the bag up, swaying as he brushed at it futilely with the hand holding the award. “There you go,” he smiled. “Good as new.”

He searched through the keys, trying, and rejecting, three of them, before he found the one that fitted the door’s lock. He pushed the door open with his knee, his hand going automatically to the light switch located high on the hallway wall, stepped inside as the light came on, and flicked the door closed with his heel.

“The lord and master of the house has returned,” Clifton declared, holding the award high as he set the backpack on the side-table. “Triumphant! You should have seen me. Caesar himself would have been proud. I went, I drank, I was awarded.” He put the award down beside the backpack and smiled into the mirror above the table. “As a matter of fact, I think I deserve another drink.”

He weaved his way into the darkened kitchen, using the pale green glow from the microwave oven’s LED clock to navigate his way to the fridge. “You would have been in your element,” he announced, speaking louder. He opened the fridge door and retrieved a bottle of champagne from the bottom drawer. “Anyone who thinks they’re anyone was there. All the movers and shakers; not just the usual hacks and hangers-on.”

Clifton paused as he pulled open cupboards, searching for the champagne glasses. “Stephen King even made an appearance to collect some lifetime achievement award or something. I don’t know; I was in the men’s room.” He gave up his search and pulled a schooner glass from one of the shelves instead. “On video, of course, not in person. Guy’s becoming more reclusive than Salinger.”

He pulled the gold wrapping from the neck of the bottle, then undid the wire of the metal cap holding the cork in. “Maybe he’s dead,” he suggested. “That’s one of the rumors going around. That he really died in that car accident and his publishers have got in a ghostwriter. Some people even think it’s his son, you know, that Joe Hill.”

Clifton paused in pushing at the cork with his thumbs and smiled. “Now wouldn’t that be the gig to get? I could write for the rest of my life and never have to do another book signing or put up with idiots asking where my ideas come from.”

He shook his head and pressed at the cork again. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m the Best New Writer of the Year, got the award to prove it.”

The cork shot out of the bottle, ricocheted off the wall and ceiling, before it fell to the floor and rolled under the oven. Clifton shrugged his shoulders and caught the cascading champagne in the schooner glass.

“Best New Writer of the Year,’ he repeated, toasting himself, then brought the glass to his mouth. He tipped it up, finished half of it in two gulps, and then burped loudly. ‘They’re going to put that across the cover of the second run. Best New Writer of the Year.”

He refilled his glass as he walked back into the hallway, spotted his award on the side-table, and realized that his hands were full. He put the champagne bottle down on the table, picked up the award, wedged it into his armpit, and then picked the champagne bottle back up.

He shook his head as he crossed through the sparsely decorated lounge to his office. “Alison wouldn’t let up about the sequel,” he said with a sigh. “You should have heard her. When are we going to see the first three chapters, Clifton? You’ve missed two deadlines, Clifton. There isn’t a problem, is there, Clifton?”

He stopped at the open doorway to the office and switched on the light with his elbow, spilling champagne, and almost dropping the award as he did. “I told her there wasn’t, of course,” he continued as he reached his desk. He put the glass, the bottle and the award on it, and sat down in his black, leather chair, then leant forward and picked up the polished human skull from the corner of his desk.

“There isn’t, is there?” he asked it.

He waited a full minute, but the skull remained silent and eventually he put it back down, picked up the schooner glass, sat back in his chair and took another large swig.

“Oh come on, Marjorie,” he laughed. “I know you didn’t think I was the best son-in-law ever, but at least you could congratulate me. After all, how many times did you tell me that I’d never amount to anything?”

The dark empty eye sockets of the skull stared at Clifton, but it stayed quiet.

Clifton sighed and drained the remains from the champagne bottle into his glass. “That’s why I killed you,” he told the skull quietly. “You know that, don’t you? You just wouldn’t let up. Constantly in Joan’s ear about me being a lazy, good-for-nothing gold digger who was just after her money.”

He took another swig from the glass and wiped at his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “It’s your own fault really, Marjorie,” he said. “If I hadn’t killed you when I did, you would have eventually convinced her to throw me out, I know you would have.”

Clifton looked into his empty glass and chuckled. “Funny isn’t it? She threw me out anyway, and without your nagging to keep me focused, I couldn’t write for shit.” He chuckled again and stood up. “But when I went back to make sure the pieces of your body were still hidden, there’s your head, nagging me just like you always used to, and suddenly the idea for the book came to me out of nowhere.”

He picked up the award, read the inscription and grinned. “So I suppose this is half yours, Marjorie.” He put the award down in front of the skull and laughed. “Congratulations! You’re the ultimate ghost writer. Get it! Ghost writer!”

Clifton laughed again and headed out to the kitchen, where he pulled a second bottle of champagne from the fridge, and started back to the office again. As he passed the side-table in the hallway, he stopped, picked up the backpack, then continued back to his office.

“Anyway,” he said as he put the backpack on the desk. “All fun aside, Marjorie. This silent act since I signed the deal for the manuscript has been real nice and everything, like a holiday really, but it’s got to stop.”

The cork exploded out of the bottle, hit the ceiling and landed back on the desk. More champagne spilt on the carpet before Clifton could grab his glass. “Seriously,” he said as he sat back down. “You’ve got to start talking to me again. You’ve got to start nagging me again. I haven’t written a single word in the last six months and I still haven’t got a single idea for this sequel.”

If the skull had an opinion, it didn’t express it, and Clifton sighed again.

“What is it, Marjorie?” he asked, as he leant back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desk. “Is it because I didn’t include you in the dedication?” He paused and gulped more champagne, spilling some on his shirt. “Frankly, I didn’t think it was appropriate. Everyone knows that behind every successful man there’s a successful woman, but they don’t need to know that woman is my dead mother-in-law.”

Clifton sipped from his glass, then sat it on the bulge of his stomach as he regarded the skull intently, waggling one finger at it as if disciplining a naughty child. “You always were a stubborn bitch, Marjorie,” he chided it. “A cold, hard bitch with a lump of coal where your heart should have been.”

He swept his feet off the desk, leant forward and refilled his glass. “Doesn’t matter,” he announced. “I don’t need you, I’m the Best New Writer of the Year.” He picked up the skull and brought it close to his face. “Last chance, Marjorie,” he told it. “Last chance. If you don’t talk now, I’ll put you back in the ground, so help me, I will.”

Not a sound came from the skull and Clifton dropped it onto his desk in disgust, where it landed face up, and rolled gently from side to side, seeming to mock him.

Clifton slammed his glass down and leapt to his feet. “That’s it!” he shouted at the skull. “That’s the last straw. I was willing to give you another chance, but you’ve gone too far. It’s back in the ground with the worms for you! What do you think about that?”

The skull stared up at Clifton from where it lay on the desk, its silent, deathly grin taunting him and he grinned back at it.

“Think you’ve won, don’t you, Marjorie?” he sneered. “Think you’ve got me fucked, don’t you?” He threw back his head and laughed maniacally. “Well the jokes on you, Marjorie. Yes sir, the jokes on you.” He grabbed at the backpack, unzipped it and thrust both hands inside. “Because I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He pulled his hands out of the backpack and between them he held a large, clear plastic bag. In the bag, there was a woman’s severed head. Every drop of blood had been drained from it, and although the skin pale, it was obvious the woman had not been dead long. He held the head up in front of the skull and laughed again. “See, Marjorie,” he cackled. “See, I’ve got a new writing partner now!”

“You sick bastard, Clifton!” the skull screamed. “You’ve killed my Joan!”

The eyelids of the severed head snapped open. “Mum?” Joan asked, focusing on her mother’s skull. “Mum, is that you?”

“Yep,” Clifton laughed. “Lost a bit of weight, hasn’t she?

“You fucking arsehole, Clifton!” Joan screamed. “You goddamn, fucking arsehole!”

Clifton put Joan’s head beside Marjorie’s skull on the desk and sat back in his chair with a smile on his face. “That’s better,” he sighed. “I feel more creative already.”