Any pub in some dirty corners near Liverpool Street, where yuppies and tourists cannot see. That’s where she is.
Stale beer and dust on the window. She is alone. Her long fingers run on the brim of her glass as people move slowly in the dark. Their steps are quiet on the thick burgundy carpet, and the puffs of smoke make the pub look even more grim. The only light that brightens the emaciated faces of the customers is the yellow one of the screen.
The girl looks at them as they stare at the television, while smoke rings come out of their mouths. It’s going to happen in a while.
24th January 1989. 7 am.
Burn, Ted, Burn.
The girl looks at the screen as a crowd of people shout and cheer in front of the squalid building of Raiford Prison, Florida. They are waiting.
Burn in Hell, Ted Bundy.
Women had sent love letters to him. She had read it on a magazine. People said women loved the bad guys, but not to this point. They had sent him sweet words while he was waiting to die for the worst crime of all.
The girl still can’t believe it.
Burn, Ted, Burn.
The old guy sitting next to her cries and raises his beer. May he burn in hell, bloody motherfucker! His wrinkly face gets redder every time he opens his mouth. He’s drunk, like almost everyone in the room. Except for the bloke in the corner: he’s the one who observes. When the girl sees him, her eyes get a bit bigger.
He’s drinking whiskey and taps his fingers on the table. His gold rings shine in the dark as he smirks. Ted Bundy was put to death. Everyone exults, except for him. The girl can’t see his face properly, but he’s probably dressed in black. Glasses clash one against another. The pig is dead, they scream, but the girl can’t take her eyes off the bloke in black until he gets up. He sits next to her and the dim light of the screen shows a part of his features. He’s still half in shadow as he smokes a cigarette slowly.
Black eyes. She knows he’s undressing her with his gaze. She feels naked on the stool, and almost can sense the cold wood against her thighs. Then, he talks.
So, where should I begin?
She gasps, he smirks.
Later that night, he grabs her by the throat.
He grasps a bit too much, but it’s fine.
Women like bad guys.
As tears run on her cheeks, the girl knows what people meant.