Punch

The Punch and Judy man was dead; dead as one of his wooden puppets; he was sure of it. He’d shot him himself; watched him choke on his own swazzle and left him lying in the surf for the seagulls to peck at.

“It was his own fault”, Savini thought to himself, sitting on the bed of his hotel apartment and smoking a roll up as he listened to the sound of the holidaying crowds outside and the waves crashing against the shore, “He should have kept his big nose out of my business, that’s all, but he had to go and be a murder witness didn’t he and I couldn’t have him blabbing everything to the police, now, could I? After all, I’m Carlo Savini, King of the Brighton Razor Gangs. I’ve got a reputation to maintain”.

But something…something had moved in a corner of the gangsters eye; something he recognized; a tiny figure dressed in red with a hunch upon its back, darting across his apartment floor like a mischievous child, at least he thought it had, and he’d heard a sound as well like…like a hurried, excitable breathing “or perhaps sniggering”, he thought and the scampering of its tiny wooden feet and a jingle too like the sound of a small bell.

“No”, he said, shaking his head and looking over at his reflection in the mirror on the apartment wall, a frightened, nervous man staring back at him through a haze of cigarette smoke,“No, it’s not possible. It’s the nerves getting to you, that’s all, Charlie. You’re nervous about getting caught”.

“And anyway”, he thought, smiling as he reached into his pocket; feeling around for the handle of his cut throat razor, “I’m more than a match for a little puppet, aren’t I? I mean, if it comes near me I’ll just cut its bleedin’ strings off, won’t I?”.

But that was odd. His gun was there with the two bullets still left in it. But where was his razor?

He heard that breathing sound again; almost an animal like panting; this time seeming to be coming from behind him on the bed.

He stood up quickly and spun around; shoving his hand into his pocket, instinctively, and pulling out the gun.

There was nothing there, he thought, looking at the bed and the window behind it, just a sea breeze blowing through the hotel curtains but he could still hear the breathing and the scampering of its little feet on the carpet somewhere, over to his right, like it was trying to get behind him; trying to surprise him.

“Taken my razor, have you?”, he asked, “Little monkey”.

He prepared himself for a fight. He hadn’t got where he was today without knowing how to fight and he had the scars on his face to prove it

He thought he heard it giggle.

“Well, I’ve still got my gun”, he said, “You didn’t think about that”.

But then, there it was. It was standing on his dressing table, looking at him with those large blue staring eyes full of anger and grinning with that big painted grin, holding the razor in its two small arms just like a little woodchoppers axe.

“That’s the way to do it!”, it screeched.

Mrs Lowrie, the old hotel receptionist, looked up from the newspaper on her desk that bore the headline “Punch and Judy man found dead on beach” as she heard the two loud gunshots come from one of the rooms upstairs followed by the sound of a man… screaming.