Short Story Saturday: Guest Author Xanxa Symanah with Unsociable Hours

Unsociable Hours

by Xanxa Symanah

It was the best decision that I could have made, given the circumstances.  Living in the slums as I did, the choices were clear – the gangs or a life of poverty and despair.  I knew that I wasn’t a gang kind of person, so I looked for an alternative.  I had never imagined what that might be, but here I am, years later, doing the kind of jobs that few people have the taste or the inclination for. 

I don’t have friends, simply not possible in my line of work.  Except one, maybe.  Only he understands my true nature and unlike so many others, he embraces it.  I can be myself with him.  He won’t ask those awkward questions when I turn up at his house, late at night, covered in the blood of my victims.  He simply offers me a bath and a meal.  And companionship, naturally.

My thoughts turn back to our first meeting.  I was at a high-class restaurant, the kind that I would never normally frequent.  I was waiting for a client, who was late.  The kind of clients who avail themselves of my services are never the reliable type and I’d already figured this one for a no-show.  However, since the meal was on expenses, I thought I’d stay and enjoy it. 

He was a distinguished looking gentleman, perhaps ten or so years older than me.  He too was dining alone.  He caught my eye and smiled at me.  Thus the connection was made.  He beckoned me over and invited me to join him.  When I agreed, he made a great show of asking the waiter to set another place at his table and have my food served there.  We shared a bottle of wine together and a very pleasant conversation.

After that first night together, we made arrangements to meet again.  He invited me over to his beautiful home in an exclusive district.  He was waiting in the porch as I drove up in my battered old truck, still wearing my work overalls and my black balaclava.  That was the first time he offered me the use of his bathroom, and he even found me some spare clothes to wear, while he proceeded to cook dinner for us.

He didn’t even ask my name until several weeks later, although he had introduced himself in the restaurant.  His name meant nothing to me, since I didn’t move in the same social circles as he.  In fact, I didn’t move in any social circles, due to the particularly anti-social nature of my work.  It was only after I’d told him my name – my real name, that is, not the many aliases which are necessary in my trade – that he began to confide in me.  Although his line of work was very different to mine, he confessed that he admired what I did for a living and told me that it was a hobby to him.  We swapped tips over dinner, enjoying the unsavoury nature of our conversations whilst dining on the finest cuisine prepared and cooked by his expert hands. 

Are we lovers?  Perhaps we have become so over the years.  I recall one night when we first crossed that fine line between friendship and something deeper.  I was sitting in his kitchen, just about to wipe the blood off my face, when he began to lick it off for me.  I let him continue and when he was done, we made violent passionate love on his kitchen floor.  He had not asked consent, for he already knew that it was not necessary.  I think that’s what I like most about my special friend, my only friend.  We don’t tie each other up in the complexities of most relationships.  There is no room for misinterpretation, no desire to control or manipulate one another.  We just are.  Simple as. 

So put me in one of your nasty little boxes if you wish.  Categorise me as a violent killer.  I consider what I do to be a public service.  I have big plans for the future.  They will not see me coming.  They will not even notice a rather plain, slightly overweight little woman in shabby clothes.  I am invisible to them and that is the secret of my success.  So I raise a glass to unsociable hours and people who need to be removed from this life.