BEST SERVED COLD

(some strong language, death)

His jaw almost dropped when he spotted her relaxed at the table, her arm casually draped over the back of the chair like she owned not only the apartment but even the whole building.

"What ya lookin' at?" she asked, her accent a strange mix of British and Australian, surprising him even more.

She looked nothing like the woman he remembered—her blonde hair was freshly shampooed and combed. She was wearing a clean T-shirt with the Van Halen band emblem, and her eyes were bright and focused. It seemed as if she’d mustered the courage to face him after a long time apart, although he’d seen her less than forty-eight hours earlier.

“Where ya been, mate?” she demanded, still with an Aussie lilt.

The bunch of keys he was holding clattered to the floor as he froze in the doorway. His answer should have been something along the lines of "It's none of your business" and "You are dead, so you are not really here," but he couldn't bring himself to say either.

Instead, he silently took in the sight of her cracking her knuckles. It might have been a habit of hers when she was nervous—that knuckle thing—but he wouldn't know because she had died before he had the chance to ask. Not that he'd intended to ask, but anyway...

"Aren't you going to answer?" she insisted.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" He wanted to retort, but the words caught in his throat like a sticky wine gum.

"Never mind," she said.

She stood up, brushing off some specks from her jeans—perhaps soil or dry leaves.

He noticed a massive stain near her left knee, exactly where his low-chassis Kia Picanto hatchback had struck her that fatal night. One second, she was standing on the road, and the next, she landed with a thump on the bonnet, then flew into the air, vanishing under the car. He got out to make sure it wasn't a deer or a large dog, but no, it was her—the body contorted like a pretzel wedged under the bumper.

"You…you look…different," he stammered.

"You mean I look better than the last time you saw me?”

She chimed in when he went silent, "It was like a symphony of pain playing a sadistic tune on my body after the crash, you know? But now that I've kicked the bucket, it's like my feelings took a permanent vacation!"

“For a dead woman, she is quite the comedian,” he thought.

He bent down to pick up the keys, trying to gain time and composure, but stopped halfway, afraid to lose eye contact with her.

"Two broken ribs, a punctured lung, a fractured skull, and a nearly severed hand. Remember? It took you a long time to pry me from under the bumper," she listed, her voice flat as if she were reading a Tesco shopping list.

"But hey, I’m always the glass-is-half-full gal—I can now traverse walls!"

He kept his gaze just above the top of her head, where the light from the window illuminated her silhouette, making her even more surreal.

“I’m tired of this one-sided chitchat,” she complained, taking one step forward to his two backward.

"One more, and you'll be out of the flat," she taunted.

"Say something," she urged.

"Anything!"

He swallowed hard.

"I'm…sorry?"

She burst into laughter. The sound was hollow and bitter, reminding him of broken glass scraping against metal. Or a body being dragged out from under a low-chassis car.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," she snapped, her voice laced with resentment.

"Sorry is good for when you accidentally step on someone's foot or forget to return a borrowed book. But this," she dramatically pointed to herself with her forefinger, "this is a tragedy."

He knew it was, but he had no idea how to set things right. How does one make right ramming one’s car into someone after a night of heavy boozing? And not only that! After knocking her down, he unwedged her convoluted corpse, nearly tearing off her hand in the process, and hauled it into the woods so that no one would find her. So that no one would know that Thomas Llewellyn, KC, was a killer. He knew what happened to people who had more than 80 milligrams of alcohol in their bloodstream, but he never imagined he'd be one of them. Not after successfully (and often enough unsuccessfully) defending them in court.

"How can you live with yourself knowing what you've done?" she asked and theatrically touched the place on her chest where her heart was supposed to be. 

He hung his head, unable to answer.

"Don't I deserve at least some closure? Some semblance of justice? And you still have no bloody clue who I am! You never checked my purse. Or my pockets. What if I have kids? A grieving husband? You just dragged me off like I was nothing. Roadkill…" She paused, waiting for a response that never came.

"I bet you didn’t suspect I'd be back, did you?" She chuckled, revealing a set of impossibly white teeth.

With horror, he realized that what he thought were teeth were, in fact, maggots. One of the grubs squirmed out of her mouth and fell onto the floor, inching toward him and leaving a trail of thick slime behind.

“Depending on the conditions, larvae may be observed on the body within 24 hours. The eggs are laid directly on the food source, and when they hatch, the grubs begin to feed,” she recited a paragraph from the Handbook of Forensic Science by Jim Fraser, a book that he knew only too well. 

"So here I am, in my full putrid glory!"

She took another step forward, dropping more larvae. The smell of decay hit him like a wave, making him gag. He leaned against the doorframe—there was nowhere else to go.

"Well, well, well. Aren’t we squeamish? Can't face your own handiwork, can you?" She teased, lifting her T-shirt to expose her torso. There was a gaping hole under her left breast. More maggots crawled out.

"This is what happens when you get hammered and drive instead of taking an Uber, you cheap bastard," she hissed.

"You are dead!" Thomas yelled.

She laughed again.

"Bravo! Finally, some truth from your cowardly mouth," she applauded so hard that one of her hands fell off and landed next to the bunch of keys he had still not picked up.

"Oops!" she smirked, then reached to retrieve either the keys or the hand—he was not sure which.

“Catch!” she shouted.

He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the impact. When he opened them, she was gone.

Afterward, he tried to convince himself that he didn't see her. That she was really dead and still hidden behind some bushes on the road near Ashwell.

He was getting married in a week, and his best man, Louis, had convinced him that a stag night out in the countryside would be the perfect send-off. Nothing outrageous, no Soho strippers, no drugs, just a few pints and some pub grub. He now cursed his own stupidity for taking the car to the quaint Wagon and Horses in Hertfordshire. And as the woman he imagined he saw in his flat said —he was now sure she was only a hallucination—he could have Ubered it.

"Trains run practically every hour from King's Cross to Ashwell, for God's sake! You cheap bastard, Thomas!" He scolded himself and snickered at the absurdity of the situation.

He was glad he could laugh. The whole nightmarish visit was nothing but paranoia. The rest of the story was true—he had been sloshed out of his mind, his Kia had hit the woman, and he had left the scene. But dead people didn't show up at one’s door in the middle of the day. Or night, for that matter. It was his conscience playing tricks on him, making him question every decision he’d made that night, like drinking that last pint of ale before getting behind the wheel.

The next day, he scanned the Evening Standard, the Ashwell Gazette, and the local websites, relieved to find no mention of any hit-and-runs. The woman had not been found, even though her corpse was only a few yards from the main road. He’d scraped off a layer of dirt from the ground, put her in, thrown in her handbag, and, for good measure, placed some ferns and twigs on top. It was late autumn, so the foliage would provide cover for a while longer. The problem was when it didn't... But there was no point dwelling on it.

He grabbed his briefcase, gown, and wig and headed to the Old Bailey, where he was scheduled to defend a client in a high-profile murder trial. The man had shot his wife in a fit of rage but claimed self-defense. The evidence against him was strong, but Thomas was sure to get an acquittal.

As he walked through the courthouse doors, he pushed aside all thoughts of the imagined encounter, focusing instead on the task ahead of him. After all, his client's fate rested in his hands, and he was determined to do his best. Anyway, there was nothing he could do for the victim of the collision.

"That's what she is," he explained to himself.

"A victim of an unfortunate accident. True, the booze did contribute, but ultimately, it was just an accident. In any case, what was she doing alone on a dark road at night? No reflective stripes or anything. It was her own fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He'd done what he had to do, and now it was time to move on.

When he arrived in the courtroom, he put the briefcase on the desk, took out a pile of papers, and just as he was addressing his co-counselor, the bailiff shouted, All rise!

So he did.

She walked in, wearing a robe with a white wing collar and bands at the neck. The right sleeve was empty. A knot formed in his stomach when he remembered the hand she'd lost in his apartment the day before.

She waved to him with her good arm, mouthed a silent "Good luck!" then tried to wink but failed because her eyeball popped out, hovered on the edge of the socket, rolled down her cheek, and plopped onto the bench with a moist smack.

"I request the counsel for the defense to come forward," she commanded.

Thomas walked on shaky legs. As he neared the bench, he wondered what effect the missing eyeball would have on the case's outcome.

"Thought you'd get rid of me?" She whispered as if it were the sweetest love declaration.

"Not a chance. I've got my eye on you," she added playfully, picked up the eyeball, and placed it in Thomas's hand. It was hard, like a marble.

After that, he recalled little. The missing eyeball seemed to be a formidable tool in her arsenal, leaving him feeling vulnerable and outmatched in the courtroom. Despite his attempts to speak up, she continued to assert her dominance, overruling him every time. He was failing his client miserably. When the verdict came, he was not surprised. His client was found guilty.

"I will fucking kill you! I will fucking destroy you!" the man screamed as he was escorted out of the courtroom.

Thomas knew he had lost more than just a case that day.

He next saw her in Leila's Shop in Shoreditch, where he went to buy foie gras for a romantic pre-wedding night with Rachel. She sat behind the cash register, one-handedly ringing up his purchase. The hole in her face was taped with a sticker that said, "No refunds or exchanges."

"I always had this grand vision of going out in a blaze of glory while being cremated. My last chance to get a hot body. Alas, it seems fate had other plans. Now I'm just a cozy bungalow for worms!"

She giggled at her own joke.

Thomas quickly paid and left.

Then, for a couple of days, she appeared to have given him some space. He sighed, relieved, thinking he’d finally seen the end of her. But no. The next day, he spotted her outside his office building. She was holding a sign that said, "Revenge is sweet and not fattening. Long live skeletons!”

Apart from the empty eye socket, the maggots crawling out of her mouth, and the missing hand, her skull was cracked open, spilling out bits of her brain. It was bluish-white and bloomed out of her head like repugnant tulips. Yet her long hair was perfectly coiffed, as if she had just stepped out of the Gielly Green for Luxurious Blowouts salon. She shook her head in a greeting, her hair dancing around her like a macabre halo.

That night, after he’d swallowed two Xanax chased by a shot of twelve-year-old whiskey, he convinced himself that she was a delirium brought on by the stress of the impending wedding. Rachel had once again made changes to the table arrangements, and his father, who lived in Spain, had just called to say he couldn't make it due to a baggage handler strike at Barajas airport.

He prayed that the marriage ceremony would soon be done and things would return to normal. Yes, he’d made a mistake running over a woman who was jaywalking. And yes, he had hidden her body, but he couldn't let the incident ruin his reputation and career!

He had to move on and focus on his future. He and Rachel would relax and enjoy their honeymoon in Jamaica, and when they returned, he'd sell the Kia and perhaps make an appointment with a therapist to work over his anxiety. He was a no-nonsense, high-flying lawyer, not a sissy, for God's sake! 

On Saturday morning, his jacket, a double-breasted Sandro in soft grey wool, arrived, ready for the wedding. The sleek design and high-quality fabric made him feel better.

Louis picked him up shortly after 10. The ceremony was scheduled for noon at the picturesque garden of Rachel's family estate.

The place was picture-perfect: rows of seats placed in front of a beautiful floral arch, the sun shining brightly overhead, and the bridesmaids in their pastel dresses standing at the entrance.

The band began to play, and a baritone sang Ed Sheeran's Perfect, signaling the start of the ceremony.

Rachel walked towards him, lifting the hem of her gown to avoid tripping on the red carpet. With each step, Thomas felt more relaxed. The nightmare was finally over. He reached out to help her, and as she took his hand, he knew he was ready to face whatever trials lay ahead.

The rest of the ceremony went smoothly. The pastor delivered a heartfelt message and then pronounced them husband and wife.

"You may now kiss the bride," he said.

Thomas glanced at Rachel, whose lips were painted a striking shade of imperial red. She smiled. He leaned in to kiss her, only to have the first maggot crawl out of her mouth, followed by two fully-fledged flies—so black and shiny they seemed to absorb all the light around them. The skin on her face began to peel away, exposing the skull beneath.

"Hey there, my sweet little cupcake," she whispered.

“It’s official! We’ve reached that magical moment where we can finally say, 'Now we are truly one!'

Thomas began to scream.

****

From the Ashwell Gazette

Suicide by car?

By Lola Carpenter

Local police fear a new trend among people with mental health issues.

Readers are probably familiar with the concept of "suicide by cop"—a scenario in which an individual deliberately encourages law enforcement to use deadly force. But is there such a thing as suicide by car? Apparently, there is, and if not, Juliana Greenwald may hold the grim distinction of being the first individual to intentionally orchestrate a deadly vehicular crash.

Dubbed the Nursery Rhyme Killer, Greenwald gained notoriety after being charged with the murder of Ted Jackson, a five-month-old baby in her care, two years prior. She was first convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment, but in a shocking turn of events, she was cleared when the boy’s mother confessed to dropping the infant, which led to his death. 

Greenwald, a resident of Ashwell, spoke candidly about the failures of her legal representation and her relentless pursuit of justice, a quest fueled by the deep-seated bias she faced. Even after being cleared, her reputation was irreparably damaged, and she lived in seclusion, haunted by the memories of the case.

 In a recent press interview, she disclosed her plan to deliberately position herself in front of an oncoming vehicle on a busy thoroughfare that cuts through the village.

"My death will bring attention to the whole broken system we call courts. It’s never too late, and anyway, justice is best served cold," she told the reporter, hinting at the chilling resolve that lay beneath her composed exterior.

But the intrigue deepens. Greenwald’s body was concealed among the dense underbrush instead of remaining on the pavement where the collision took place. 

 In a desperate plea, her father, Jon, fervently urged anyone with knowledge about this peculiar case to come forward.

 “I know that there is more to the story than meets the eye, and I hope that someone might shed light on the events behind my daughter's untimely death,” he declared.

In the meantime, police were looking for a silver Kia Picanto believed to be involved in the hit-and-run as they continued their investigation into the mysterious circumstances surrounding the incident.