Page 1 of Vipers & Roses

1

He’d drawn a smiley face in the blood. A comical calling card in a stretch of dripping scarlet about three feet wide, streaming down from the hook where the body was hung and butchered. I try not to overthink about what or who was here twenty minutes before, and thankfully, we’re never given a back story. But by the amount of blood splattered across the walls, I’d say this target underestimated Smiler. Either they couldn’t pay their debts, or they couldn’t keep their mouth shut.

A single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling swings back and forth as if someone had knocked it only moments ago and cast elongated moving shadows along walls. There’s a slight breeze coming through the windows, which are narrow slits above ground that have been boarded over. I’m thankful for the fresh air sneaking through the cracks in the boards and circulating, making it less stuffy and unbearable.

“Bloody hell,” Zara gasps as she clambers, unenthused, down the basement steps, wearing a vintage black T-shirt that reads Disco is Dead. She combs her fingers through her short blue-black spikey hair and uses her tongue to play with the ring piercing in her lip. “Whoa. It’s a Jackson Pollack.”

We don’t know Smiler’s real name, and we’ve never met him, or at least, if we have met him, he didn’t make it obvious. Our job is not to ask questions but to come down to the given location and scrub their mess free of fingerprints, stray articles, and bits of gray matter. We’re given one hour to clean the scene spotlessly, or we won’t get paid. $1500 for each job, and we split the earnings 50/50. That’s the deal. Often, it’s on short notice and in the middle of the night, and it’s Zara who receives the text message from a lackey with the coded title of 906.

In the corner is the trolley containing our hospital-grade cleaning chemicals that I dragged down the stairs when I arrived, and I step over a pool of blood to grab the bucket from the trolley to fill with water.

“Are you feeling alright, Rae?” she asks, probably wondering why I’m so quiet.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Is the smell getting to you?”

“A little.”

This is my fifth time on the job since returning to the island after two years away. Zara asked me to help when her previous co-worker couldn’t make it to the locations on short notice. I thought I’d never get used to the vile metallic scent of blood. Yet, I have. The last job barely raised a swell of nausea. However, this job is different altogether. Still, I’m doing okay and wonder if I’ve hardened enough to hunt down my targets. At least I’d know how to remove every inch of evidence as if it never happened.

I carry the bucket upstairs of this abandoned house on the edge of Torres Island, not an actual island in the sea, but a large piece of land between a wide river and a large curved lake. We’ve been in this house four times before, so I know my way around, and I know the rules - no lights, noise, or fuss.

The closest neighbor, a hermit, lives several yards down the road in a rotting house submerged in overgrown bushes and trees. Even if he heard gunshots in the depths of the night, he wouldn’t dare squeal—no one would dare utter a word.

I feel for my penlight in my pocket and shine it against the beige floral 1970s wallpaper peeling from the hall walls. I pause to grab a leaf, rip a strip, and let it fall onto the dirty, flea-ridden green carpet, feeling strangely satisfied.

As I turn into the kitchen, my phone beeps, frightening me, and I pat my chest to calm my heart, which almost bursts out of my chest. I forgot to turn the sound off. Stupid.

Ignoring my phone, I step to the kitchen sink, place the bucket underneath the faucet, and then turn the water on. There’s a momentary noise of pipes clanging before the water arrives with a loud whistle. We’re supposed to be quiet as mice, but I can’t control the noise of running water and clanging pipes. At least, the hermit down the road will be asleep.

Once filled with water, I place the penlight between my teeth and lug the heavy bucket out of the sink with both hands. Unsteadily, I start walking towards the hallway, carrying the load, but catch a flash of red under the small light. I didn’t see what it was, only that it was sitting on the square wooden table shoved in the corner.

Placing the bucket on the floor, I take the penlight from my teeth and shine it evenly on the table. A single red rose stem. No note. No box. Just a single red rose. This tiny piece of nature that’s so pristine and perfect is entirely out of place in this dirty hovel of malevolence.

It seems odd, and I don’t touch it because I don’t know who it’s for, but I assume someone left it behind accidentally. Maybe they cut it from one of the unruly rose bushes on this property? Or maybe Smiler had a romantic interlude before he hacked the limbs off the man who crossed him. I never thought of Smiler as having romantic inclinations, not that I’ve ever met him, but I guess I prefer to view him as an invisible devil who pays well. And I imagine his targets to be the worst type of humans to roam the earth. Worse than him even.

“Someone left a rose stem on the table upstairs,” I tell Zara as I carefully step down the wooden steps to the basement floor.

“Huh,” she grunts. “Wasn’t me. It’ll be gone by the morning, eaten by the rats.”

“Oh. Maybe we should take it with us?” I suggest dumping the bucket down a little harder than I meant to, and some of the water splashes out onto the concrete floor.

“Are you nuts? This here…” she snorts, holding up her right hand. “I’d rather keep this, thanks.”

“What? You honestly think Smiler would chop your hand off for taking a stray red rose?” I challenge her. “It doesn’t have a name on it.”

“How hard did you look in the dark?” she chuckles, seizing a bottle of hospital-grade disinfectant and pouring some into the bucket of water.

“I refused to touch it. In case it’s a thorned booby trap,” I joke.

It’s not a joke. I don’t want to touch anything that belongs to Smiler, including this house, but I have to for now, at least, until I find another job to go with my current part-time job working in the university gardens. A gardening job that fits perfectly with my plant biology and botany studies at Keele Uni here on Torres Island.

But this blood cleaning job is irregular. We might be called out once a fortnight or twice a week. Who knows? The less, the better because it means he’s killing fewer people.

Before setting to work, we put on our full-body protection gear, including goggles, to avoid blood splashing in our eyes. We have limited time, and since the blood is fresh and the wall and floor are smooth, hard surfaces, we should be done within the hour.

We don’t ever see the victim because he’s taken away when they leave, and we’re not told where they dump the body. 906 inspects our work after we depart, then transfers the money. There’s never been a time when he was dissatisfied and withheld the funds. That is to Zara’s credit because she knows Smiler and the gang have exceedingly high standards.

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