15 March 1955. Awoken before dawn. Nobody to cook me a proper breakfast so they gave me something called Rice Crispy. It is a horribly sweet cereal made sodden by about half a pint of sterilized milk. Took one mouthful and left the rest.
When I arrived last night I checked everything. All was in perfect order as always. A padre gave me a mug of Bourneville Cocoa; made with half milk (cows’ this time) and half water. Delicious. Just the way to end the day. Fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
I get paid ten bob for every one of these I do. It’s not much but it pays for a summer holiday for myself and Nel. We’re thinking of New Brighton this year.
The padre is a bit of a fuss-pot. Bustling here and there this morning. Always sombre. I never saw him smile.
They don’t like me to be around while they get ready. There is quite a chill. There always is in this place, even in summer.
I am called at 6.30 am. I make the preparations. The padre says a prayer. I pull the lever. The trapdoor opens. A murderess is despatched.
Later, the padre gives me a cup of tea. Tastes like dishwater. Earl Grey, I presume.
It took two buses but I still got home in time for dinner. Walls pork sausages, boiled King Edward potatoes and garden peas. Nel gave me some tinned pineapple chunks as a special treat.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 