Jeremy
SECOND PRIZE
Jeremy by Holly Taylor
It all began with the chicken. That two-kilogram hunk of meat glistening with fat through the window of the bag, taunting him with its smell of grease. Only it wasn’t grease. He knew it wasn’t, as his hands came to rest against the darkening brown paper where its body left its mark. A mere £2 for double the meat, he thought, staring at the sale sticker. How did they manage that?
Suspicious, he grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen draw and forced them on. The squelch of the rubber slipped against his sweaty palms as he inserted the scissors into the slit at the top. His pulse began to race. Cut, cut, cut across the top like the tick of a clock. Until at last the lips of the bag parted and out wafted a scent so unnatural and the –
“For heaven’s sake, Frank! You know I use those gloves for bleaching,” his mother screeched, jolting him from his trance. A pair of hands snatched the bag: the prey was gone.
The new store had opened two days ago. Located directly opposite the small corner shop below his home where he worked, they had become a notorious rival.
“All hype and no delivery,” he said shaking her head and lifting the shutter that morning. Across the road a queue of people had already made its way out the door. Above them the neon red sign displayed, “Jeremy’s” in a gaunt font.
“Jeremy’s what?” he continued. “What could they possibly sell that’s losing us business?”
It was a long day and the absent clash of change as Frank popped the till open only served to make it longer. Peering through the shutters he saw a squat man in an apron tidying the front of the shop.