Robert stepped cautiously off the bus, turned up the collar of his coat and stared down at the ground, before scuttling along the pavement.
It was Saturday night and his wife was out of town at a conference (so, she said) and Robert was free. The financial district was deserted but Robert found the narrow door; it was easy to miss. He pushed against it and hesitated. He had visited many times and knew it opened immediately onto a steep flight of stairs. He couldn’t afford to break his neck.
At the bottom of the steps sat an emaciated elderly man dressed from top to toe in black leather; so thin he looked like a wallet. A currency note exchanged hands, but no words. A door slid open. He was Robert at street level but in the cellar he was Rock; a different person, and he could have any identity he wished.
It took a moment to adjust to the noise and sweat. In the dark, the first one he noticed was maybe thirty years old, dressed in worn Levis, and a black leather waistcoat. Tattoos covered his muscular arms which ended at leather gloves. In one hand he gripped a long, thin bullwhip. He raised it, his dark fiery eyes made an offer.
Rock nodded and with his friend of the moment, moved further into the darkness.
The following Monday His Honour Judge Robert McKenzie took his seat on the Bench at the Family Court, wriggling with delightful discomfort.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 