Oh well, here’s my first attempt at Cormac Brown’s Flash Fiction Friday.
This weeks starter sentence was – “The old camera had been in a box for decades, the pictures never developed, and now with the prints in his hand his blood ran cold from looking at the images that came from it.”
So…here goes with – The Photograph.
The old camera had been in a box for decades, the pictures never developed, and now with the prints in his hand his blood ran cold from looking at the images that came from it.
In his dark room, Roger Cassidy studied the photo’s he’d got from the camera, concentrating on the same thing in each of the four prints.
“It can’t be. Holy shit, this is big. This is big…..this is really big. Oh fu…”
Roger picked up the phone and dialed. It rang a few times before a groggy sounding voice answered.
“Graham, it’s Roger. We’re in deep mate. We’ve got something big mate, and I mean fucking huge!”
“What? Who is this?”
“It’s me. It’s Roger.”
“Sorry, mate. I don’t know anyone called Roger. Now, could you kindly put the fucking phone down and never call me again at…..3:28 in the morning!”
Graham put the phone down and stared at the silencer attached to the gun that was pointing at his face.
“Well done Graham. Now, give us his address and then you get to live.”
Graham gave the two men the information they wanted but then they reneged on their promise and left him with a bullet hole for an eye socket.
The line went dead. Roger stared at the phone and pressed the disconnect button.
“What’s going on here?”
He dialled another number and waited as it rang and rang. “Come on Tim, answer.”
In Tim’s bedroom the phone rang next to his bed. On the floor lay a broken glass surrounded by dampness. On the bed lay a motionless Tim. A shroud of blood stained the pillow where it had escaped from the exit wound in the back of his head.
“Oh, fuck this for a game of soldier’s.”
Roger ran back to the dark room and grabbed one of the photo’s, returned to the living room and picked up his jacket. Walking to the front door of his apartment, putting on his jacket, he looked at the photo again. Shaking his head in disbelief he opened the door only to hear hurried footsteps and two voices.
“It said number eight was on the second floor. Come on!”
Roger slammed the door shut and leant against it, panicking.
There was a muffled sound outside the door followed by a cracking of wood and flying splinters. Roger felt an intense heat on his right ear as a bullet shot past it.
“Fuck…” Roger dived to the floor as three more bullets cracked through the door, followed by the door exploding inwards. Two men wearing long black trench coats stood in the doorway.
“We want the camera.”
Roger got to his feet, his back to the men, the photo he had taken crumpled in his right fist.
“It’s in my dark room down the corridor. It’s sat on the bench with the three photo’s I’d got from it. Just take it and get out of here, please. I don’t want any trouble.”
“I think it’s a bit late for that Roger Cassidy. You’ve seen too much already.”
Roger didn’t hesitate, knowing that the men weren’t here to chat. He took his chance and ran for the big window in the lounge. There was another muffled sound behind him and then a sudden searing pain in his right shoulder. Roger didn’t let up and ran at the window, crashing straight through it. He was suddenly flying through the night air, the cold biting at his face. He looked down and cursed. He’d not made the jump that he’d hoped for and was heading straight for the wrought iron railings that surrounded the apartment block.
Back in the apartment the two men walked down the stairs with the camera and the three photos. They had done the job they had been sent to do.
Outside the building, the lifeless body of Roger Cassidy hung from the railings, his arms hanging down at his sides. In his clenched right fist was the fourth photograph. Soon, the world would know the truth.
Please feel free to comment, as it would be much appreciated….