Short+story+-+Emma+and+Sophie

**Roses are Red**

The fluorescent light flickered over the policeman’s desk, as he typed mechanically on his yellowing keyboard. It really annoyed him the way that young rookie had swapped all the keys around. Now when he tried to type crime it came out as dance. It confused the hell out of him. Sergeant Proudman, a slightly balding and well-built middle aged man, worked quietly as he waited for the clock to signal the end of his shift. This was the everyday routine of his mundane life, but this was all about to change. His mobile phone vibrated in his back pocket. He flipped it open and Constable Smith’s name appeared on the screen. After a long conversation about a recent tip off, the point of the phone call suddenly became clear. New leads on a twenty year old cold case had just emerged, linking a number of unsolved murders to an abandoned warehouse, located on, as some would say, the less appealing side of Sydney. However, it would be quite some time until the senior investigator could get down to the site. The investigators didn’t want anyone entering or leaving the warehouse, so the cold case unit needed someone to keep an eye on the place until they could get there. After a long pause and an exasperated sigh, Sergeant Proudman reluctantly agreed. He had nothing better to do tonight, so he may as well post-phone his non-existent plans and do something worthwhile. The constable filled him in with every bit of new information and suggested he read the old file from the original case. Proudman hauled open the stiff draw of his filing cabinet with shuddering creak and pulled out the matching report. On the 20th December 1991, the bodies of three young women were found around the areas of Redfern and King’s Cross. Each had been violently murdered, but none showed signs of any kind of struggle. However, the only evidence of the killer was a single red rose, left neatly and precisely over the victims’ heart. No fingerprints or other traces of any form were found so the murderer was never identified and the case went cold. Sergeant Proudman shuddered at the thought of the waste of these young lives, but collected his thoughts as he walked purposefully out the door. It was a simple task really; all he had to do was guard the warehouse for an hour before the others arrived. So if his job was so easy, why was he getting that feeling of dread bubbling up inside of him? In his heart, he knew something was going to go wrong tonight. Sergeant Proudman drove through the winding backstreets and dark alleys as he made his way to the warehouse. He could see it creeping up on him in the distance, the dirty grey concrete walls and shattered windows becoming clearer as he got closer. He parked his car out the front, making sure it was close enough for a quick getaway if things turned sour. The policeman grabbed his flashlight and pistol, took a deep breath and made his way towards the entrance. The area was eerily quiet, with the occasional whooshing sound of a speeding car or the howl of a lonely dog. He slowly and carefully paced up and down the front of the building, reassuring himself that everything would be all right. Luckily, there was not a single person in sight although there were countless tags left by hooded teenagers that appeared faintly in the silver moonlight. Feral cats slinked through the shadows, their eyes reflecting the light and flashing like car headlights. Finally feeling slightly calmer knowing what he was guarding, he sat down on the curb and waited impatiently for the investigator to arrive. He zipped up his uniform jacket. Tonight was colder than he though it would be. The constable had said he would be there within and hour and Proudman prayed that he would keep his word. Harsh neon light suddenly streamed out of the high windows of the warehouse. Someone had switched on the lights. Proudman’s heart skipped a beat, and his mind became scrambled. Who would go into huge run-down warehouses at night? He certainly tried not to make a habit of it. He stood up and his hand instinctively came to rest on the gun at his belt. He walked to the tall steel door and reached out for the handle. He was about to walk into the possible hideout of psychopathic serial killer. He reminded himself that he could just wait outside and call the constable but Proudman’s curiosity was getting the better of him. He pushed down on the handle and stepped into the warehouse. The first thing that hit him was the heavy, sickly sweet and over-powering scent of… roses. He gagged. As his stomach settled Proudman took in the scene. Every available inch of floor space was covered in buckets of red roses leaving only narrow paths. It was a dizzying sea of red. There were several old wooden workbenches scattered through the room with discarded rotting leaves piled on top of them. And that’s when he saw him: sitting staring straight at him with scissors in one hand and a perfect flower in the other. The man’s thin, mousy-brown hair hung limply around his sagging face. His shoulders hunched forward. But his most prominent feature was a grotesque, pink, pock-marked scar that gnarled at his face from hairline to chin, distorting the corner of his left eye. Proudman went into detective mode. “The game’s up Hitch. Your mother couldn’t live with the secret any longer. Twenty years was enough. It was eating her up. She came into the station today and told us we should pay you a visit. Why? Three beautiful women! What did they ever do to you?” Hitch Cripplethorn sighed, “I don’t think you’d understand. She’d said yes. She’d agreed to marry me. And then this,” he put the scissors on his lap and pointed at the scar on his face. The neon light wasn’t doing his misshapen face any favours. “The damage done by the chemicals was irreversible. She started to cut herself off, didn’t look at me when she spoke to me, didn’t spend any time with me and then one day she was just gone. No note, no goodbye. She was the love of my life. Gone.” “So you killed her?” Proudman prompted. The constable should be here any minute, he just had to keep Hitch Cripplethorn talking. “No. I would have if I’d been able to find her.” “So who were the women you killed? What did they have to do with it?” Cripplethorn shot his eyes up and glared at Proudman. “Everything. They were the ones who started and screamed when they saw my face. They were the ones who stared when they thought I wasn’t looking. They reminded me that I don’t look like everyone else. They were the ones who made me only go out at night so that nobody has to look at my face. They judged me by what they saw on the outside and that was wrong. And they payed for that. They rejected me but they weren’t able to reject my rose.” Proudman handcuffed the shattered man without resistance. “It’s time to come to the station and make that a formal statement,” he said weary, but relieved. As he left he was glad to escape the overpowering scent of roses, which had turned to stench in his nostrils. He wouldn’t care if he never saw a rose again!