Sacrifice. Narrelle M Harris

      Chapter Four

      The final bell sounded and the stragglers left the park. Not many stayed late these days; no families, certainly, and precious few alone. But singles and couples, bolder than the others (or those who didn’t read the papers – or who read them and wanted a thrill) sauntered down the paths and out of the Gardens.

      The light was fading fast and a distinct chill was in the air, even this early in autumn. A cool night, but not unbearably so.

      The two men snuggled close, unseen by the departing visitors. Nestled among the greenery, arms wrapped around each other, a dark woollen blanket wrapped around them both. No words – nothing to give them away – but soft breathing, hot against skin inside the cocoon. Sometimes they held each other more tightly, or kneaded cool skin to ease the cramps of lying there. They kissed.

      The thin one sighed and snuggled into the warmth of the other. He was small, and very slender. A close look in the daylight would have revealed the muscles of a once athletic man whom anxiety was starting to waste, though the lustre in his eyes was the same as it had always been. But wreathed in dark, he was just a little skinny, a little breathless, clinging in the shadows to the solid form with him under the blanket.

      It was an hour before they moved, and then only to wriggle further into the growth. Around them the Gardens were coming alive. Lizards stepping stealthily through the undergrowth, the rustling of the bats and the night birds moving in the trees. On the lake there was a splash, and another, then silence.

      For a while they dozed against each other. Then, waking, aching (not used to sleeping outdoors on the soil and the leaves), they rose and walked onto the path.

      Locked inside the Botanic Gardens after dark. A delicious little sin, a little extra spice to add to the smells of earth and herbs and their bodies. The thin one wanted to hold hands as they walked. The other didn’t, but relented.

      They walked, hand in hand, down a moonlit path. Not towards the groundkeepers’ buildings. The police were guarding that place tonight. Further away, quietly, quietly, soft steps on the path. The blanket dragged behind, obscuring the faint prints.

      Once, they stopped, and the thin one looked up and said something to the other. The other looked like he might argue, but instead he nodded. The thin one’s shoulders slumped, tension gone. They went to the fence and threw the blanket over, ready to climb. They hugged, and the taller man turned to hold the small one from behind, spooned and affectionate. He pointed out the silhouette of bats flying past the moon. And as one looked up at the silent night, the other took a blade and slid it in, across, out.

      A gout of blood, but no sound. A twitch, but no cry. It was over in a minute or less, the sticky blood soaking into the soft earth and the body folding to lie curled on the ground.

      And the other looked, his hand still holding the knife, but apart from a slight drip drip drip onto the path, he was untouched by the blood. (That’s why you stand behind, he’d been told, no point getting covered in the stuff. Ruin a good suit. Ruin a good plan. No stains, nothing for forensics, or it all comes to naught.)

      He opened a nearby garbage bin – closed against the gulls – and took out handfuls of the stuff. Bottles. Half a sandwich. Cans. Plastic bags. Some dogshit in a bag. (Stinks. No. Yes. Good for effect.) All of it scattered over the silent body, curled like a sleeping child. Garbage garbage garbage.

      He climbed the fence, over the blanket, bundled it up in his arms and crept along the outer path, in the kind and terrible shadows. Crying.