Weird

It didn't smell or anything. I prodded it with a finger. I'm used to dead things, so it takes quite a lot to unnerve me, but I'll admit it was a bit unsettling.

Freshly stuffed, if I'm any judge. Not lovingly, either. On its back in a nest of dirty knickers., brittle little claws clutching the air.

I mean, okay, so last week I murdered a young man and took one of his toes as a keepsake, but even for me this is weird.

Crouching down at eye level with the bird, I frowned at it, as if a dead thing could ever give any answers. As if reaching a sudden decision, I stood up and flipped the suitcase shut in one motion, then strode out of the room.

He's sat there again. In his grey anorak, on his grey sofa. He is a deluge of dull, that guy. He looked up at me, and spoke as if going through the motions (which he probably was).

"Good holiday?"

"Sure," I said, a bit distracted.

That smile again, chilly and fleeting as winter sunshine.

"Got your luggage back, okay?"

How did he know!

"What? Yes. Yes I did. Why?" Why did I lie?

He shrugged, his gaze sliding off me like slime. That was probably the longest he's ever looked at me. Was he looking for my reaction?

"Oh, you know," he gestured lamely, "It goes missing, doesn't it. Luggage. Everyone knows that." He sunk back into a sullen silence.

Is he messing with me? How much of this I'm-so-socially-awkward is an act?

It's a bloody good one, if it is. I'm not sure I could pull it off, but it's probably the best camouflage imaginable. Be weird, and people will be afraid to look too close. They won't criticise or question, because they don't want to look prejudiced. They will ignore every instinct screaming at them, squash it all down, and smile into the face of a killer.

He's sitting there now, a little smile playing around his mouth, and a distant look in his eye.

What wouldn't I give to crack his greasy head open and find out what's inside.

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